By: Jamie Thompson
Updated: Oct. 12, 2020
Originally Published: Sep. 30, 2019
In 2013, our lives took a tragic turn when our 17-month-old son, Lucas, passed away. The accident was widely reported, both locally and nationally. Our community rallied around us, reaching out through the local access channel to offer support. We received an outpouring of love: cards, letters, and messages from strangers. During those heart-wrenching days, the warmth of human kindness reminded us of the beauty in the world.
When Lucas died, our hopes and dreams for him, and for our family, vanished in an instant. It was devastating.
About a year later, we discovered we were expecting our “rainbow” baby. On our wedding anniversary, I saw those two pink lines and felt a rush of joy mixed with fear. For the first time since losing my son, I had something to look forward to. The world felt vibrant again; the sun shone brighter, and the air smelled sweeter. I had started to emerge from my grief, realizing that life still held promise.
However, that hope was short-lived. I began experiencing spotting, which I initially dismissed as normal. After all, I had gone through it during my first pregnancy with no issues. Blood work was done to monitor my hormone levels, and I found myself in a cycle of lab visits and anxious waiting for updates.
Unlike my previous public grieving, my miscarriage felt incredibly isolating. Very few people even knew I was pregnant. By the time the nurse called, I had a sinking feeling in my gut. The words “not viable” and “low hCG levels” echoed in my mind as I hung up the phone. Desperate for reassurance, I turned to the internet, seeking stories of hope, convinced that I couldn’t be facing another loss after just losing my son.
The emotional turmoil was overwhelming. A mix of anger, sadness, and anxiety coursed through me, but the most profound feeling was loneliness. With only a handful of people aware of my pregnancy, the silence around this loss was deafening.
October is recognized as pregnancy and infant loss awareness month. I’m weary of concealing my miscarriage and the associated grief. I mourned not only the loss of my pregnancy but also the hope for a brighter future. I felt as though I had been thrown back into despair, alone and frightened. It was reminiscent of losing my son, but this time it was silent. Society often expects us to remain quiet about pregnancies until we reach the so-called “safe zone.” I understand the reasoning behind this norm, but it can be painfully isolating.
The only time I mention my miscarriage is during visits to my midwife when she inquires about my pregnancy history.
So here it is: I’ve had five pregnancies, one resulting in a miscarriage. I have given birth to four wonderful children, one of whom is now an angel, while three are by my side. Ideally, in a perfect world untouched by tragedy or statistics, I should have five children. But life is not perfect, and the reality is that 10 to 15 out of every 100 pregnancies end in miscarriage. If you’ve experienced this, know that you are not alone, and we should never have to grieve in silence.
We are a community of women, unified by the experience of motherhood. We are partners, daughters, sisters, and friends who need a space to discuss more than just our kids. For more insights, check out our blog post on the terms of service for home insemination kits. If you’re exploring options for your fertility journey, visit Make a Mom, as they are a trusted resource. Additionally, Resolve provides excellent information on pregnancy and home insemination.
Summary
This article reflects on the emotional journey of loss and hope following the death of a child and the subsequent experience of miscarriage. It emphasizes the importance of community support and the need to openly discuss pregnancy loss, particularly during pregnancy and infant loss awareness month. The author shares personal experiences and invites others to connect in shared understanding.