Trying to Conceive and the Box of Paddington Bears

Paddington Bear makes me think of childhood.  My mother adored the orphan bear.  I knew the story of Paddington from an early age and my mother’s fascination with that adorable British bear passed on to me.  Adopted by a family when he arrived at Paddington Station with a mysterious, “Please look after this bear” tag on his blue coat, Paddington was cute, fuzzy, and he loved marmalade.  I didn’t know what marmalade was, but I had to try it just for him.  When I pictured myself as an adult with children, I always seemed to be reading them bed time stories featuring my beloved Paddington.

Of course, life doesn’t always turn out the way we hope.

I had my first miscarriage when I was a 27 year old law student.  My husband and I weren’t trying to have a baby and I was equal parts terrified and thrilled to discover I was pregnant at about 10 weeks.  Only a few days later, it was over.  My doctor said there was no reason to suspect there was anything wrong, it was just “one of those things that happen.”  I still thought about the baby that might have been, but I didn’t worry.  I went on with my life.

Fast forward a few years.  I hit 30 and we decided it was time to start trying to have a baby.  Because I’m a Type A person, we had to do everything the “right” way.  We had a preconception appointment; I started taking prenatal vitamins and stopped taking birth control pills.  I ate right, I exercised, and we got pregnant on our very first try.  Morning sickness hit me like a ton of bricks.  I started collecting Paddington Bears for our baby’s bedroom.

Then there was no heartbeat.

At 13 weeks I found myself facing a D&C and struggling to make sense of what I had done wrong.  Reassurances from my doctor didn’t matter, there had to be something wrong with me.

I got pregnant again.  I bought an adorable clock for our baby’s room, a replica of the clock from Paddington Station.

I miscarried.

Then it happened again.  And again.  And again.

Tests didn’t show anything wrong with us or with the babies.  I had no definitive diagnosis.  We had no problem getting pregnant; I just couldn’t seem to make it past the first trimester.  Medication didn’t seem to make a difference.  Every time I got pregnant I was wracked with worry and, yes, depression.  I knew how every pregnancy would end.

I packed the Paddingtons away.

Finally, we decided to take a break and contemplate our next steps.  Were we going to try an IUI, move directly to IVF or jump straight to adoption?  We took a break from doctors, tests, medications and heartbreak.

So, of course, I got pregnant again.  I waited for the other shoe to drop.  Again.  But it didn’t.  I was stuck in suspended animation, not daring to hope that this time would be different.  I didn’t unpack the box of Paddington Bears.  I didn’t buy any furniture or pick out paint colors.  I didn’t buy so much as a rattle or pair of yellow booties.

My pregnancy was fraught with problems and complications, but it stuck.  After my amniocentesis told us it was a healthy baby boy, I finally bought something for the baby.  I hung one tiny blue outfit in the baby’s closet.  I slowly unpacked the Paddington Bears and decorated the nursery.  And I finally let myself start to hope.

My son was born in September of 2004 (Big H) and followed 15 months later by another little boy (Little H).  My endocrinologist laughed and told me that pregnancy had clearly “primed the pump” for me.  That was something we never thought could happen.

Now, 8 years later, we’re trying again.

After a year of trying and more complications, we know that this road isn’t going to be easy.  There isn’t going to be another baby that just “happens” on a break.  I feel incredibly blessed for what I have, but my husband and I also feel that our family isn’t complete yet.  I have a box of Paddington Bears I’d like to unpack again.

I have no idea how this journey will end or what we’ll find along the way, but I’ll be sharing it with all of you.  I hope you’ll join me.