Last week, we said goodbye to our baby.
Just a week prior, I had a vivid dream that we were having a son. We had shared our joyful news with close friends and family, eagerly anticipating a due date of May 31 — four May babies in total! We even began to clear out a space for the nursery, just for fun.
On Tuesday, October 5, I arrived at my appointment, feeling hopeful. The nurse asked if I had taken any home tests. “Of course,” I replied, a little puzzled by the question. Her tone shifted as she explained that my pregnancy test showed only a faint line. Her cautious demeanor sent waves of worry through me. “If you start bleeding or feel severe pain, head to the ER,” she added, before sending me off for a blood test.
In that moment, anger and fear swelled within me. My first pregnancy had been perfectly normal — why was she suggesting the worst? No way.
The following morning, I received the news that my HCG levels were low. “How low?” I pressed. “Very low. I’m so sorry. It’s a viable pregnancy, but it could go one of two ways. We’ll know more after your blood test on Thursday.”
The next three days felt like a whirlwind. I was a mix of tears, nausea, and emotional numbness as I faced my 80 students at school, trying to mask my pain and anxiety.
Thursday finally arrived, and I asked the nurse to call me around 9:30 a.m. for the results. But my impatience got the best of me, and I called them first — only to learn that my HCG levels had dropped significantly. The woman on the line gently told me it was a miscarriage. “I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?” she asked.
What can you say in a moment like this?
I’ve tried to articulate my feelings, but I often find myself typing and deleting, unsure how to convey such an invisible loss. Those who haven’t walked this path can never truly understand.
I used to feel sympathy when I heard of someone else’s miscarriage, but I didn’t know the weight of that grief. I didn’t realize that 1 in 4 pregnancies ends in miscarriage, and often there’s no explanation. One moment, your baby exists, and the next, they’re gone.
Lessons Learned
Now that I’m on the other side, here’s what I’ve learned:
- I understand the fear of uncertainty — the agonizing wait to discover if you’ll lose your baby.
- I feel the internal shame, as if somehow it’s my fault, replaying every moment in my mind, searching for what went wrong.
- I know the desperate wish to share the news with friends in person, but the only way to express it becomes through text. I can’t face this reality out loud; I can’t bear to hear it.
- I know the naïve hope that it’s all a misunderstanding — maybe my little one is still there.
- I feel the fury toward the person delivering the news. Who do they think they are?
- I recognize the pregnancy symptoms that fade, deepening the heartbreak with each passing day. It’s not a one-time event; reminders of the loss linger, sometimes for weeks, every time I step into the bathroom.
- I know the physical pain that accompanies it, the cramping, and the aching back.
With every day, I feel a bit better — perhaps I can eventually share my story with other women. Why don’t we talk about this more? It’s a common experience, yet shrouded in silence because it hurts too much.
People often struggle with what to say. I don’t have the words for myself either. “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.” What if it happens again?
Even though it’s over, I know it will never be forgotten. I will always pause on May 31 to reflect on the what-ifs. This will likely be a part of my life forever.
I share this because many women face similar losses — some endure infertility, multiple miscarriages, or even stillbirth. They are incredibly strong, returning to their work and social lives while carrying that heartache. A friend of mine put it well: “Everything has changed, yet nothing has changed.”
The Stigma of Miscarriage
So, why is there a stigma around miscarriage? I’ve pondered this often in the past week. I’m typically an open person, but I found myself silent and unable to confront my feelings.
I’m heartbroken yet somehow okay. I experience physical symptoms, yet I’m also on the path to healing. When I tell people, “We lost the baby,” my reactions vary — sometimes I cry, other times I brush it off with “It’s okay, though,” to deflect attention. I’m okay, and I’m not okay.
Maybe this is how many women feel, which is why we don’t discuss it. How do you articulate such a profound loss? If only we could find a community of women who’ve experienced this. If only those who’ve moved forward could share their journeys.
I knew nothing about miscarriage until it hit home, and while nothing could truly prepare me, we could do better at opening the conversation.
For now, I’ll take a deep breath each morning, rise from bed, and embrace my sweet toddler. I’ll ask him about his favorite superhero or his imaginary friend, Dave. I’ll drop him off with his sitter, hug him tightly, and then head to work to face my students with a smile, despite the exhaustion in my eyes. I’ll teach them about grammar and expressive writing, hoping that someday, writing will help them process their own struggles. Perhaps it will give them the courage to talk about their experiences, or if they can’t voice them, at least they’ll write.
Conclusion
In summary, navigating the emotional landscape of pregnancy loss is complex and often isolating. It’s important to acknowledge these feelings, share our stories, and support one another in healing.