Miscarriage is a term many of us hesitate to utter, a secretive topic that often remains shrouded in silence, even though it affects nearly one in four women. When you experience a miscarriage, you inadvertently become part of an unspoken sisterhood that few outside of it understand and few desire to join.
I first learned of the loss of my baby on a Monday, just a day after Mother’s Day and two weeks after hearing a heartbeat. My child was only eight weeks along. You might assume that the moment of revelation is when the heartache strikes hardest, but that wasn’t the case for me.
As this was my second pregnancy, I sensed something was wrong when the technician struggled to find the heartbeat using what my doctor described as an outdated monitor. I realized it was over when she came back upstairs after searching desperately. The false hope lingered as they sent me downstairs, but I knew. When the ultrasound technician with the advanced machine turned the monitor away and informed us she couldn’t disclose any results, I felt an emptiness wash over me. I knew without needing to hear the words.
The phone call came, marked by the dreaded phrase, “I’m so sorry.” That was when the tears fell. I had known, but now I truly felt the weight of the loss. The details from that point onward are hazy. They explained what to expect, outlined my options, but I barely processed their words.
Outwardly, I chose to push ahead. I told friends and family I was ready to move forward, all while I sobbed in bed, my husband tending to our one-year-old and grappling with his own grief. The literature I received spoke of a whirlwind of emotions, what to expect for my D&C, and how to manage the remains of my precious child. My medical chart even labeled my experience as a “missed abortion,” a term that felt as foreign as it was painful.
I meticulously researched my options and immersed myself in the facts surrounding miscarriage. My healthcare team was compassionate, explaining why my initial surgery couldn’t proceed due to my respiratory infection and ongoing morning sickness. I anticipated the emotional toll when the procedure finally occurred two weeks later, a span filled with silence from my body and the quiet assurance from the ultrasound machine.
Days after the surgery, I found myself at church, feeling hollow as the band played “Amazing Grace.” In that moment, I wanted to scream, “I’ve had a miscarriage!” I wasn’t shocked when I started to feel better, but there were unexpected truths waiting for me.
I learned that kindness can come from the most unexpected sources, and that would become a silver lining in my journey. Even after the initial grief passed, I realized the longing remained, manifesting itself in fleeting moments—a gentle reminder of an unfulfilled desire.
I never anticipated the emotional weight that would accompany watching my almost-two-year-old cradle a doll in her arms, whispering “I love you so much.” I wasn’t prepared for how hearing the words “sister” and “brother” from her tiny lips would pierce my heart. The ache of seeing one line on a pregnancy test instead of two was another blow, revealing how deeply I yearned for a child that had yet to exist.
As I witnessed my living child grow, the bittersweet nature of my experience became clear. It served as a constant reminder of my body’s inability to provide her with a sibling close in age—a sibling she doesn’t miss, but I do.
Interestingly, it wasn’t pregnancy announcements that struck me the hardest; it was the announcements of loss. I felt genuine joy for those who celebrated healthy pregnancies, yet the sadness of another’s miscarriage would pull me back to that fateful day when I first understood my loss.
The longing often crept in unexpectedly—when I was alone, as the seasons shifted, or during quiet moments of the night. I never anticipated the pangs of grief that would arise while looking at photographs of family happiness, a haunting reminder that something, someone, was missing.
Now, I understand. My heart will forever ache for the child I will never hold, the child I will never name. Regardless of how many children I may have, there will always be a space in my heart for that one, my angel baby.
Miscarriage is not a dirty word. It’s simply a profoundly difficult one.
For those exploring pregnancy options, including home insemination, check out this resource. You can also find helpful information on infertility and pregnancy at Mount Sinai’s website. For a sweet treat, you might enjoy these baked sweet potato donuts as you navigate your journey.
In summary, miscarriage is a painful experience that many endure in silence, yet it can foster unexpected connections and insights. While the grief may linger, it is also a reminder of the love and hope that continue to exist.