A Miscarriage Story
Because miscarriage shouldn’t be a taboo topic
Instead of sipping champagne in first class on our way to Hawaii, my husband and I were sipping cheap whiskey and fueling our lonely backyard bonfire with our very dead Christmas tree.
It was March of 2020, and like a lot of people around the world, we were isolated and mourning the loss of our non-refundable vacation. I had spent months crafting the perfect itinerary that we would never use, which has now been stuffed into a drawer for another time (yes, I printed it out. I take vacations very seriously).
We knew cancelling the trip was the right thing to do, and frankly, we didn’t really have a choice. The world was quickly and literally shutting its doors. We weren’t theatrically furious, just a little bit sad. We were safe at home for (what we thought) would be the next 3 weeks. So, we did what any loving, happily married couple would do. We got drunk and had sex. A lot.
At the time, we were open to having kids, and we were well aware of the consequences of our actions. I had stopped taking birth control a few months prior in hopes to conceive while enjoying our private Airbnb in Hawaii. I think you can tell where this story is going.
About 3 weeks later, my period was late. I had always been regular, so by day 4 I knew something was off. After making mediocre quarantine bread on Friday night, I sent my husband to the drive-thru pharmacy for a pregnancy test. I peed on that stick completely expecting a negative result, but there were those two bright pink lines staring back at me.
Were we ready for this? Was I ready for this? Was my body ready?
At first, I didn’t tell anyone. I was the first in my family and in my inner circle of friends to get pregnant, and it was very early in the pandemic, so the fact that I couldn’t be with anyone in person when I shared my news didn’t sit well with me. After talking it out with my husband, I decided I wanted to wait until after my first ultrasound.
I had to go to my first OBGYN appointment alone. My husband wasn’t even allowed to sit in the waiting room, so he waited in the car. During the ultrasound, everything looked fine, except our little bean was measuring about 2 weeks smaller than predicted. The ultrasound tech told me this was normal, but I had this strange gut feeling that something was off.
As a naturally-anxious-always-waiting-for-the-other-shoe-to-drop person, I usually don’t get excited for things until they’re real. There were no tears or squeals of delight when the tech pointed out the tiny flutter of cells that would become a human heart. It just didn’t feel real to me yet. I needed more time. I needed more proof.
After the appointment, with our little black and white picture in hand, I was still hesitant to share our news with anyone else.
Despite my fears, a few days later, we ended up telling my family. It was a nice day outside, so we were able to safely gather in my parents’ backyard. Even though we were still supposed to be 6 feet apart, we gave in and there were brief hugs and tears all around. I told my two closest friends that day as well.
About two weeks after I told my family and friends, I started to have some serious doubts. To put it plainly, I just didn’t feel pregnant anymore. There was no spotting or bleeding, but my sore breasts and constant nausea had disappeared, and my belly just wasn’t bloating quite like it should be at 10 (ish) weeks.
After a few hours of scouring google and online pregnancy forums, I called my doctor and made an appointment for an ultrasound. Luckily, they took my fears seriously and were able to see me right away. My husband drove me to the appointment, and if I’m being honest, as we drove, I already knew what the ultrasound was going to reveal.
Again, I had to go in alone. My husband waited anxiously for me in the parking lot. As soon as the picture appeared on the screen, I knew I was no longer pregnant. The tech confirmed that there was no heartbeat and there had been no growth since my last ultrasound.
The tech left the room to allow me to get dressed. While I was alone in the cold and dimly lit room, I sat in the chair and just cried. Knowing or suspecting what was coming didn’t make it any easier. I remember that I sat there for a while because I knew once I left the room, it would be real.
For some reason, the thought of my husband still having hope and waiting for me to come out of the building broke my heart, so I texted him and told him that I was right. When I got to the car, we held each other for a long time before we went home. That night, my mom came over and we ordered greasy burgers- my comfort food. She had suffered several miscarriages, so she understood what we were feeling.
After she left, I remember sitting on the couch with my husband and thinking, now what? This wasn’t how I wanted our story to go.
I didn’t want to undergo a D&C during a pandemic, so I ended up taking medication in order to help my body pass the remaining tissue. My doctor told me the medication would cause some cramping, which was an extreme understatement. I’ve had bad period cramps most of my life. What I experienced for the next 12 or so hours were contractions. I was up all night. I eventually had my husband run me a hot bath. After I passed a large amount of tissue, I was finally able to get some sleep.
It’s been 14 months since my miscarriage. We’ve been trying to conceive again for a year with no luck, and it’s extremely frustrating.
In the last 6 months, I’ve had 6 close friends surprise me with pregnancy announcements. Yes, I said 6 and no I’m not exaggerating. Of course, I’m incredibly happy for them, but I’m still so sad for us. My friends do their best to be sensitive to my situation, and I do my best to put on a happy face when they show off their baby bumps. I want so badly to be a part of their pregnancy experience, they’re my closest friends, and we’ve been through all of life’s big moments together, but I can’t help but pull away.
I know our friendships are going to change, change is inevitable. I just thought we’d be in the trenches of motherhood together.
I didn’t write this story for sympathy. I wrote this story because I want other women to know that they’re not alone. Since experiencing miscarriage and sharing my story, I’ve been surprised by how many women said, “me too.” Miscarriage is so common, but no one talks about it. It’s a life-changing experience, and no one should have to endure it alone.
