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I can barely see the screen as I lean forward, trying to catch a glimpse of what’s happening. “Lay back, just give me a moment,” the doctor instructs. I force myself to stay still, envisioning my back glued to the bed, my gaze fixed on the absurd posters adorning the walls. Each one features cheesy slogans about self-care rituals like shaving and painting toenails, the kind of tasks that precede a gynecological examination involving cold, metallic instruments.
The sterile scent of medical-grade disinfectants fills the room, and the overhead lights blaze into my consciousness. Memories of that traumatic day flood my mind. I avoid my husband Sam’s eyes, feeling his anxiety echoing the smell of antiseptic. My heart races, a continuous thrum for the past eight weeks, my palms slick with sweat, my body trembling, each breath a struggle. Tears are on the brink, teetering between joy and devastation. Please, God, not another gummy bear.
My thoughts spiral back to the nightmare of losing my first child, triggered by a single drop of blood on toilet paper. A drop that could be attributed to a minor cut from shaving, but deep down, I knew it was different. The nurse’s hotline dismissed my concerns, telling me at twelve weeks not to worry about spotting and suggesting a nap instead. Yet my dad and Sam’s mother were worried. Calmly, my mother-in-law offered to take me to the ER. Unbeknownst to me, Sam was driving like a maniac, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as we sped down the highway.
I had never made it to an ER so quickly. Perhaps it was the tremor in my voice that caught the nurse’s attention. Maybe she recognized the signs of a mother in distress. Whatever it was, I was grateful for her compassion.
My mind was a whirlwind, jumping from one fear to another as every dream I had for my baby shattered. I felt overwhelmed, shutting down as others attempted to lighten the mood with small talk that fell flat. I stared at the lights above, letting them blur my vision while I knew they were checking my vitals and asking questions. When Sam finally arrived by my side, his presence released the emotions I had been stifling. I began to cry, and soon it was time for the ultrasound.
On the dark screen, a small oblong shape appeared—my husband let out a sigh of relief. I remained fixated on the monitor as the technician cheerfully suggested an intravaginal ultrasound for measurements. Sam’s eyes sparkled with hope, his hands holding mine and gently rubbing my stomach. But then, a shadowy grey gummy bear appeared on the screen. Sam gasped, and I momentarily tore my gaze away to see his face glowing with excitement. “There’s our baby, Emily,” he exclaimed. The light from the monitor danced across his face, but deep down, I knew our joy was fleeting. I felt anger bubbling up as I realized our baby was among the 10-20% of pregnancies that don’t make it to birth.
“Are you done yet? Get it out of me!” I snapped at the technician, frustration bubbling over. As I stormed to the bathroom, Sam looked at me in confusion. “There’s no heartbeat. The baby’s gone,” I spat. His face showed disbelief, and he turned to the technician, his eyes pleading for her to contradict me. But her downcast eyes revealed the truth, and despair engulfed us.
I collapsed on the bathroom floor, half-naked and sobbing, trying to push Sam away. I couldn’t face him after the doctor arrived, a woman on the brink of maternity leave. “Are you kidding me? GET OUT!” I screamed at her, her round belly mocking my pain.
The baby was still inside me, but the doctor insisted on letting nature take its course. I felt trapped in a nightmare, my body housing what felt like a corpse. “Miscarriage: A Dream Interrupted,” a piece from the Journal of Creativity in Mental Health, perfectly encapsulates the emotional upheaval. I carried that pain for five days, and it consumed me.
Eventually, I realized I couldn’t keep going like this. I wanted my baby out. Just moments later, I felt the physical manifestation of my grief. I ran to the bathroom and, in a moment of horror, saw tangible proof of my loss. Sam asked what I wanted to do, but I couldn’t bring myself to flush. He gently wrapped our baby in a blanket and buried her for me, a selfless act that I will always appreciate.
I bled for a month, with the sobs gradually subsiding. Over time, I learned to process the triggers that surrounded me. I felt the weight of grief manifesting in anxiety and depression, leaving a permanent mark on my heart. I had shared my pregnancy with everyone, and now my loss was public knowledge. Some referred to me as “the girl who had a miscarriage,” a label that stung like a slap.
People often tried to console me but ended up saying hurtful things—clichés like “It wasn’t meant to be” and “God has a plan.” Each time, I felt a surge of rage. My dad’s words cut the deepest when he dismissed my pain, suggesting it was time to move on. I fell silent for months after that.
Four months later, we decided to try for another baby but didn’t track my cycles. One morning, out of nowhere, I felt compelled to take a pregnancy test. The positive result filled me with a mix of joy and apprehension. I turned to Sam, breathless, “Baby, I’m pregnant.”
Support and Resources
For anyone navigating the complex emotions surrounding miscarriages, you’re not alone. If you’re looking for more guidance on pregnancy and home insemination, check out this excellent resource at WomensHealth.gov. If you’re considering home insemination options, Make A Mom has authoritative kits to help you on your journey. For further support and resources, you can also visit Intracervical Insemination to connect with others who understand.
Summary
This piece recounts the emotional turmoil and grief experienced after a miscarriage. It describes the protagonist’s journey through fear, anger, and sadness, while also addressing the insensitivity often encountered from family and friends. The narrative highlights the struggle of processing loss and the need for understanding and support, especially from loved ones.