I am 1 in 4 (and I’m sorry if you are too)
I’ve been sitting in this sadness for two weeks, and it kills me that so many women have to experience this pain. So many women know what it’s like to lose a baby before you ever get to meet them. I am not an expert on miscarriage, or grief, or loss (and I’m praying that I never will be), but I have learned a lot about the process of losing a baby in this short amount of time. And I’ve also realized that it’s not talked about enough.
Over the last few weeks, I feel like I’ve been searching for something that resonates. Something that I can relate to. Something that can make me feel not so alone. So, I thought I’d write down my feelings so that maybe it can help someone else feel not so alone someday. This is what the first few weeks after a miscarriage have felt like for me.
I Feel Alone
I have what I consider to be a pretty strong support system. I have wonderful friends, a supportive family, and a husband that can comfort me through anything. I still feel alone. No one understands exactly what I’m going through at this exact time. And that feels really, really lonely. I have so much support. Phone calls, text messages, flowers, ice cream, and long conversations on the couch with my husband. All of those things made me feel loved, but they didn’t take away the feeling of being alone. Even if someone has experienced a miscarriage, I still don’t think there’s anyone out there that truly understands how you feel, because we all feel it differently.
I Have to Rewrite the Future
We had picked out the car we were going to get so that we’d have room for another car seat. We made plans to get the boys bunkbeds so that the nursery would be ready for the new baby. I started to imagine my three children on Christmas morning. I quit putting baby items in storage because it wouldn’t be long before I’d be using them again. Everything that I thought the next few months, and even years, were going to look like was ripped away in a matter of seconds. I have to rewrite the future so I can stop dwelling on the one that isn’t going to happen.
The Physical and Emotional Parts of a Miscarriage are Delicately Intertwined
As soon as I found out that we lost the baby, I wanted to get it out of my body. That sounds so harsh, but knowing what was actually happening in there compared to what I thought was happening in there, felt like a betrayal. I didn’t want to carry it with me. I didn’t want to look at what I knew was a baby bump in the mirror anymore. I knew that something was inside me, but I felt so empty at the same time.
I decided on a D&C because my body was having a hard time catching on to the fact that my baby was no longer living, and emotionally, it seemed like the better route for me. The day of the D&C was awful. I will never forget pulling up to the hospital where I had previously delivered two healthy babies. I was angry and sad. I should have been going to the L&D floor in a few months, but instead I was headed to surgery. I will never forget putting on a hospital gown and smelling the smell that I had previously only acquainted with contractions and newborns. It all felt so wrong.
But, when I woke up from surgery, I felt like a weight had been lifted. I didn’t have to carry the physical part with me any longer. I didn’t have to sit around and wait for things to happen on their own. I didn’t have to worry about what I was going to see if I had miscarried at home. Officially being “not pregnant” felt like the first step toward healing.
The Smallest Things Can Trigger Me
When you find out you’re pregnant, everything changes. You change the way you eat and drink, your body starts to change, your brain starts to make plans for the future. When you have a miscarriage, all of that stops. But those physical reminders of the life you were planning are still there. In the last two weeks, I’ve been triggered by little things that once seemed harmless. I’ve opened the cabinet for a loaf of bread to find a bottle of useless prenatal vitamins staring back at me. I’ve gone into the storage closet to put something away, just find a pile of old baby things that I no longer need. I’ve thought about the baby naming app we downloaded, the pumping bra I washed but didn’t pack away, and the tiny hat I had already found that both of my other children had worn in the hospital. When a Pampers commercial comes on, I want to change the channel (even though I still have a baby in Pampers). Even social media is littered with reminders that I won’t be having a baby this October. Like the slew of ads for maternity clothes, the “bump dates” from friends, and newborn photos that I can almost smell through the screen. Little things had taken on new significance after I found out I was pregnant. And they’ve taken on new significance now that I’m not.
I Just Want Some Hope for the Future
The fear of having another miscarriage, or never being able to carry another baby to term is overwhelming. I want some hope for the future. I want to hear stories about other people’s success after miscarriage. I want to look at pictures of rainbow babies and know that it can happen for me. I just want to know that there’s nothing “wrong with me”, and that another healthy baby is a possibility.
I Had to Find My Own Way of Grieving
I thought that talking about it was going to be painful, but it turns out that talking about it is the only thing that has made me feel better. In fact, I’ve talked about it so much that I worry that I’m making people uncomfortable. I’ve been living with, and sorting out these feelings for what feels like every minute of every day. There are pieces I’ve come to terms with, and pieces I haven’t. I know that the grieving process is far from over, and I’ll always mourn the loss of the baby I never got to meet.
I wanted to write all of this down for myself. Because I wanted to sort through it all and to feel it all. But I also wanted to write it down for any other woman who has ever experienced a miscarriage. There is no other pain like the loss of a pregnancy, baby, and life you had once imagined. As a woman, carrying babies and being a mother is so intricately tied to my identity. In fact, in this season of my life, it is the majority of my identity. So, to lose something so precious, that I believed I was supposed to have, has completely broken my heart (and even some of my mind). A miscarriage is a mental, emotional, and physical roller coaster that isn’t talked about enough. I’ve shared so much about my journey to and through motherhood, that I didn’t find it fair to only talk about the babies who made it earth side. This pregnancy existed. This baby existed. Miscarriages exist. And I just want you to know that you’re not alone.
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