Willa Glori

I was apprehensive about sharing this as this year has been exhausting. A physical and spiritual emptying, really. However, I’d like to bring awareness to something extremely rare that happened to me.

As most of you know we struggled with infertility issues for a few years before Uriah, so getting pregnant wasn’t exactly something we thought would come easy for us following Uriah. On 1/17/24 we found out we were pregnant. For weeks I had horrible nausea lasting all day long, and I knew instantly that we were pregnant. We were so excited, as we let “Jesus take the wheel” on this one. We were waiting to schedule Trevor’s vasectomy and decided if we were to get pregnant again we would be excited and so happy to make Uriah a big brother; on the other hand, if it didn’t happen we were accepting to that outcome as well.

On 1/18/24 we had an ultrasound scheduled, I have PCOS and irregular cycles so we had no idea how far along we were. The radiology report came back saying there was a gestational sac and yolk sac present, likely fetal pole (baby), and no heartbeat. Immediately, I fell into a panic reading “no heartbeat”. Our provider encouraged us not to panic as we just aren’t as far along as we thought we were considering my last cycle. She put in a lab order to run an HCG test that was conducted on 1/24/24 and it came back at 138,632 - which was alarming to me as that seemed astronomically high considering at 4 weeks pregnant with Uriah my HCG was only at 275. My provider informed me of a potential for a molar pregnancy - which, unless you know someone who had one or have personally had one, you’ve probably never heard of it - like me.

My first OB visit wasn’t scheduled until 2/26/24, which worried me. So, I messaged the OB we were scheduled to see - I’ve never met with her before, and she replied almost instantly, and immediately she wanted to monitor this pregnancy. She put in for another order to repeat HCG 48 hours after the previous. On 1/26/24 I had labs drawn again and HCG came back even higher this time at 190,898. The OB expressed concerns, and informed me that HCG can go up to 200,000 in a normal pregnancy; she wanted to continue with the plan and have a follow-up ultrasound for 1/31/24 with labs again to assess viability and meet with her on 2/1/24 to go over results. On 1/31/24 my labs came back with my HCG at 300,710 and during the ultrasound we seen baby’s heartbeat. I cried with relief, and Trevor and I felt we were in the clear despite the high HCG levels.

We arrived at the clinic to meet our OB the morning of 2/1/24. What we thought was suppose to be an exciting discussion of our healthy, growing baby turned into a nightmare. During the visit I blacked out after hearing the ultrasound was abnormal and very concerning. I cannot even tell you what our OB had said during the visit. Trevor did all of the talking, and listening. The OB had connected with head of gyno-oncology in Duluth the day prior to go over what they were seeing on the radiology report; they wouldn’t even touch this case. We were told that we needed to be transferred immediately to one of three (top rated in MN) locations, whoever could get us in the soonest we needed to go. Our OB told us to go home and pack a bag and be ready to leave within the next hour or so. At that moment, I knew this wasn’t good, and that this was potentially life threatening to baby and myself.

The University of MN called and scheduled us in early that afternoon to meet with an OB. They conducted another ultrasound upon arrival, showing our baby’s heart still beating. The OB came in the room and I was diagnosed with a Partial Molar pregnancy - and was at a high risk for a rare form of cancer that can spread aggressively and quickly. The diagnosis of a Molar Pregnancy in itself is rare, occurring in 1 in 1000 pregnancies. Our case specifically was even more rare, occurring in 0.005 to 0.01% of all pregnancies. Over the last 20 years there have only been 44 reported cases like this.

The U gave us two options. Surgery that night or the following afternoon. As I was sitting there in this room with the OB, my husband, and our 11 month old son, I’m thinking how there is absolutely no way I can go through with surgery knowing what was about to happen. On the other hand, if I don’t go through with this surgery, my husband could be left without a wife, and our son without a mother. I felt like I was in such a whirlwind that I scarcely had time to process, let alone catch my breath. Both a baby and this dangerous, abnormal tissue had been growing inside a space that had previously held my son. A safe space. A life-giving space. Everything had seemingly changed overnight, and I was left standing in a space of deep uncertainty and grief. Was this actually a molar pregnancy? Can we save the baby? Was it invasive? Would I need chemo to treat it?

Upon sharing this information with my primary care provider, she put in an emergency request at Mayo to review our case to see if there was anything that anyone could do to save this baby and remove this cancer - we were praying for a miracle. We had the best of the best - the head of prenatal surgery and a radiologist reviewing our case side by side at Mayo. Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done. It was a matter of hours to maybe a couple of days this baby would have survived in my womb. We didn’t have days or weeks to sit on this. We had hours. The exponential rate at which these tumors replicate and takeover every organ of the human body is best described as pouring an endless supply of gasoline on a fire.

On 2/2/24 we said goodbye to our baby. We made the impossible decision that no parent should have to make, to move forward with the D&C (I won’t go into what that procedure is because it’s the part of our story that bothers me the most). To say this hurts is an understatement. I don’t even have the words to articulate such raw emotions I feel. I have spun every “what if” scenario in my head and my heart is broken. We’ve been told how lucky we are to have caught it so quickly, as I shouldn’t have even known anything until the end of February when I was scheduled to meet with our OB for the first time. By then it could’ve hit every organ in my body, making it a gruesome or potentially impossible fight. It’s been said my needing to know / persistence paid off this time and literally saved my life. I haven’t thought much about my life or that there was and might still be cancer in my body. Or the fact that I might need another surgery or chemotherapy. I haven’t been able to think about any of that. I have persistent thoughts of our unborn baby; what she would have looked like and who she would’ve been. How Uriah would’ve been the best big brother. He would’ve adored her and would’ve had a built-in best friend for life. He has yet another guardian angel watching over him - he kisses her ultrasound picture daily, saying “sis”.

Though there was nothing we did wrong in the pregnancy, nothing we could have done to prevent this or save this pregnancy, I constantly question whether I could have done more. I ponder if there was something, anything I could have done to save her. I felt helpless in a decision to take my baby away that I had no part of. As a mom, I feel as though I have failed our child. I couldn’t protect her. The loneliness and confusion and utter shock I feel is devastating, crippling, and numbing. I will never get to hold her, hear her cry, kiss her, rock her, or read to her. I will never get to watch her grow, or hear her say “mama”. Instead, I carry this heavy guilt alongside these endless thoughts of her in my heart. She will always be there and I will do everything in my power to honor her. She saved my life. I honestly cannot wrap my head around that and I’m struggling with the weight of this guilt that has been put on my soul.

The last couple weeks I’ve wrestled with so many feelings. I feel ashamed, I feel sad, I feel empty. I’ve hid, I didn’t speak with family or friends, I couldn’t. At times, I feel like I can’t even grieve. Like my body and worries won’t allow me to. It’s hard to explain or navigate that. As a mother, I was left to make a decision to end an unborn child’s life. Our child. A child we wanted. A child we loved immensely. A mother is supposed to protect her child. A mother is supposed to give her life for her child and there was literally nothing I could do to save her life. These past couple of days I grappled with the possibility that my healthy body might become sick, that my breasts might fill with poison, that l'd have to wean Uriah from breastfeeding suddenly and drastically. I tapped into the desperation that I think all parents and people feel at one point or another - the realization that we can't protect our children and those we love from the harshness of this world.

We received the pathology report, it was confirmed to be a partial molar pregnancy. Most molar pregnancies will resolve once all the tissue is removed, but some do need more intensive help (chemo). My HCG has dropped significantly, which is a good sign. This isn't like your typical miscarriage/termination of pregnancy. This situation introduces a slew of very serious complications if any little thing goes awry in the post-surgery process. So we have at least a 6-12 month journey ahead of us that includes lots of monitoring, weekly/monthly blood draws/hormone level checks, and very strict instructions to not get pregnant. If the HCG levels rise, plateau or fail to hit 0, we will need to look at another surgery and/or chemo.

This was not the plan we had in mind for our family. We were so ready and excited to add another little one to our life. In all honesty, I'm having trouble accepting this. Like, we let Jesus take the wheel, and this is what he presented us with.. why, why this? Wasn’t the burden of struggling with infertility enough? l've driven myself crazy with the what-ifs and over analyzing everything. These fears and these questions have become a daily form of self torture.

We have chosen to cremate her remains. She will forever be with us and know that she was valued and that her life, though short, mattered deeply. Fly high, Willa Glori, I guess heaven needed you more. You’ve got some pretty amazing people holding you safe in heaven - save a place for me, I’ll meet you there someday.