Before Greg and I even said “I do,” we were already dreaming about the day we’d become parents. We even slipped it into our wedding vows, promising each other that one day we’d have children. Two years later, in 2018, that dream came true with the arrival of our sweet baby boy. Getting pregnant had come easy, even though the pregnancy itself was rough on me. So when our son was almost two, we figured baby number two would be just as simple. We were wrong.
Month after month, test after test, nothing. I started to feel discouraged, even broken. Then finally when I had almost given up hope I saw the word “pregnant” pop up on a test. I cried. Greg cried. We were so relieved and excited.
Because of COVID, Greg couldn’t come to my first ultrasound at eight weeks. That hurt, especially since he had been with me for every single appointment when I was pregnant with our son. Lying there alone, watching the tech scan across my belly, I already felt uneasy. She measured the baby smaller than expected—six weeks instead of eight and while she thought she saw the tiniest flicker of a heartbeat, she told me to come back in a week.
The following week, the day before our fourth anniversary, I went back. I already knew something wasn’t right. With my son, I had been miserably sick the entire pregnancy. With this one, my symptoms had faded away completely. The screen confirmed what my heart already knew: no heartbeat. I was crushed.
A few days later, I went in for a D&C. My first surgery ever and I had to do it alone because of the pandemic. Waking up afterward, I sobbed. I felt so empty. I just wanted to go home and curl up with Greg and our son.
That next month was brutal. Even though the doctor explained that it was likely just an abnormality, I blamed myself. Night after night, I replayed everything in my head, wondering what I did wrong. The only thing that helped was reaching out to other women online who had gone through miscarriages. Their stories gave me hope that I could heal too.
Then, one month later on my son’s second birthday, of all days I realized I had missed my period. I took a test, and it was positive. Instead of joy, all I felt was fear. I didn’t let myself get excited. I couldn’t.
The eight-week wait until my first ultrasound felt endless. Lying there once again, holding my breath, I begged silently, please, please let there be a heartbeat. And there it was. Strong and steady. I cried with relief.
But then the tech frowned and kept scanning. Surrounding the baby were several dark circles. My stomach sank. She asked if I had taken fertility drugs. I hadn’t. Then she said words I’ll never forget: “This could be multiple pregnancies, but I only see sacs right now not babies.” She counted six. Six sacs. Plus my baby.
My OB was baffled. She sent me to a high-risk doctor who had been practicing for over 40 years. Even he admitted he had never seen anything like it maybe one or two sacs before, but never six. He had a hunch they’d disappear, but couldn’t say for sure.
The next two months were a blur of blood, ultrasounds, and fear. I bled almost every day. I was put on pelvic rest and couldn’t even chase after my toddler. My anxiety was through the roof. But by 20 weeks, my doctor’s gut was right. The sacs were gone. My baby was healthy.
At 36 weeks, I delivered a tiny but strong baby girl Ella, 5 pounds 6 ounces of pure sweetness. My high-risk doctor even came by my hospital room. He told me he’d hung one of my ultrasounds in his office because he’d never seen anything like it. To this day, no one knows what those six mysterious sacs were cysts, failed embryos, or something else. I like to believe they were Ella’s guardian angels, protecting her and keeping her safe.
Now, Ella is seven months old, and watching her with her three-year-old big brother fills my heart every single day. The road to her was full of heartbreak, fear, and unanswered questions, but holding her now, I wouldn’t change a thing. She is my rainbow after the storm.
