We lost our baby last week. Just a week prior, I had a vivid dream that it was a boy. We’d shared the joyous news with close friends and family, eagerly anticipating our due date of May 31—four May babies in the family! The excitement was palpable, and we even started to clear out the “nursery” just for fun.
On October 5, 2016, I went in for my appointment. The nurse inquired if I had taken any home pregnancy tests. “Yes, of course,” I replied. She explained that the pregnancy test showed only a faint line, and her tone was cautious and somber. She warned me to head straight to the ER if I experienced any bleeding or severe pain. After that, she drew blood for further testing.
I was filled with a mix of anger and fear. Our first pregnancy had been perfectly normal—why was she suggesting something terrible might happen?
The next morning, I learned that my HCG levels were low. “How low?” I demanded. “Very low. I’m so sorry. It can go either way; we’ll know more after your blood test on Thursday.”
Those three days were a blur of tears, nausea, and numbness. I woke up, drove to school, and faced my 80 students—10th and 11th graders—while hiding my pain and anxiety.
Finally, Thursday came, and I anxiously awaited my second blood test results. I had asked the nurse to call me around 9:30 a.m. since that was my planning block. When I called, they were busy. While in the bathroom, I noticed I had started bleeding.
No. No. No.
On my drive home, the office called back. My HCG levels had dropped significantly, and the woman on the other end gently informed me that it was a miscarriage. She expressed her condolences and asked if there was anything she could do. What can anyone do in such a moment?
I struggled to articulate my feelings. Every time I tried to write it down, I found myself deleting and starting over. How do you convey a loss that is invisible to others? People who haven’t gone through it can never truly understand.
Previously, when hearing of someone’s miscarriage, I felt sympathy but lacked comprehension. I didn’t know that miscarriage occurs in 1 out of 4 pregnancies—25%—often without any known reason. One moment the baby is alive; the next, it’s gone.
Now that I’ve experienced it, here’s what I understand:
- I know the anxiety of not knowing if you will lose your baby.
- I know the internal shame that makes you question what you did wrong.
- I know the urge to share the news in person, yet feeling unable to face it directly.
- I know the naive hope that maybe it’s all a mistake—perhaps my baby is still there.
- I know the anger directed at whoever delivers the news.
- I know the pregnancy symptoms fading as my heart breaks more each day.
- I know that the reminder of loss isn’t just a one-day experience; it lingers every time I visit the bathroom for weeks.
- I know the pain relief needed for the cramps and the aching back that follows.
- I know that with each passing day, I feel a little better, and maybe I can talk with other women about this. Why don’t we discuss it more openly?
Miscarriage is common yet remains silent. People often don’t know what to say. I struggle to find the right words for myself. “At least it was early.” But it was still my baby. “It happened for a reason.” What was wrong with my baby? “It means something abnormal was happening.” Will this happen with my next child?
Even though it’s over, I know I’ll never forget. May 31 will always be a day of contemplation about what could have been.
I’m also aware of the fear that comes with moving forward. Should we try again soon? What if it happens again? What if it takes a long time to conceive? What if my heart breaks once more?
Many women face similar struggles—infertility, multiple miscarriages, ectopic pregnancies, stillbirths. All of these are profound losses. These women are incredibly resilient; they return to work, friends, and family, even when their world feels shattered.
A friend once said, “Everything has changed, yet nothing has changed.” Why is there still a stigma around discussing miscarriage? I pondered this deeply in the days following my loss. I’m usually an open and honest person, yet I struggled to articulate my pain.
I feel heartbroken and okay at the same time. I experience physical symptoms but gradually find solace. When I say, “We lost the baby,” my reactions are mixed; sometimes I cry, other times I rush to say, “It’s fine, though” to divert attention. I’m okay, yet I’m not okay.
Perhaps this is a universal feeling among women, which is why we shy away from discussing it. How can we articulate such a profound experience?
If only we could connect with other women who have suffered similar losses. If only those who have moved forward would openly share their stories. It’s vital that we start this conversation.
I was unaware of the realities of miscarriage until it happened to me, and though nothing can truly prepare you, we must work on breaking the silence.
For now, I’ll take a deep breath each morning and face the day. I’ll embrace my sweet toddler and engage in simple joys. I’ll take him to the sitter’s, hold him tightly, and head to work determined to smile, even if my eyes feel heavier than usual. I’ll teach my students about grammar and expressive writing, hoping that through writing, they too might find healing during difficult times. And perhaps, they will feel empowered to share their own stories.
If you’re interested in exploring more about pregnancy loss, this insightful post on miscarriage may resonate with you. Additionally, check out this resource for valuable information about pregnancy and home insemination. For those considering at-home insemination, I recommend visiting Make A Mom for quality syringe kits.
Summary:
This piece explores the profound emotional journey of experiencing pregnancy loss. It captures the conflicting feelings of heartache and resilience, highlighting the need for open discussions about miscarriage. The author reflects on personal experiences, the stigma surrounding loss, and the importance of support from others. The article encourages dialogue and provides resources for those navigating similar paths.
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