Last week, we experienced the heart-wrenching loss of our baby.
Just a week before this devastating news, I dreamt it was a boy. We had shared our exciting news with close friends and family, eagerly anticipating a due date of May 31 — can you imagine? Four May babies! The joy was palpable as we began clearing out a space for the nursery, laughing and dreaming about what life would be like.
On Tuesday, October 5, 2016, I went to my appointment, ready for what I thought would be more good news. The nurse asked if I had taken any home tests. “Of course,” I replied, as she prepared me for the results. But when she told me that the pregnancy test only showed a faint line, her tone was cautious, almost sorrowful. I felt a wave of fear and anger wash over me. Why was she suggesting that something could go wrong? We had a perfectly normal first pregnancy—this couldn’t be happening.
The next morning, reality hit hard. My HCG levels were low. “How low?” I demanded to know, my stomach churning. “Very low. I’m so sorry.” The nurse went on to explain that things could go one of two ways, and more clarity would come with the next blood test on Thursday.
Those next three days were a blur of emotions. I cried, felt nauseous, and completely numb all at once. I went through the motions of teaching my 80 students in class, all while hiding the pain and anxiety that was consuming me.
When Thursday finally arrived, I eagerly awaited my second blood test results. I had even asked the nurse to call me at 9:30 a.m., but the anticipation was too much. I called the office, only to discover that the nurses were busy. Then, while in the bathroom, I began to bleed.
No. No. No.
On my drive home, the office finally called back. My HCG numbers had dropped even lower, and the woman on the line gently informed me that I was having a miscarriage. “I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?” she asked. But what can anyone do in a moment like this?
I’ve attempted to articulate my feelings, but each time I sit down, I find myself typing and deleting, struggling to find the right words to express a loss that feels so invisible. Miscarriages are often shrouded in silence, and unless you’ve experienced it, the depth of that feeling is unimaginable.
I used to sympathize with women who went through miscarriages, but I didn’t truly understand. I didn’t know that one in four pregnancies end this way—25%—and often there’s no explanation. One moment, you have a baby, and the next, it’s gone.
What I’ve Come to Know
Now that I’ve faced this loss, here’s what I’ve come to know:
- I understand the fear of uncertainty, the horrible feeling of waiting to see if you will lose your baby.
- I know the internal guilt, as if you somehow played a role in the tragedy, trying to pinpoint where it all went wrong.
- I’ve felt the overwhelming urge to share my pain with friends in person, yet finding the strength to speak the words feels impossible.
- I’ve experienced the fleeting hope that maybe this is all a misunderstanding. Perhaps my baby is still there, waiting.
- And then there’s the anger—raw, intense anger—directed at the person delivering the news. Who are they to tell me such things?
- I know the bittersweet symptoms of pregnancy that fade away as your heart breaks a little more each day.
- It’s not over in a day; reminders of the loss linger for weeks.
- I’ve felt the physical pain of cramps, the aching in my back, and I’ve learned that healing takes time.
Each day, I feel a little more like myself, contemplating the possibility of discussing this with other women. Why don’t we talk about it more?
Miscarriage is common yet so painfully silent. I know that people often don’t know what to say, and honestly, I struggle to find the words for myself. “At least it was early,” they might say. But it was still my baby. “It happened for a reason.” What reason? Will this happen again?
Even though the experience is over, I know I will never forget. May 31 will always be a day of reflection for me, a reminder of what could have been.
And then there’s the fear of moving forward. Should we try again soon? What if it happens again? Can we handle the stress of a new baby at the beginning of the school year? Or, if we wait, what if it takes ages to conceive again? What if my heart breaks once more?
Many women endure these trials—infertility, multiple miscarriages, ectopic pregnancies, stillbirths. They are all forms of loss, and these women are incredibly strong. They return to work, to friends, to family, while carrying their grief.
A friend of mine articulated it perfectly: “Everything has changed, yet nothing has changed.”
Breaking the Silence
Why is there such a stigma around miscarriage? I’ve pondered this a lot lately. I’m generally open and honest, yet for days, I found myself mute, unable to confront the reality of it. I feel both heartbroken and okay at the same time. I have physical reminders of my loss, yet I’m slowly feeling better. When I say, “We lost the baby,” I often have mixed feelings. Sometimes I cry; other times, I brush it off with a quick “Yeah, it’s okay” to divert attention. I’m okay, and I’m not okay.
Perhaps this is a shared experience among women, which is why we remain silent. How do you articulate such profound sorrow? If only we could connect with those who have suffered. If only women would speak out more once they’ve moved on. Schools could do more to educate about miscarriages too.
I knew nothing about this reality until it touched my life, and while nothing can fully prepare you, we can certainly do better in starting the conversation.
For now, each morning, I’ll take a deep breath and rise from bed. I’ll hug my delightful toddler, discussing his superhero antics. I’ll drop him off at daycare, giving him a tight squeeze, then drive to work. I’ll face my students with a smile, even if my eyes are a bit more tired than usual. Maybe by teaching the power of writing, I’ll help them cope with their own challenges someday.
And perhaps then, they’ll find their voice, whether through spoken words or the written page.
Summary
This piece captures the complex emotions surrounding pregnancy loss. It explores the raw fear, guilt, anger, and hope that accompany a miscarriage, emphasizing the importance of open dialogue around such experiences. The author reflects on personal grief while acknowledging the commonality of miscarriage, advocating for more conversations to break the stigma.