Today would have been our due date. I’ve been dreading this day, knowing how it would be a sharp reminder of what could have been. We would have been bringing a new baby home, adding a new addition to our family. Even months later, it still stings, but today especially is rough. From the moment you see those two pink lines, you start dreaming of what your baby will look like, who he or she will become. You start making plans for the nursery, wonder about gender, and subconsciously start thinking of names. You start making room in your heart way before you even start preparing your home for a new little bundle. And when reality rips away that dream, you’re left with an aching hole instead.
I’ve been writing this blog post in my head for weeks, if not months now. As the due date got closer, it finally prompted me to put those thoughts down into writing. Miscarriage is a club that no one wants to be apart of, where unfortunately membership is not optional. It is shockingly common, and occurs in up to 1 in 4 pregnancies (this figure includes women who may have been unaware that they were even pregnant). As I’ve gotten older and have friends who are in the same stage of having kids, I know lots and lots of other women who have experienced a miscarriage. If I tally up everyone I know, I lose count because the number is so high. My story is by no means unique, nor is it the most tragic one that I have heard. A part of me feels guilty for feeling grief when you see/hear others who have it “so much worse” whether it’s losing a pregnancy when farther along, stillbirth, etc. But I know that it is also important to validate your own feelings because your experience matters, and life is not a “who had it worse” contest. For me, telling my story is a way to honor the little soul that we never got to meet. By writing about it, I am acknowledging that they were here and they were real, even if only for a brief moment in time. And in a way it feels therapeutic to get it out, like somehow the story is no longer trapped inside of me. So here it goes.
This was the first pregnancy that I actually took a pregnancy test without Taylor, because I somehow had a feeling about it and I wanted to be able to surprise him this time around. I was still a little shocked when the test came back positive, but was super excited! Taylor’s birthday was within a week or so of me finding out, so I held onto the secret (hardest thing I’ve ever had to do by the way!) and was able to surprise him on his birthday as part of his birthday present. It felt like a really special way to share the news and we were overjoyed at the idea of adding another little one to our family.
Everything seemed normal with the pregnancy; I started feeling nausea right before 6 weeks, and we started telling family and a few close friends the news as time went on. It was October when I had my first official prenatal appointment when I should have been 10 weeks + 5 days. I had to go by myself because of Covid restrictions, they were not letting any visitors come to any appointments, even ultrasounds. I cheerfully said goodbye to Taylor and the boys, and promised to call once the appointment was over. On the drive up I had a few anxious/pessimistic thoughts about being there alone if I happened to get bad news, but tried to brush that off and focus instead on my excitement about seeing baby. I started with the ultrasound and even asked the tech if it would be okay to videotape it since my husband wasn’t able to be there. When you’ve had a healthy pregnancy before, you pretty much know what the ultrasound should look like, and what they are looking for when they are measuring the heartbeat. As the minutes ticked by, the picture on the screen resembled nothing like what I was anticipating, and I began to fill with dread. I tried to stop my mind from racing, but I had a pit in my stomach because I knew. I knew there was no viable baby in there. The next minute, my midwife comes in and asks if I can get Taylor on the phone and my worst fear was confirmed. She broke the news to us, with me still lying on the the table, phone in hand. There was no heartbeat, and baby measured 6 weeks + 6 days. That means that for the last almost 4 weeks I was walking around thinking I was pregnant (and feeling nauseous, which feels like the cruelest part) when I was in fact no longer with child. It’s these moments in life when it truly feels like a dream, like your panicked mind is trying to figure out which way is up because the news you just received cannot possibly be true. In this moment I hated Covid with every ounce of my being. Because it was the reason why I was there alone, without my partner and best friend, receiving the worst news of my life up until this point. The rest of the appointment dragged on, when all I wanted to do was curl into a ball or just leave. I somehow made it through (although not without washing the makeup off my face with my tears) and drove the 40 minutes back home.
Going through a miscarriage, there were choices that I didn’t know I had to make. First was deciding whether I wanted to wait and see if I would miscarry on my own, take medication to help induce it along, or have a D&C where they surgically clear out the remaining contents of the pregnancy from your uterus. When you’re grieving and the world seems upside down, it feels like another jab from the universe that you have to make these decisions. We decided to go ahead with a D&C two days later. Because my body still hadn’t recognized that I was no longer pregnant after 4 weeks, it seemed like the obvious choice. The day of the D&C, right before the surgery, the chaplain comes in to speak to both of us, and lets us know that we also have to decide what will be done with the remains. Another punch in the gut, another decision that you hate to make. Driving home from the hospital that day felt like a cruel joke; we should have been coming home with a baby once my pregnancy was over, instead we came home empty handed.
I honestly never thought I would struggle with a miscarriage as much as I did. Prior to experiencing it, I naively thought that if it ever happened to me, I would be able to rationalize it by accepting how common it is. But it’s one of those things where you don’t know how you will feel or react unless you go through it personally. For me, the physical aspect/recovery from the miscarriage was easier than I expected (I was bracing myself for the same level of pain at post-D&C as post-delivery, and for me it was thankfully rather painless) however emotionally it was much harder than I anticipated. They say that time heals all wounds. While I don’t think that’s a universal truth in all cases of heartbreak, I do believe that the passage of time certainly helps with the healing process. The intensity of the pain or grief wanes, and you are better able to process and cope. I know I have come a long way since October; the miscarriage went from the focal point of my present, to something difficult that happened to me in the past. Time certainly has helped, in addition to having an incredibly supportive husband, and wonderful family and friends. For me, talking about my experience with those who have gone through it was really helpful. It makes a very isolating experience feel less lonely. The part that makes (“early”) miscarriage such a lonesome grief is that often times you hadn’t even shared the news that you were expecting in the first place, so few people know what you are going through when the pregnancy ends. I found it awkward to decide who to share my miscarriage news with, not because I wanted to keep it to myself, but because I didn’t want people to feel uncomfortable or feel like I was oversharing.
If you have never personally experienced a miscarriage, then I am so happy for you! But if you’ve gone/are going through something similar, know that I am sending you lots of love and prayers. If you feel like reaching out to me personally, I would be happy to connect with you. This experience is not something you would wish on anyone, but there is some comfort knowing that you are not alone. There are women out there who have walked your path ahead of you and came out eventually on the other side. When you are in the thick of it, it may seem like the path is dark and ominous, but there is light to be found. And my last piece of advice is don’t ever feel pressured to “move on”; it’s okay if this becomes a part of you and is woven in to your story.