By: Lila Jensen
Updated: Aug. 3, 2016
Originally Published: Feb. 28, 2016
Dear compassionate nurse, I sincerely apologize if I came across as curt during my hospital visit. The truth is, I was holding back tears that I didn’t want to share with you; those tears were meant for my partner.
Experiencing a miscarriage has compelled me to search for meaning in an experience that often feels entirely senseless. I believe that souls connect with individuals, and that children select their parents, rather than the reverse. Therefore, with each loss, I haven’t lost a soul; rather, it simply wasn’t their moment to be here. They will remain close until we are both ready. In the meantime, I have work to do. I methodically create a checklist of aspirations, breaking them down into achievable steps.
It might seem overly optimistic, but how else can one recover from the grief of losing a fetus and continue with life, especially when contemplating trying for another child? The initial 12 weeks of pregnancy fill me with dread. I feel nauseous, drained, and constantly count down the days. “Please,” I plead, “let me make it to week six without any sign of trouble. Please allow my nausea to persist, as it signifies that my hormones are still active.” Each day that passes is a step closer to reducing the risk of another loss.
I tend to retreat during this early stage, as my swollen belly isn’t yet the beautiful curve of pregnancy; it’s just a reminder of what I fear. My face reflects my discomfort, and I find myself needing afternoon naps. My heightened sense of smell is overwhelming, and even the scent of coffee or cologne can trigger my nausea.
In these moments of isolation, I dodge questions during social gatherings about whether I would like a glass of wine, while internally grappling with the conflicting emotions of excitement and fear. I want to share my news, but discussing the uncertainties of “what if” and “when will you know” feels overwhelming. I oscillate between joy and anxiety, often on the verge of tears.
My first miscarriage occurred after my partner and I had spent a year trying to conceive. The sheer delight of seeing two lines on the pregnancy test was exhilarating. However, a few hours later, a trivial mistake—dipping my chicken finger into bleu cheese—triggered a wave of panic. I feared I had harmed the fetus, leading me to confide in my friend and the waitress about my pregnancy. Thankfully, the cheese was pasteurized, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
We scheduled an early ultrasound, and I was elated to see a tiny heartbeat. We quickly fell in love with our little one and began planning for the future. However, during the official sonogram, we learned that there had been no development for weeks; the fetus likely had stopped growing shortly after our previous appointment. The heartbreak was profound, leaving me with tears of sorrow over something that felt so utterly meaningless.
So, dear nurse, I appreciate your kindness, but I cannot share my tears with you just yet. I hold onto the belief that, despite the pain, there is a greater purpose behind these experiences.
After my third miscarriage, I often hear friends use words like “injustice” and “unfair.” The question “Will you try again?” looms large, but I don’t yet have an answer. I’ve opened my notebook, filled with sketches and plans, hoping to prepare for the eventuality of trying once more. By then, I aspire to have my checklist completed.
For anyone navigating similar paths, I recommend exploring resources like this intrauterine insemination guide for valuable insights. Additionally, to learn more about home insemination techniques, check out this informative post on intracervical insemination and consider the expertise of Cryobaby for practical solutions.
In summary, grappling with the emotional aftermath of miscarriages is a deeply personal journey. Finding meaning amidst loss can help in the healing process, allowing one to envision future possibilities while navigating the complexities of grief.