This post contains details of my miscarriage experience and the struggles I've faced since. It's raw and emotion laden and might not be suitable for everyone. I hope that it will bring hope to others who have suffered through the same pain that I have felt these past months.
*Note: This blog post was originally published in winter of 2017. I am re-sharing it on my new website for Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day today.
I don't know why this one was different from the rest; I just felt it somewhere deep inside, it's hard to explain.
For some reason I couldn't get my mind to wrap around the fact that I was actually pregnant, I felt kind of nonchalant about it, almost a sense of dread which was so strange considering we'd been trying for a couple of months.
Detached. I felt detached. Up to this point I'd only been late for my period twice in my life; the first time is named Ezekiel and the second Caden. My period comes like clock work, it is never late, actually usually it's a day early. So when that day came and went I knew I was pregnant. Yet still I doubted.With the last two I had rushed out and bought pregnancy kits the first chance I could to confirm; both were positive tests, with this one I didn't. Why? I don't know.
It was over a week before I told my husband. I told myself it was because he was graduating from his police training that weekend so I should just let the focus be on him. Then I waited a few more days because well, I don't really know why. When I was around 10 days late for my period I finally responded to one of his late night "do you need anything?" texts with "a pregnancy test" to clue him in. He happily stopped at the store on the way home to buy me a box.
I peed on a stick, it was positive, and even then it just wouldn't sink in.
Miscarriage The next day was the first time I noticed a little blood. Instantly I felt my heart drop. A part of me said it wasn't a big deal, that a little spotting was normal, the other part of me knew it wasn't going to be okay. I began to question if I'd ever been pregnant in the first place; trying to placate my mind into believing a falsehood.
I think my body fought to keep that baby. It took awhile for the process to actually start, like everything inside me was fighting to stay in. I'm not sure what won out in the end, but it wasn't the little life that had started growing in my womb.
The day after I noticed the spotting I passed a large clump like nothing I'd ever seen before during my period. It was in that moment that I knew it was a miscarriage.
You'd think it'd be quick and painless since it was that early, it wasn't. I hurt. Physically, emotionally, and spiritually; my brain didn't even know how to handle it or make sense of what had just happened.
Part of me is grateful that it happened early, that I wasn't months along or even worse had announced it to anyone. I could suffer in silence and no one except my husband had to know. "Hey…” I said, “this one didn't stick."
I told him hours later after I felt I'd calmed down enough to not cry; well, it didn't work, I teared up anyhow. I couldn't bring myself to say the word "miscarriage" outlaid. It felt too raw, too real, like saying it made it true. I hated that "miscarriage" made it sound like I'd done something wrong, overturned the carriage, or dumped my baby somehow. None of that was correct. I wanted that baby.
I had thought up until that point that I might not be ready to have another baby, that maybe we were rushing just a bit. It's like they say; " you don't know what you've got until it's gone." And I didn't know I was ready until it was already over. All I could think about is "what did I do wrong?" "Was it because.....?" “Maybe it was…?” There was this emptiness all around me, a void that I felt in my life suddenly; someone who isn't there, someone I'll never know.
The Days Afterward I think the first time it actually hit me was a few days after the actual miscarriage had taken place. Lying in my bed, I was tired, worn out, and suddenly I realized if I'd actually had a miscarriage then I'd flushed something sacred down the toilet. I ached inside. Sobbed; was angry with myself. But realized I didn't fully comprehend at the time what was happening. Belatedly my brain caught up with the situation and the overwhelming pain hit me like a freight train; crushing my chest and sucking the air from my lungs.
I didn't expect to feel the things I experienced; the anger and the fear, the heart break and overwhelming sense of 'what if'. Instantly I began to question my body and wonder if I would be able to carry another baby. I doubted myself and began to fear that maybe something was wrong and I'd have to experience this pain again.
I wanted to get pregnant immediately thinking it would help ease the pain. But it didn't happen. Every time another month rolled by and a painful reminder came it was like a sucker punch to the gut. I felt like every day a little more air left my body.
Never before in my life have I sensed the passing of time so acutely. It was as if every minute, hour, day just crawled by, taunting me; not pregnant, not pregnant, not pregnant. Life no longer breathing and growing in my womb. Empty. Just empty. Emptiness is a void you feel at your core.
I don't feel jealous of other pregnant women, but it does bring up that sense of loss every time. They'll mention when they are due and I feel this sense of emptiness. My baby should also be due then. I'm not angry of what they have, just sad of what I don't.
I fully believe that God creates each babe special, unique, that there is no one else in the universe exactly like them and there never will be again. That means that this child, the one that I lost, will never be a part of our family here on earth. That the next baby that we conceive will be different; that this little life never got a chance to live.
There is a sister for Caden or a brother for Zeke waiting at the pearly gates for us. And I want to know you darling.
Coping My friend told me after "allow yourself to be angry, but don't let it turn into bitterness." It's hard, so hard when you're considering the life of someone who never got the chance to live. That little face that never smiled. Those eyes that never gazed into mine. The plump fingers that will never grasp my own. My heart hurts and aches over that little babe that never got a chance here on earth.
It's funny, because as much as I was only pregnant for a few weeks, that baby had already become a part of my life, my story. I'd briefly thought of names. Thought of what'd it'd be like to add a third. Considered if the baby could be a boy or a girl. It didn't take but a moment for that little being to become an intrinsic part of my reality; and only another moment for him/her to be snatched away. One late night when I couldn't sleep because of the roiling pain in my heart, I went down stairs and surfed the internet. I came across an article by Melissa Rauch where she talked about her miscarriage and shared these words "You are not alone. And it is perfectly OK to not be OK right now." I clung to this over the next couple of days. Comforted by the fact that I could feel all that I was feeling and didn't need an excuse.
So if you find yourself in my shoes, experiencing your first, or maybe second, or third miscarriage, let me be the first to say I feel you mama. It's hard, it sucks, and you have a right to feel whatever emotions come up. Let yourself feel whatever emotions come up.
It is OK to grieve. To be angry, sad, jealous, confused. It's really okay to not understand why this all happened. But I caution you Dear One, don't let yourself become bitter; that is a hard road to come back from.
If you need time and space; take it. If you want to cry loudly and yell; do it. If you need to go see a doctor or talk to a counselor; don't feel weak, do it. And if, after time, you feel some healing and hope; hold onto it. Hold on and don't let go.
You don't know what emotions you may feel until it happens, which, I hope it never does happen for you. But if it does, embrace your feelings, allow yourself to grieve that little life, and also allow yourself to move on when the time comes.
I wish you all the best in your journey. And if you ever need a friend, I'm hear to listen.