The lights overhead feel stark and unwelcoming. The hallway is eerily silent, save for a persistent buzzing noise. The furniture looks like it hasn’t been touched since the 1970s, and there are smudged fingerprints on an ancient Time magazine cover. I tilt my head to read the date — 2009. Is this really happening? Am I caught in a bizarre time warp? That would certainly explain a lot.
A chill runs through me as I navigate this unfamiliar territory. Of all days, I wish I could be surrounded by comforting familiarity.
“Mrs. Collins?”
I rise slowly, stretching out the seconds as I approach the door. The doctor has a subtle accent that I can’t quite place. She wears a neutral expression, neither smiling nor frowning, which I suppose is a good sign. Still, a warm smile would be welcome right now. Why is it so frigid in here?
Meanwhile, my son Jamie is blissfully chatting away with his dad in the corner. Please don’t touch the toys, I think. I can’t bear to worry about germs right now. Just focus.
The doctor skims through my test results before looking at me over her thick glasses. My gaze fixates on her lips as she pronounces the word in a drawn-out manner, “m-i-s-c-a-r-r-i-a-g-e.” A buzzing sound fills the space, and I can’t hear anything else as if someone just knocked the wind out of me. Panic washes over me, and tears spill from my eyes. My shoulders tremble as I reach for a tissue from her desk. Everything blurs through my tear-soaked vision, and I instantly feel embarrassed for losing control. I catch a hint of empathy in her eyes—or is it discomfort? It seems she doesn’t quite know how to handle my outburst.
As we step outside, the weight of reality begins to settle in. It has happened to me—one of those things I hoped with all my heart would never occur. I had a miscarriage. Well, not exactly yet.
Now, all I can do is wait. My body is preparing to do what it needs to do, and I’m left in limbo.
I find myself rushing to the bathroom every twelve minutes, anxiously checking if it’s starting. I’m on edge, bracing for the pain to hit. I line my bed with towels, hoping to salvage some sleep while at least saving the linens.
Every little detail of my life is under scrutiny now. Every bite of food, every product I used—did I do something wrong? Perhaps it’s just bad luck, a cruel twist of fate. Yet, I can’t shake the feeling that maybe I brought this upon myself. Tears come in waves, and I still can’t indulge in a drink. I must continue taking my vitamins and monitor my caffeine intake. The doctor warned me I could still be pregnant, but she doesn’t want me to hold onto that belief, either—it’s highly unlikely. So, I exist in this state of half-pregnancy for a while longer.
The hormonal rollercoaster is relentless. I break out in a way that would make my teenage self proud. I feel like crying constantly. I tear up while watching a rerun of my favorite show because the last time I watched it, I thought I was pregnant. I get emotional reading bedtime stories to Jamie, haunted by the thought of what could have been.
Then comes an uncontrollable urge to clean. Suddenly, I notice every speck of dust in the house. Why is everything so filthy? I feel an overwhelming need to scrub every inch around me. It’s survival, but also a sign of a deeper struggle. I recognize the signs of depression; I’ve faced it before. But not right now. Right now, I need to sit with my feelings, even if they are painful and ugly.
I know that if I don’t confront this grief head-on, it will rear its head unexpectedly, like a monster lurking in the shadows. So, I face it. I embrace the pain, much like Eleven confronts the Demogorgon—eyes wide open, ready to acknowledge what’s happening.
My heart is shattered. I don’t care what anyone thinks or says. This was the start of a new chapter, a new life. Jamie’s chance to become a big brother. Our family was supposed to grow. But now it’s not.
I struggle to voice my feelings. I feel as though I’ve let everyone down—my unborn child, my husband, my son. It’s as if no one can truly understand the depth of this experience.
“It happens in 20% of pregnancies.”
“I know someone who had two.”
“At least it was early.”
“At least you have one.”
“You can try again soon.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
The well-meaning comments continue, but they often minimize what I’m going through. I appreciate the intentions behind them, but it’s vital to acknowledge that our brief pregnancy was real, and so is the pain. Just be present. Be there for me when I cry. Just be there when the due date arrives.
For now, I want to declare to the universe that I’ve faced loss in all its rawness. If sharing my experience helps even one person feel less alone, then something good can come from this.
To the mothers-to-be dealing with similar heartache, I understand the waiting, the aching, the questioning, and the fear. I know the struggle of being half-fucking-pregnant.
Summary:
In this heartfelt narrative, Emma Collins reflects on her profound experience of experiencing a miscarriage, which she describes as a state of being half-pregnant. She navigates through her emotions of confusion, sorrow, and the societal reactions that often belittle such loss. The piece offers a raw look at the struggle of waiting and coping with grief while also seeking validation and understanding from others.