I Had a Miscarriage

Let’s talk about it.

I’d hope, by the title, that you will realize the serious content of this post. This is not funny, or witty, or irreverent, or insightful. It is raw and real and painful. But please, I hope you can do me (and my baby) the honor of reading it all the way through.

I had a miscarriage. Let’s talk about it. I mean, let’s not just talk about my miscarriage.

Statistics show that as many as one in three pregnancies can end prematurely. The odds are that you know someone who has had a miscarriage. In fact, the odds are that you know more than one someones. So why aren’t we talking about this?

If you’re wondering about the featured photo for this post, it’s the one I made for my husband to tell him about the pregnancy. It took weeks of planning. I made the fake book cover (based off a real book), printed it and put it on a book. Staged my oldest son with glasses and the book on a warm Arizona spring day. On my husband’s birthday, we went out to dinner and I presented him with the photo in a picture frame. We celebrated.

Going into my first pregnancy at the wise “old age” of 32, I knew the odds already. In fact, I knew that three of my close girlfriends had miscarried a baby. I knew that miscarriage was a real and tangible possibility. But knowing is not the same as experiencing.

That first pregnancy was charmed. Despite my knowledge of the odds, I didn’t worry. Despite my pregnancy’s classification as “high risk,” I didn’t worry. I waited until 12 weeks to officially announce the pregnancy (aside from immediate family) but it felt like more of a ritual than a necessity. Trips to the doctor were moments of wonder and a celebration of the new life growing within me. With my first baby, my husband and I (well, mostly me — but he was gracious enough to agree) decided not to find out the gender. So the biggest stressor during those many routine ultrasounds was whether or not the technician was accidentally going to let something slip about the image on the screen.

And at 39 weeks and 2 days, I gave birth to a beautiful, healthy baby boy.

When I got pregnant a second time, I was even less cautious than the first. And while my husband and I didn’t make any grand announcements early on, we also didn’t attempt to hide the fact that we were expecting. I scheduled doctor’s visits and discussed due dates with my close friends. It was an exciting time.

My first doctor’s visit was scheduled for when I was 10 weeks along. Since my husband was out of town on that day, I went in by myself. I assumed the visit would be a routine first consult where not much happens. I was so sure of this that I didn’t even mention the appointment to him.

When I arrived, I found out the doctor had planned for an ultrasound in addition to the regular consult. I was led back to the ultrasound room and I prepared myself to see this new little life on the screen.

When the grainy, black-and-white image of my tiny baby appeared on the screen, immediately something felt off.

“Um, let’s try a different method,” the technician said. “We’ll have better access to the baby this way.”

So we switched to a more intense version of the ultrasound and again the image of my baby appeared on the screen.

Everything was very quiet. The technician’s face was grave and serious. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” she said, “I’m going to go get the doctor.”

And at that moment I knew. Something was very, very wrong.

I’m sorry,

the doctor said after she had sat down next to me and placed her hand on mine, “but your baby has no heartbeat.”

They estimated the baby had stopped growing at about 9 weeks. There was nothing that could be done; my baby was gone.

In sympathy, the doctor told me that the office had a back door I could use to exit the facility. Although I understand that some people might want to be alone in the first moments of their grief, this still struck me as wrong. I was not ashamed of what had happened. I was proud to have carried my baby’s life. The fact that it had ended was no fault of mine. Did I understand why? No, of course not. Was I heartbroken and upset? Yes, absolutely and without question. But I was not going to slink out the back door.

I was going to walk through the front lobby and hold my head high. I had a baby, that baby is gone, but he or she is there and is mine, and is loved. That baby gets to walk out through the front door.

I sat in my car in the parking lot. I called my husband. This was one of the hardest calls I have ever had to make, not only because of the news I had to share, but because — if you remember — he didn’t even know I had an appointment. He was going to be blindsided.

He told me later that he had stepped out of a business meeting to take my call, and after he hung up with me he stood there in the hallway and cried. My tough-as-nails, never-seen-him-cry husband just broke down right then and there in full view of anyone who might happen to walk by.

Afterwards there was the grieving, and the management of technical aspects – telling our friends and family about the loss of the baby, scheduling the d&c because my body was not naturally responding to the loss, the hospital visit, the mental and physical recovery.

And still, the grieving.

The experience changed me. Because, as I have said before, knowing is not the same as experiencing. When I got pregnant again, the joy was tempered by worry. I was a nervous wreck at my first, second, and third appointments. Every ultrasound visit, instead of being a time of eager anticipation, was a period of incredible anxiety until that moment I saw the heartbeat on the screen. The further along I got in the pregnancy, especially once I got to the point where I could feel the baby moving, the more confident I became, but I still worried, every single day.

And now, I have my second live-born baby boy to hold in my arms, and I feel so blessed. Even more so, perhaps, because I feel so fortunate to have this gift of life. To have made it 40 weeks and 3 days and have given birth to a beautiful, healthy baby boy.

I have three children. Two are here on earth and one is not. I love them all. I am proud of them all.

I had a miscarriage.

Let’s talk about it.