Dearest nurse, I want to sincerely apologize if I came across as rude during my hospital visit. The truth is, I just couldn’t bring myself to cry in front of you. Those tears are meant for my partner, Mark.
Experiencing a miscarriage has compelled me to seek meaning in something that feels utterly senseless. It’s a heartbreaking reality that so many face. I genuinely believe that souls connect with people, and that children select their parents. With each loss, I remind myself that I haven’t lost a soul; rather, it simply wasn’t their time to join me. They will remain with me until we are both ready. Until that day arrives, I have work to do. I create a list of aspirations and take small steps toward achieving them.
You might think it’s naive, but how else can one recover from the loss of a fetus and muster the courage to try again?
The first trimester of pregnancy fills me with dread. I feel nauseous and exhausted, counting down the days. I find myself praying to reach week six without any signs of bleeding. I hope that my symptoms persist, as they signify that my hormone levels are still elevated. Each passing day is a victory, inching me closer to reducing the risk of another loss.
I often retreat into my own world, hiding my growing belly that isn’t yet the beautiful shape of a pregnant woman. For now, it’s just a reminder of the struggle I’m facing. I need to take frequent naps, as my heightened sense of smell turns everything into a source of nausea. Please, no coffee or strong fragrances around me.
As I withdraw from social gatherings, I find excuses to avoid that delicate glass of chardonnay, stifling yawns while wishing I could share my joy and fears. I’m excited yet terrified, teetering on the edge of happiness and sadness, unsure of what my tears signify.
My first miscarriage occurred after a year of trying to conceive with Mark. I was elated when the pregnancy test showed two lines. That very day, I accidentally dipped a chicken finger into bleu cheese sauce, which sent me spiraling into tears, fearing I had harmed the fetus. Before breaking the news to my family, I confided in a friend and the waitress about my pregnancy. Thankfully, the cheese was pasteurized, and I was able to breathe a sigh of relief.
We scheduled an early ultrasound and were thrilled to see a tiny heartbeat. We fell in love and began making plans for our future family. However, during a follow-up appointment, we learned there had been no progress, and the baby had likely passed away shortly after our last visit. It was devastating—a moment that shattered my heart and made everything feel pointless.
So, dear nurse, I appreciate your kindness. I just can’t share my tears with you because I need to believe there is a greater purpose behind this pain.
After my third miscarriage, friends have described my experience as “unjust” and “unfair.” Then comes the dreaded question: “Will you try again?” At this moment, I don’t have a clear answer. Instead, I’ve started journaling, drawing, and creating plans for the future. When the time comes to try again, I hope to have completed my checklist.
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In summary, navigating the emotional landscape of miscarriage is a profound journey that reshapes our understanding of loss and hope. Through reflection and planning, I hold onto the belief that each soul will find its way when the time is right.