The Harrowing Story of My Miscarriage
Decades Later, Grieving for My Baby Who Never Was
Recently, I hit an emotional bottom and realized that I need to work yet another 12-Step program, this one around my family of origin trauma issues. Last year was a year where the veils of denial were ripped away around the facts of my childhood and its effect on my own parenting and life path. Gratefully, I am sober, abstinent, solvent, you name it. But now, it’s anger, sadness, and other emotions that have taken me captive.
All that is really fodder for another article. The reason I mention it is that now, a few weeks into my dedicated recovery as an adult child of a dysfunctional family, story after story about miscarriages, keeping them secret, and grieving the loss, have come my way.
So, now (as of the date I’m posting this article), 27 years, seven months, and 26 days since my miscarriage, I am going to share the story with you. Of course, I cannot know the exact date my pregnancy ended, but I know that June 11, 1989 was surely the date that the end began. It was also a memorable date because I got married that Sunday.
I was only about 14 weeks pregnant when I definitively found out that the fetus growing inside of me had died. I understand that the pain of a miscarriage doesn’t compare with the horrifying…
