It was nearly 12 weeks into my unexpected pregnancy when I experienced a miscarriage at work, just before heading into the busy rush hour to pick up my child from nursery. As I approached the nursery, I felt a strange mix of pride and energy, reminiscent of the joy I had felt after giving birth to my two daughters. Just like that, it was over.
That morning’s ultrasound had revealed a blighted ovum, which hadn’t progressed beyond 7 weeks. Surprisingly, I felt neither shock nor sorrow; I could recall the moment my symptoms had ceased. This unplanned pregnancy had come too soon after our youngest, who was only a year old. We hadn’t intended on having a third child, especially since I was still nursing and longing to regain control over my body. I had just returned to work part-time—a much-desired balance—making the timing feel all wrong.
I quickly texted a few friends who were aware of my situation, downplaying their concerns. “It wasn’t even a baby,” I reassured them. “I have two healthy daughters, and this wasn’t in the plan.” I convinced myself of this mantra, feeling relieved about the unexpected turn of events. I thought of the new jeans I could purchase and the summer trip we could plan. Most importantly, I felt fortunate to keep my newly negotiated job. I was lucky, indeed.
However, the aftermath was unexpected. Just two days later, I found myself overwhelmed with a deep sense of loss and isolation. Everyone assumed I was okay because I had told them I was. Maintaining composure at work compounded the grief. I longed to cry, but I feared that once I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop. “I’ll cry tomorrow,” I kept telling myself.
The silver linings I had clung to began to fade, leaving behind an oppressive weight of sadness. For the first time, I felt apathetic about everything—those new jeans, the body I thought I had reclaimed. Each time I looked at my family, the absence of that potential third child loomed large. Despite my assertions that it wasn’t really a baby, the loss was profound. From the moment we learn of a pregnancy, we begin to imagine the life that could be. Would it be another daughter, or would we finally balance out the hormones with a son? How would our youngest manage, still so little herself? And how would I cope? Deep down, there was an unwavering belief that we would manage, and for every worry, there were double the hopes.
In my otherwise mundane life, I cherished the idea of embracing a third child, often seen as a gamble or a luxury. This child was a gift, teaching me that minor inconveniences didn’t matter—if two out of three kids brushed their teeth, it was a successful day. Instead, miscarriage robbed me of that potential gift. The year ahead stretched out before me, filled with empty milestones I would try to ignore. The future felt uncertain without the assurance of trying again; it seemed too risky. I resolved to wait and hope for another chance.
I never reached out to anyone about my miscarriage because I didn’t know how. What could anyone say to ease my pain? It took a generic letter from my healthcare provider that simply stated, “please accept our condolences,” for me to realize that I had the right to grieve. I held onto that letter for months, my only tangible reminder of my pregnancy.
“It takes time to heal,” I was told, and gradually, I began to regain my sense of self. I found the courage to confide in my boss and shared my aspirations to write. I published a book on Amazon and started my own blog. The miscarriage, in a way, started to take on new meaning—perhaps I just needed it to. However, the thought of a third child lingered, and it wasn’t until we took control of our future that I truly began to heal.
Fast forward two years, and we welcomed our third child—a son who restored the hormonal balance. Some days we manage well; on others, it’s a challenge. But the hopes I once had now outweigh my worries.
While the memory of my miscarriage no longer haunts me, I often reflect on how I wish I had known how to navigate that grief. I wish I had allowed myself to mourn and understood the significance of grieving. Because a miscarriage is never just over. And it shouldn’t be. You absolutely have the right to grieve.
For further insights into managing stress and its impact on fertility, consider reading this informative article on how stress affects your chances of getting pregnant. Additionally, if you’re interested in home insemination, check out our post on the BabyMaker at Home Insemination Kit. For more resources on pregnancy and fertility preservation, you can listen to this excellent podcast from the Cleveland Clinic.
Summary:
This article emphasizes the importance of grieving after a miscarriage, highlighting the emotional complexities that accompany such a loss. The author shares her personal experience with miscarriage, the initial feelings of relief, and the subsequent realization of grief that followed. It underscores that every individual has the right to mourn their loss, regardless of the circumstances surrounding it.