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" &amp;quot;I lost my first pregnancy \u2014 and almost lost myself&amp;quot; I&amp;#039;d only known I was pregnant for a matter of weeks when the cramping started. Still, What to Expect When You&amp;#039;re Expecting was already dog-eared, and my copy of Sears and Sears&amp;#039;s The Pregnancy Book looked like it had survived multiple generations of moms-to-be. Miscarriage, however, had been only a footnote in my reading. I was in bed, and the white sheets beneath me turned red. My husband called the hospital and our obstetrician was paged. My physician, a seasoned veteran, was nonchalant: &amp;quot;Yep, it sounds to me like she&amp;#039;s miscarried. Come on in first thing in the morning.&amp;quot; The next day, we returned home from the doctor&amp;#039;s office, where they&amp;#039;d confirmed the obvious via ultrasound. The excitement that had hung in the air was replaced by a fuzzy melancholy, and sadness for something lost. My husband tucked me into the couch with a blanket, carefully removing the stack of pregnancy books from the coffee table in front of me. I absently flipped through a catalog, crying when I came across baby clothes I had circled in blue ballpoint. As the intense physical pain faded into lingering depression, this is how I passed my days: I stared into space, lost interest in keeping the house tidy, and sat morosely at the dinner table each night. I felt let down by all the magazines, books, and, worst of all, the other women around me. Why hadn&amp;#039;t anyone told me to fear this? Or how profoundly it would hurt, and how the feelings of grief would overwhelm me? Many months later, my husband came into our bedroom, where I&amp;#039;d been spending most of my time; I slept 10, 12 hours a night, but was always drowsy. He looked over at me, crying, having lost not only the dream of a child but his wife as well. I opened my eyes to see him staring at me, begging, &amp;quot;Baby, come back.&amp;quot; Though the child we lost was gone forever, I realized then that it was time for me to return.   \u2014Maggie McGuane &amp;quot;Did I almost die when I gave birth to my sons?&amp;quot;  When I was 34-weeks pregnant with my identical twin boys, I started gaining weight at an alarming rate, a classic sign of the high-risk pregnancy condition preeclampsia; a few days later, I was rushed into an emergency C-section. I welcomed that instantaneous sensation of relief as both boys were lifted out of my abdomen. They were doing well despite being seven weeks premature, and were taken to the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU) only as a precaution.  That was the last good news of the night. I was in a drug-induced daze, but I could hear the doctors talking clearly enough to know that things were starting to go wrong: They could not stop the hemorrhaging in my uterus, and I was at risk of bleeding to death on the table.  The next thing I recall is waking up in the intensive care unit with a tube down my throat. I saw my husband, Charles, first, who said the babies were fine. Then I saw that my sister had flown in to see me \u2014 and she looked as if she&amp;#039;d been crying. I remembered delivering the babies, and that I had lost my uterus, but what I didn&amp;#039;t yet know is that I had suffered a life-threatening failure of the liver and kidneys. Eleven units of blood had been pumped into my body as well as untold liters of fluid to try to maintain my failing blood pressure, so I weighed almost 100 pounds more than usual, and my body was unloading the excess fluid at an unbelievable rate, draining it through my catheter and from the wound on my belly. It was truly disgusting. I was still so sick that the fact that I had just given birth was lost on me. The babies waiting for me in the NICU didn&amp;#039;t seem real; I was afraid of what I thought would be their tiny, fragile bodies, especially since I was now in a fragile body myself, utterly dependent on other people. Childbirth, normally a beautiful thing, had become scary and ugly.  After my first son, Nicholas, was born, he spent most of the day in my room with me. When people came to visit, he was the center of attention. This time around, the babies were on another floor and visitors had to choose to see me or them, rarely both. Even my husband&amp;#039;s visits with me lacked focus, and I could tell he was itching to get away. And so I was left alone with my thoughts \u2014 and my misshapen body. In my younger years when I was feeling down, I would sometimes think about who would miss me if I died. And now, faced with a real-life version of the game, I was hungry for this knowledge. Did Charles contemplate living a life without me? Who called my parents, and what were they told? Was there a point when things were truly touch and go for me, or am I just being dramatic?  All I know is that whenever I tell a doctor my story, the look on his face as he hears the details of my ordeal reveals how truly close I came to death. Another time, another place, I would never have held any of my boys again \u2014 not my twins, not my 2-year-old, not my husband. Did I almost die? Even though nearly five years have passed, I still wonder. I&amp;#039;m not sure why it makes such a difference. I just know that it does. \u2014Jane Randel &amp;quot;I terminated my pregnancy&amp;quot; My obstetrician called just as I was preparing a midday snack for my two young girls. I remember feeling sluggish that day. It was August; the air was thick. And sluggish was a considerable triumph, as the wrenching fatigue of my first trimester was slowly loosening its vise. Certainly words \u2014 sentences even \u2014 were coming through the receiver. But I don&amp;#039;t think I heard any of them. Concepts like &amp;quot;extra chromosome&amp;quot; and &amp;quot;genetic abnormality&amp;quot; wafted around me like bubbles. But I registered Dr. Sara&amp;#039;s unusually clipped tone. Her voice seemed to be trying desperately to regain something of its natural lilt.  After what seemed like hours, I hung up the phone and dialed my husband, relaying the news in the way I&amp;#039;d received it. I did not ask what &amp;quot;we&amp;quot; should do. I already knew.  Tears did not come that day or the day after. But in the hospital a few hours after what my doctor kept referring to as &amp;quot;the procedure,&amp;quot; my eyes were flooded and swollen shut as I lay in recovery. I remember thinking, Recovery? My baby is dead. And I killed her! There won&amp;#039;t be any recovery \u2014 not today, not ever. And I was right. A part of me grieves the loss, even now. Eight months ago, I delivered a perfect baby boy. He is not only proof there is a God. For me, he is also proof that God still loves me. When my son&amp;#039;s tiny fingers grasp mine, the emotions are so strong it&amp;#039;s as though my heart and soul actually spasm with joy and sadness \u2014 at once. More than a blessing, his mere existence is a constant, bittersweet reminder of that fateful day. The pain will never go away; I&amp;#039;ve long accepted that it&amp;#039;s as much a part of me as my flat feet. But Cole&amp;#039;s arrival smooths the pointy edges of that pain, making it easier to bear.  I would not do things any differently. I believe that God matches special-needs kids with special moms. I am a patient, giving, and blessed mother. But I am not special \u2014 not like that.   \u2014Y. Gault &amp;quot;I was overtaken by postpartum psychosis&amp;quot; Wrapped up like a blue pastel burrito, our baby slept in my arms while the nurse droned on about the warning signs of postpartum depression. I was mesmerized by his silly expressions, his barely audible burps, his tiny fingernails. Who did she think she was talking to? A mental case? By week two of my son&amp;#039;s life, my elation vanished. I did little more than nurse my son and feed myself. I hated being stuck in the house on sunny days, unable to take even a 15-minute walk. I lashed out at my husband for not doing enough. I was pissed that it took me three days to give myself a pedicure. Sleep-deprived and shocked by how little I could accomplish, I began to panic. I insisted that my husband not take our son to the grocery store (what if something happened?); I obsessed about immunizations, SIDS, leaving him with a sitter, the weird spot on his belly. Giving my baby a bath, I worried he&amp;#039;d catch pneumonia. I listened intently to his every grunt, sniffle, gasp, and whine \u2014 was it something I&amp;#039;d done wrong? A diaper left on an hour too long could send me into a spiral of self-hatred and doubt. I hid all of these worries because I felt like I didn&amp;#039;t have the right to complain \u2014 after all, I had a husband at home to help me, a perfect angel of a baby. I convinced myself I was just like any other new mom. But one day, while my husband was out, I got so rattled by my son&amp;#039;s crying jag, I called 911 and told them I didn&amp;#039;t feel safe alone with him.  Later at the hospital, it was determined I was simply sleep-deprived. I left with a stash of tranquilizers, and for three more days I tried my best to appear normal. But then I slipped further. I couldn&amp;#039;t talk, I barely breathed, I didn&amp;#039;t blink. For a month I was hospitalized in a locked ward where I believed I was dead, a saint, God, in cahoots with the Unabomber.  They say time heals all wounds, but it was a psychiatrist specializing in postpartum depression who gave me back my sanity. My doctor knew which drugs to prescribe, but also how much I needed a safe place to talk. When he told me I wasn&amp;#039;t alone, that lots of new mothers end up in a mental hospital, I began to feel less like a freak. As I grew to trust him, I told him my fears, and he listened with compassion and understanding. A confidence that I knew what was best for my son slowly grew in me. Relief washed over me as I began to revel in my son&amp;#039;s new words \u2014 bye-bye, baby, bubble. I transitioned from a basket case back to the exuberant, confident, optimistic gal I&amp;#039;d been. And now I had a beautiful child to share the fun with. It&amp;#039;s been seven years since I wandered around in a hospital gown, sure the guy down the hall was out to get me. Now my life is filled with trips to the playground, homemade cookies, cuddling, and kisses. My friends, family, and coworkers tell me that I&amp;#039;m always smiling, and it&amp;#039;s true. The reason? For six months my life was snatched away from me. And now I have it back. \u2014Martha Silano &amp;quot;I gave birth too soon&amp;quot; Lucy was born almost eight weeks early and had to spend her first three weeks in the NICU. Well-meaning friends would say to us, &amp;quot;That Lucy, she just couldn&amp;#039;t wait to get out in the world and meet her mom and dad.&amp;quot; But I knew the truth: I had failed my daughter. It was my water that had broken inexplicably and landed us in the hospital. And it was my low amniotic fluid that had caused her to be delivered three days later. I was so angry at myself for failing this monumental first task of motherhood \u2014 carrying my daughter to term \u2014 that I became incredibly jealous of other mothers who&amp;#039;d accomplished it (which seemed like every mother but me). How did my neighbor, who gave birth and brought her son home while Lucy was in the hospital, have a healthy pregnancy when I did not? Or what about the beaming, nervous mothers I&amp;#039;d see cradling their 48-hour-old babies outside the hospital, waiting for their husbands so they could all go home?  It&amp;#039;s difficult to feel like a mother when you have to ask permission to hold your baby and when, after you hold her for a while, the nurse informs you that you are wearing your daughter out \u2014 and don&amp;#039;t you want her to get some rest so she can get strong enough to come home with you? I felt like screaming, &amp;quot;Get away from me! You, my doctor, my husband \u2014 everyone out of my life!&amp;quot; My fury made even me want to hide. When my husband suggested grabbing dinner in the neighborhood after a long day at the hospital, I lashed out: &amp;quot;We can&amp;#039;t go there. They know us \u2014 what kind of parents will they think we are, eating steak frites while our baby is in the hospital?&amp;quot; In my mind, I deserved nothing. But then I started to get busy being &amp;quot;Lucy&amp;#039;s mom.&amp;quot; As I sat by her incubator and described for her all the people thinking about her, as I pumped breast milk for her, carefully pouring it into the specimen cups the nurses gave me, and as I shampooed her tuft of hair, my anger took a backseat to love and the responsibility it brings.  I realize now that the anger I felt wasn&amp;#039;t about failing Lucy but about my feeling cheated. When my water broke early, I didn&amp;#039;t get to have the anxious thrill of saying, &amp;quot;Honey, it&amp;#039;s time.&amp;quot; And I certainly didn&amp;#039;t get the birth experience \u2014 the pushing, the pain, the holding my seconds-old slimy baby in my arms \u2014 that I had foolishly presumed was my right. Instead, I was allowed only a moment with my daughter, a quick kiss before the neonatologist whisked her away. Later, when Lucy was out of the hospital and thriving, I still clung to her early-birth story as a way to make up for the little shortcomings I felt as a mother. I could weave it into any conversation thread \u2014 &amp;quot;Yes, well, Lucy is a late talker, possibly because my water broke at only 32 weeks, blah, blah, blah.&amp;quot; But each time I recounted my experience, the story became less relevant, even bordering on the ridiculous. My resilient, happy daughter had clearly gotten over her premature birth, and I needed to fall in line. About a month ago, Lucy, now 2, and I were at her Tumble Bugs class. She was on the trampoline, bouncing giddily (code for dangerously high), when a mom commented to me, &amp;quot;Wow \u2014 your daughter has so much confidence.&amp;quot;  &amp;quot;Thanks,&amp;quot; I said. I didn&amp;#039;t need to say anything else.  \u2014Mindy Berry  &amp;quot;I placed my daughter for adoption&amp;quot; My foray into motherhood didn&amp;#039;t quite go as expected. When I was 22, I placed my firstborn for adoption. One reason I relinquished her was the fear that I wouldn&amp;#039;t know how to be a mother. No one explained that you learn all the mysterious secrets of motherhood the minute you become a mom. It took the birth of my first parented son two years later for me to realize that you just know how to wake up in the middle of the night, change a diaper with your eyes half shut, and half sleep your way through a feeding. During my unplanned pregnancy, I thought I would never learn to love my child. No one explained that while an unplanned pregnancy brings ambiguous feelings, in the end you will love your child without question. Of course, I&amp;#039;m lucky. I relinquished my rights during the open-adoption era, so I have continued contact with my daughter and her family. During our first visit, I soothed my 4-month-old daughter&amp;#039;s cries after she was scared by the dog. As I held her to comfort her, it felt so very right. And in that moment, a sadness crept over my soul. My eyes were opening to the many lies that I had believed about my ability to parent. I would have been a fine mom to my daughter. I would have learned the same things that everyone learns in time. The love was always there; I was just scared to open my heart to the possibilities. Now when we visit, I walk that fine line between being her birth mother and being her mommy. It feels strangely sad to sit idly by while she is parented by people she knows as Mommy and Daddy. I often quietly mother her in my head and think, It&amp;#039;s okay. Come to Mommy, I&amp;#039;ll make it all better. Yet, if I told my daughter to come to Mommy, she would walk to someone else. I&amp;#039;m just beginning to forgive myself for my na\u00EFvet\u00E9 about my daughter&amp;#039;s placement. And as I watch her grow, I am finally allowing myself to feel pride amid the sorrow. I&amp;#039;m becoming the amazing mom that I could have been to her, not just for the benefit of the two sons I am raising now but also for her \u2014 so that she might be proud of me someday.   \u2014Jenna Hatfield &amp;quot;My baby died before he was born&amp;quot; My water had broken, and I was looking at an ultrasound of my baby turned, bottom up, as if ready to deliver. But it was only week 17. And what I saw on the screen horrified me. The baby&amp;#039;s soft skull was wedged between two huge fibroid tumors growing alongside him. With the amniotic waters draining away, there was no cushion to protect him from their mass. And with no water, there was no way for him to flip and turn away from the danger of the growing tumors. The black-and-white image on the screen pointed out the rigid truth: If he was born now, he wouldn&amp;#039;t survive. But if he didn&amp;#039;t escape my womb, he stood to be crushed inside my own body.  It wasn&amp;#039;t the thought that I would lose this baby that made me keen with grief and rage. I had yearned for a child. I had waited; I had been patient. I&amp;#039;d found a good husband who would be a good father, and created a good life for a child to come into. I&amp;#039;d done everything right. Hadn&amp;#039;t I? I questioned every candy bar and California roll. Did I forget to take a vitamin? Had the daily commute \u2014 two hours each way \u2014 been too much? The doctors couldn&amp;#039;t tell me. They ran tests to see if the premature rupture was genetic. It wasn&amp;#039;t. And so they had no answer for why this had happened. That left me with only my own actions, my own body, my own decisions to question. What had I done? What had I done wrong?  I was getting my first taste of what I now know to be the primary preoccupation of motherhood: helpless questioning. As mothers, we bend ourselves into knots with the constant weighing of pros and cons, often with no discernible &amp;quot;better&amp;quot; outcome between the two. Every moment with a child is filled with choices \u2014 coat or sweater, tea or Tylenol, let it go or let him have it, go to work or stay at home, private school, public school, homeschool. It begins before they&amp;#039;re born and, by all accounts, it doesn&amp;#039;t end until you die. The problem is that no matter what choice you make, you&amp;#039;re afraid it was the wrong one.  In the end, I learned one of the most important lessons in mothering before I had a child to mother: Wait and see. And I waited weeks. Eventually, the labor began, sudden and insistent. Ill-prepared, I pushed. I pushed. I gave birth to a baby who came \u2014 and left me \u2014 too soon.   \u2014Tamara Jeffries "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.redbookmag.com/life/mom-kids/advice/a2865/motherhood-stories/>