Last week, we experienced the heartbreaking loss of our baby.
Just a week prior, I had a dream that we were having a boy. We had shared our joyful news with close friends and family, eagerly anticipating a due date of May 31. Four May babies! We even began to prepare the nursery, filled with excitement.
On October 5, 2016, I attended my appointment, feeling hopeful. The nurse asked if I had taken home tests, to which I replied affirmatively. Her cautious tone raised alarm bells. The pregnancy test showed only a faint line. “If you start bleeding or feel severe pain, go straight to the ER,” she warned before drawing blood.
A wave of anger and fear washed over me. Our first pregnancy had been perfectly normal. Why was she suggesting the worst?
The next day, I learned that my HCG levels were low. “How low?” I asked, my heart racing. “Very low. I’m sorry. It’s a viable pregnancy, but things could go either way. We’ll have more information after your next blood test on Thursday.”
Those three days were a blur of tears, nausea, and numbness. I drove to school to face my students, masking my pain and anxiety.
Thursday arrived, and I anxiously awaited my second blood test results. I requested a call around 9:30 a.m., but when I tried to follow up, the nurses were busy. As I went to the bathroom, I noticed I had started bleeding.
No, not this.
On my drive home, the office called. My HCG levels had dropped significantly. “I’m so sorry. It’s a miscarriage,” the nurse said gently. “Is there anything I can do?”
What can anyone do in moments like this?
I’ve struggled to articulate my feelings. I find myself typing, deleting, and starting again. How do you express such an unseen loss? Those who haven’t experienced it can never fully understand.
When I heard about someone else’s miscarriage in the past, I felt sympathy, but I didn’t truly grasp the depth of their pain. I didn’t know that 1 in 4 pregnancies end in miscarriage, often without any known cause. One moment, the baby is there, and then it’s gone.
Now, having lived through it, I understand:
- I know the anxiety of not knowing if you’ll lose your baby.
- I know the guilt that creeps in, making you question what you did wrong.
- I know the urge to share your story in person, but the reality is too painful to voice.
- I know the flicker of hope that maybe it’s all a mistake—that perhaps my baby is still safe.
- I know the anger directed at those who deliver the news. Who are you to tell me this?
- I know the pregnancy symptoms that fade, each reminder deepening the heartache.
- I know that the sorrow lingers long after the physical pain subsides.
With each passing day, I feel a little stronger. Perhaps discussing this with other women is possible; after all, so many have experienced miscarriage. It’s a common yet silent struggle that often goes unspoken.
People often don’t know what to say, and I find myself at a loss for words too. Statements like “At least it was early” or “It happened for a reason” don’t help. My baby was still my baby.
Even though this chapter has closed, the memories will never fade. I’ll always pause on May 31, pondering the “what-ifs.”
The fear of moving forward looms large. Should we try again soon? What if we face another loss? If we wait too long, what if it takes ages to conceive again?
Many women endure similar experiences—infertility, multiple miscarriages, ectopic pregnancies, and stillbirths. Each loss is profound. These women are resilient; they face the world again, even with their aching hearts.
A friend put it aptly: “Everything has changed, yet nothing has changed.”
Why is miscarriage still such a taboo subject? I’ve pondered this a lot lately. I’m generally open and honest, yet for days, I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it.
I’m heartbroken and yet managing to cope. I have physical symptoms, but I’m gradually healing. Sometimes when I say, “We lost the baby,” I’m met with mixed emotions. I might cry or quickly downplay it with “It’s okay, though” to deflect attention.
This might be how many women feel, which could explain the silence surrounding it. How do you articulate such a profound sorrow?
If only we could connect with others who’ve suffered similar losses. If only those who’ve moved forward would share their stories. Maybe even schools should discuss miscarriage more openly.
I was unaware of the realities of miscarriage until it affected me personally. While nothing can truly prepare you for such a loss, we can certainly foster dialogue.
For now, I take deep breaths each morning, rise from bed, and hug my sweet son. I ask him about his favorite superhero or his toy minion. I drop him off at daycare with a tight embrace, then head to work, smiling at my students despite my tired eyes. I’ll teach them the significance of grammar and expressive writing, hoping that by sharing my story, I can help them navigate their own struggles.
Summary
The author reflects on the complex emotions surrounding pregnancy loss, sharing her personal journey through fear, guilt, and heartbreak. She emphasizes the importance of speaking openly about miscarriage and connecting with others who understand the pain. By fostering dialogue, she hopes to create a supportive community for those who have experienced similar losses.