Miscarriage — it’s a word that often feels like a taboo, something whispered in hushed tones or kept under wraps, even though approximately one in four women go through it. If you’ve faced a miscarriage, you suddenly find yourself in a secret society that few outside of it dare to discuss and that no one wishes to join.
I learned of my loss on a Monday, just one day after Mother’s Day and two weeks following the joyful moment of hearing my baby’s heartbeat. My little one was only 8 weeks along. You might think that receiving the news would be when the pain hits hardest, but that wasn’t the case.
Being my second pregnancy, I sensed something was wrong as the doctor searched for a heartbeat on what he referred to as an “old-fashioned monitor.” I knew it was bad when the technician left the room and returned empty-handed. I felt a flicker of hope when I was sent for an ultrasound, but deep down, I already knew what awaited me. I could feel nothing at that moment, but I understood.
When the doctor called, delivering the dreaded “I’m so sorry,” that’s when the tears began to flow. Suddenly, I knew and felt the weight of my loss. The details that followed became a blur. I was given information and options, yet I barely absorbed any of it.
Outwardly, I put on a brave face. I assured friends and family that I was ready to move forward, while privately, I wept in bed, my husband taking care of our 1-year-old and grappling with his own grief. The pamphlets I received warned me of an emotional rollercoaster. They outlined what to expect for my D&C. My medical chart even labeled my experience as a “missed abortion,” the term itself feeling cold and clinical for such a profound loss.
I dove into researching miscarriage, determined to be well-informed. I spoke to the medical staff, who were compassionate and explained why they had to postpone my first surgery. I was too ill with a respiratory infection and, to add insult to injury, my ongoing morning sickness complicated matters further.
The day of my procedure came two weeks after I learned my child was gone — two weeks without any physical signs, just the void confirmed by the ultrasound machine.
In the days following my surgery, I found myself at church, enveloped in emptiness as the band played “Amazing Grace.” I wanted to shout, “I’ve had a miscarriage!” Yet, I was also taken aback by how the days gradually became more bearable.
What I didn’t expect was the unexpected kindness from those who had no obligation to show it. Their compassion became a silver lining during my grief. I also didn’t realize that even after I thought I’d moved past mourning, echoes of my loss would still linger in the most unusual ways. Not overwhelming sadness, but rather fleeting thoughts — like the soft brush of a longing unfulfilled.
No one prepared me for the gut-wrenching feeling of watching my almost 2-year-old rock in her chair, murmuring “I love you so much” to a doll. There’s an ache that accompanies the words “sister” and “brother” when they come from my daughter’s tiny lips.
I was unprepared for the sting of seeing one line on a pregnancy test instead of the hopeful two, or realizing how deeply I could yearn for someone who had yet to exist. Watching my living child grow up became a bittersweet experience, a reminder of my body’s failure to provide her a sibling close in age — a sibling she doesn’t know she’s missing, but I certainly do.
Ironically, it wasn’t pregnancy announcements that affected me as much as hearing about others’ losses. I could feel genuine joy for those who were expecting healthy babies, but the heartbreak of loss? That hit hard. It was astonishing how someone else’s miscarriage could transport me back to that fateful day when I first learned my baby was gone.
The longing has a sneaky way of creeping up on you, often when you least expect it — during moments of solitude, as the seasons shift, or in the quiet of the night. I found myself most affected while looking at photos of happy family gatherings, realizing that something — someone — was missing.
Now I understand. My heart will always ache for the child I’ll never cradle, the one I’ll never name. Regardless of how many children I may have in the future, there will always be a space in my heart for that little one, my angel baby.
And now I know: Miscarriage isn’t a dirty word. It’s simply a heavy one.