New Mom Chronicles: Coping With A Miscarriage
It’s something I honestly, naively, NEVER thought I’d say: I’ve had a miscarriage.
(Before you continue, here’s your trigger warning, and your graphic warning, and your long post warning. I need to tell my whole story, and if nothing else, I hope it helps someone to know they’re not alone.)
And it was just a little over a month ago. The weekend that we were planning to start telling family and friends that I was pregnant with our second baby was approaching. We were on vacation, and I woke up to find a very little bit of light spotting. I was a little worried, but there was nothing else for the rest of the day, so I figured it was a fluke. After all, with my first pregnancy, and with this one so far too, I never had any pregnancy symptoms aside from my big belly, and a short-lived aversion to chicken.
But the next morning I woke up to more blood, and now it looked like my period. I called my doctor’s office. The nurses kind of wrote it off like there was likely nothing wrong–I wasn’t having any cramps or other warning signs. But they called back later–once my doctor got the message, she wanted me to come in ASAP for an ultrasound.
I was supposed to be 11 weeks along. Once the ultrasound started, the first thing the tech said was that he wasn’t seeing what he would expect to see at 11 weeks. I didn’t want to admit it, but thinking back to my son’s first ultrasound at about 9 weeks, I did notice that this didn’t look the same.
He took a lot of measurements in silence while my husband and I became anxious, and our 15-month-old son squirreled around the room.
The tech then suggested we do a vaginal ultrasound because that would allow a better look. Unfortunately, nothing looked any better. The baby was measuring at 6 weeks. The hardest part? When he tried to find a heartbeat, there was nothing. The graph opened up across the monitor, no sound, no heartbeat waves. My husband and I both started to cry quietly.
Was it possible my dates were off? I really couldn’t remember the exact date of my last cycle. I had been relatively sure about the possible date range, but now I was doubting and seriously hoping that I was way off. The tech didn’t see any other bad signs that pointed to miscarriage, it wasn’t ectopic, I still wasn’t cramping, and if my dates were off and the baby really should be 6 weeks, it was only 50/50 that we’d find the heartbeat anyway.
My doctor had me set up an appointment for a second ultrasound in two weeks. I understood why it had to be two weeks out, but I knew that waiting was going to be nothing but agony.
I didn’t tell anybody anything before that first ultrasound, because I was hoping we’d get good news and everything would be fine, and we could just continue with our really cute and kind of funny plan to tell our family about the baby. I did cryptically post on Facebook asking for prayers and for people to send positive vibes and butterflies, which prompted a bunch of (honestly unexpected) texts and messages of, “What’s going on?” “Are you okay?” “So-and-so saw you post asking for prayers…” I tried to brush them off with, “Nothing–I’m sure everything’s fine! <smiley face>”
The sad thing? I really did see ALL THE BUTTERFLIES. They were literally everywhere. Maybe it’s because I was looking for them, maybe it was simply because they were obviously out and about this time of year, but I was really hoping they were a good sign. (I still believe they were God telling me everything will be okay and work out to His plan, but I wanted to believe they were a direct sign that this pregnancy was okay.)
The day of the ultrasound and the next day, I had no bleeding at all. An unfair, brief moment of hope that had me starting to think maybe I WAS wrong on my dates, or at least, we’d find a miracle when we went for the second ultrasound.
But when Saturday approached, it was like I had my period, and it would NOT STOP. I still had no cramping, no pain, but every time I went into the bathroom, I would burst into tears because deep down I knew this wasn’t good.
We did tell family and close friends what was going on in the meantime, and I have to say how grateful I am for the love and amazing support we were given. All the hugs, and all the moments people allowed me to just cry on their shoulders without saying a word. Still, being an optimist, I clung to the tiny bit of hope that everything would turn out fine.
I looked up what I should be expecting. I started worrying about what it would feel like and look like when/if the baby finally passed. Would I even know for sure? Would it just look like every other blood clot? Would it hurt? And what do I do with it once it happens? All I could find were matter-of-fact, scientifically written articles that didn’t really address any of those questions to my satisfaction.
Would I HAVE to get a D&C? I didn’t know that I would be comfortable with that–again, being an eternal optimist, if there’s even the tiniest shred of hope, it’s in my nature to hold onto it. You can’t talk me out of it. You never know, and miracles happen all the time. I even read message boards where women said they bled like they had their period for months while pregnant, and everything was totally fine. I didn’t think I could allow a D&C because what if?? What if the bleeding was just a fluke or related to something else, and the baby was actually fine and we WOULD soon find his or her heartbeat??
I didn’t have to wonder for long. Tuesday came. I was at work as a personal trainer, just a few minutes from the end of a session with a client–absolutely the wrong time. I moved the cable pulley up for her next exercise, and I felt like I suddenly passed a large blood clot. It actually made me involuntarily say, “Oh!” as it happened. I told her I had to run to the bathroom really quickly and I would be right back.
Oh how I wish I didn’t feel like I had to run right back. I should’ve just asked her to finish her set and we’d set up her next session later. But again, I was desperately hoping this was just a large blood clot.
As I sat down, I felt and HEARD something much larger than a blood clot fall into the toilet. (I suddenly really hate the word “toilet.” It just feels so crude and out of place in this story…) This is so hard to write because I can’t see through my tears!! I knew. I looked down and saw the grayish/pink gestational sac like my doctor had described, bloody attachments on each end.
It was the absolute hardest, most devastating thing I’ve ever experienced (apart from deaths in the family), to look down and know that my baby was in there, and there was nothing I could do to save him or her. I’m sorry if this sounds gross, but from an emotional standpoint, I wanted so badly to reach in and get it out and hold it, even just for a moment. That was my baby in there.
But what could I do? I’m sure my client would’ve understood if I didn’t return, but that aside, what broke my heart was having to flush my baby down the toilet. It felt awful, and crude, and just WRONG. But it also wouldn’t have been right or even safe to go walking through a public space with it in my hands–what on earth would I have done with it? I told the baby multiple times, I’m sorry, I love you SO MUCH.
I know all of that sounds weird, and it’s sort of hard to admit that, but those were the thoughts going through my head, and I’m willing to bet I’m not the only mother who’s thought that during a miscarriage. And it’s been amazing to me to learn just how many women have experienced either a miscarriage or stillbirth or a baby who only lived a few hours after delivery, and it breaks my heart. I believe and trust in God, but that doesn’t stop it from hurting, and my heart breaks for all of you too.
I steeled myself as much as I could, walked out to my client who finished her last set on her own, set up her last appointment as if nothing was wrong, and went in the training office, fell into the arms of two friends that night and broke down. I cancelled the rest of my night and went home to my husband and my baby. I went back and forth between crying my heart out and laughing and playing with my son. He’s the biggest ham, with the most beautiful eyes and the best smile, and he’s going to be a great big brother one day.
Through the broken heart, there was honestly a slight sense of relief. Not because I wanted it to go this way obviously, but there was a relief in finally knowing for sure. The waiting was stress and torture. Whichever way it was going to go, I could finally breathe because at least we knew.
In a few days of posting this, it will be a month and a week since it happened. Each day I feel a little stronger, but reliving it always makes me cry. But I needed to share. I needed to write this, and I needed to honor and remember my baby. I needed to share what was going through my head, what I saw, and what I felt, for the mom who’s going through the same thing and needs reassurance, but can’t find anything other than cold, scientific articles about miscarriages. No stories, no emotions, no compassion.
If you’re going through this, please confide in someone. I hope you have people you can lean on, even if it’s just to cry and not to say a word. If you don’t, please reach out to me and I can point you to a few places outside of friends and family where maybe you can find some support.
Perhaps my only recommendation to the general public would be that if you’re ever in conversation with a mom, please don’t say, “You need to have another one!” or “WHEN are you going to have another one?” or “TIME for another one!” I think it’s fine to ask “DO you want another one?” That’s an entirely different angle. But the former options–well, I was supposed to have another one, but unfortunately…
There’s no lesson in this post, nothing to learn except that perhaps if you’re going through the same thing, you’re not alone. Your experience and your feelings are unique, they’re yours alone, and you certainly don’t have to say a word to anyone. But I encourage you to lean on at least one person that you love and trust. It will help you. You will never forget this, remembering it or retelling it may never get easier, but I promise, especially if you embrace the love and support around you, you will start to feel like yourself again.
Please grieve as long as you need to. There’s no mandatory end date. But promise yourself you won’t live in this space forever. If you believe in God like I do, God has your baby in His hands, and He has YOU in his hands, too. It’s hard to trust the plan in times like this, but turn to Him as well.
Continue to be you. Find solace in things that you love. Go help people. Pray. Meditate. Sleep. If you already have children, play with them and love on them.
You are strong. You are beautiful. You will get through this.
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