Miscarriage — from daddy’s journal
This is our story, and I share it hesitantly. Our miscarriage was painful and deeply personal. But miscarriage is a lonely road. We share to help others who feel alone. You’re not alone.
Monday, October 3, 2016
“Do you see the heart beating?”, the doctor asks. Yes, we see it. We are excited, and scared. Last year we learned how precious a little heart is; it can stop beating.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
I’m confused, distracted, and easily frustrated. It’s 10:31 pm, long past bedtime for my 2.5 and 4.5 yr old sons (The 1/2 is very important, just ask either of them 🙂). They will not sleep, and each giggle and pillow-muffled scream demands my complete attention.
My wife is sitting next to me tortured, and I feel helpless. We got some bad news today. My wife is 12 weeks pregnant, but the baby is only 10 weeks old: The heart stopped beating two weeks ago.
Friday, October 2, 2015
I’m sitting, holding her hand, and trying to be here for my wife. The doctor explains the D&C and the risks. Multiple times in the conversation the doctor “knocks on wood” on the cupboard as she explains the unlikely risks. This makes me feel strangely uncomfortable, are we going to be the statistic? Are we the 1 in 300,000 for whom this goes terribly wrong?
I start to feel more peace as the doctor explains miscarriages: “It’s just a bad egg”, she says with a matter-of-fact shrug. She takes us through a mini-biology course explaining how a woman never gets new eggs; The eggs go through life with the mother exposed to all the radiation, chemicals, and aging processes the mother endures. Sperm, on the other hand, are fresh and new daily; The sperm is primarily responsible for the structural components like the Placenta at this stage of the pregnancy, “This is why you still feel pregnant” the doctor says to my wife, “the Placenta is still alive and doing its job.” After hearing all of this, I think to myself, “Alright, I have great sperm!” In this primal man moment (definition = teenage boy moment), I manage to briefly feel pretty good about myself. Then logic and emotional intelligence return, if I feel great about my sperm right now, then how does my wife feel about her eggs?
We don’t really know what a D&C is. We know the doctor is going to remove the failed contents of the Uterus, but we don’t understand how until she turns on the vacuum. So loud. So blunt. My wife erupts with violent sobbing. The doctor pauses, “Did I hurt you? Are you ok?” My wife’s choked response, “It’s not pain. I’m… just… so… sad…”, and she continues weeping. We can hear the remains of the baby literally being ripped out of the womb. It’s all over surprisingly fast. The kind doctor leaves us in the room. My wife can’t stop crying. She whispers, “I could feel everything. I feel like I just lost a piece of me.” More tears.
We sit for eternal minutes in tearful silence. Finally, my wife breaks the silence, “I want to see it. I can’t just leave it here.” I’m in foreign territory. Minutes ago she just wanted the dead baby out of her, and now she wants to see it? I look at her pleadingly, “Are you sure? I don’t think that’s a good idea.” No more words, just tears. The nurse enters and my wife asks her, “Can I see it? I know it’s weird, but I just can’t leave without seeing it.” We wait. The doctor returns and asks, “Are you sure you want to see it?” She then pulls a little bag of flesh out that fits nicely in the palm of her hand. She shows us lower limbs, the curved spine, the heart cavity, and the head. She tells us there is not much brain matter for a 10-week baby.
I feel grown up. I’m 31 years old, married, and the father of two beautiful young boys, but somehow this experience is different than the rest of my big boy responsibilities. It’s hard. It’s scary. It’s unexpected.
Today
Please, keep beating little heart.
