Last week, we experienced the heart-wrenching loss of our baby. Just a week earlier, I had a vivid dream that we were having a boy. We had shared our joy with close friends and family, eagerly anticipating a due date of May 31 — another May baby to join our family! We even began clearing out a space for a “nursery” as a hopeful gesture.
On October 5, 2016, I attended my routine appointment. The nurse inquired if I had taken any home tests. “Yes, of course,” I replied, feeling confident. However, her response was cautious, and she revealed that my pregnancy test showed only a faint line. I felt a wave of anger and fear; we had had a smooth first pregnancy. Why was she suggesting something was wrong?
The following morning, I learned that my HCG levels were low. “How low?” I demanded. “Very low. I’m truly sorry,” she said. “This can go one of two ways, but we’ll have more information after your blood work on Thursday.”
The next three days were a whirlwind of emotions — I felt overwhelmed with grief, sickness, and numbness all at once. Each day, I faced my students (10th and 11th graders) while trying to hide the turmoil inside.
Thursday arrived, and I was desperate for answers. I had asked the nurse to call me during my planning period, but when I reached out, they were busy. In the midst of this, I began to bleed.
No. Please, no.
On my drive home, the clinic called with the news: my HCG numbers had dropped significantly, confirming my worst fears — it was a miscarriage. The nurse expressed her condolences and asked if there was anything she could do. What can anyone do in a moment like this?
I’ve struggled to articulate my feelings since then, often finding myself typing and deleting, unable to convey the depth of this loss. It’s invisible and often unacknowledged, and those who haven’t experienced it may never truly grasp its impact.
Before this, when I heard someone had a miscarriage, I felt empathy but didn’t fully understand. I thought maybe they were too stressed or had indulged in a drink without knowing they were pregnant. I didn’t realize that miscarriage affects 1 in 4 pregnancies, and often, there is no discernible reason. One moment the baby is there, and the next, it’s gone.
Now that I’ve lived through this, I understand:
- The fear of uncertainty; the anxiety of whether you will lose your baby.
- The shame that can creep in, making you question what went wrong.
- The urge to share your news in person, yet finding it easier to express it in writing.
- The naïve hope that it’s all a mistake; perhaps the baby is still there.
- The anger at the person delivering the news, feeling as though they have stolen your joy.
I know the pregnancy symptoms that suddenly fade, amplifying your heartbreak. It’s not just a single day of grief; the reminders linger every time you go to the bathroom, sometimes for weeks. I’ve felt the physical pain of cramps and the aching in my back.
Yet, with each passing day, I feel a bit stronger. Perhaps I can start discussing this with other women. Why is miscarriage such a taboo subject? It’s surprisingly common, yet remains shrouded in silence. I’ve discovered that many people struggle to find the right words to say. And to be honest, I often don’t know what to say to 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 indicates something abnormal was happening.” What if this occurs with my next pregnancy?
Even though this chapter is closed, I know I will never forget. May 31 will always be a date filled with what-ifs, and I will likely think about this loss every single day.
I wrestle with the fear of moving forward. Should we try again soon? What if we face another loss? How would we manage a new baby at the start of the school year? And if we wait too long to try again, what if it takes ages to conceive?
This experience is not unique to me; countless women endure similar struggles, from infertility to multiple miscarriages to stillbirths. They are resilient, facing daily life, work, and family despite their pain.
A friend once remarked, “Everything has changed, yet nothing has changed.”
Why don’t we discuss miscarriage more openly? I’ve pondered this a lot recently. I pride myself on being honest and open, yet I found myself retreating into silence. I didn’t want to confront it; I couldn’t voice my pain.
I am heartbroken, yet finding ways to cope. I experience physical symptoms but also moments of clarity. When I say, “We lost the baby,” my emotions are mixed. Sometimes I cry; other times, I dismiss it with “It’s okay, though,” deflecting attention from my grief. I’m fine, yet I’m not fine.
Perhaps this is how many women feel, which is why we remain silent. How do you express such profound sorrow? If only we could connect with other women who have faced similar losses. If only those who heal would share their experiences more freely. Perhaps schools could even include discussions on this topic.
I knew little about miscarriage until it touched my life, and though no one can truly prepare for it, we can start a conversation.
For now, I will take a deep breath each morning and rise from bed. I’ll embrace my sweet toddler and engage in playful conversations about superheroes or silly characters. I’ll take him to his sitter, hug him tightly, then head to work. I’ll face my students with a smile, despite feeling a bit more tired than usual, and teach them about the beauty of writing.
Maybe writing will help them cope when they face their own challenges, allowing them to express their feelings, even if they cannot speak them aloud.