THE WIND PHONE
My Silent Miscarriage and the Happy Waiting Room
When loss is invisible and the waiting room cruel
“I’ll be fine. There’s no point in you missing work,” I said to my husband, who was looking at me with concerned eyes.
“I’ll ask them to prescribe the pills, and I’ll pick them up after the appointment,” I added.
It had been a week since we learned that our baby, which would have been our firstborn, did not have a heartbeat. A missed miscarriage, also known as silent miscarriage, was the diagnosis we left with.
That awful day haunted me, and the following week seemed to last forever.
The week of waiting
I was told to wait for bleeding. If nothing happened, I would have other options. I had made the decision to take medication if my body hadn't begun the process by the next appointment.
The days went by, and I continued to see no signs of miscarriage, nothing to indicate that my body had acknowledged the loss. This made it difficult to accept the fact that my baby was gone. Though my rational mind knew, my emotional mind needed to catch up.
We were moving that week, which made it easy to stay busy. This didn’t eliminate the grief, and I often found myself distraught, despite the productivity.
Why had my body not recognized the loss? It has been almost three weeks since my baby stopped growing.
I wanted to start cramping. I wanted to start bleeding. In a strange, but natural way, I desired the physical pain of miscarriage. It was as if I needed my physical state to mirror my emotional state.
The ultrasound technician didn’t offer to give us the scan photos. I wished she had. There was nothing tangible for me to see, to hold or to cry over.
It didn’t feel like I had the right to grieve until I had experienced the miscarriage fully.
Only then would it be appropriate to let the tears flow.
The waiting room
Now back to my foolish denial about being “fine”. I must have been convincing, because my husband left for work that morning.
I showed up at the confirmation ultrasound, alone.
Sitting in the waiting room, I felt my body shiver. I was nervous, I suppose. I had trouble identifying the emotion. Pulling my phone out in attempt to calm myself down proved useless. I realized the waiting room was a trigger, bringing me back to the week before.
I couldn’t help but notice how awfully busy it looked compared to when I was there last. There must have been over 20 noticeably pregnant women in that room, hardly an empty seat.
Some of them alone. Some of them with their partners. Most on their phones, gently rubbing their round tummies.
I felt I didn’t belong.
There was no life in my uterus.
Pregnant, yet not pregnant.
My eyes watered, and I did all I could to hold back my emotions, thankful I had a mask to hide behind.
To my misfortune, I had sat down in an area where I could clearly see the exit door out of the exam area. It seemed every few minutes, a couple exited, looking happy, blissful and often holding onto a long shiny sheet of black and white images.
That should have been us.
I remember wondering why the OB office thought it was okay to let me sit there.
Do they not know how upsetting this is?
It felt cruel.
The ultrasound confirmation
Eventually, my name was called, and they directed me to the ultrasound room as in the week before.
The same ultrasound technician was working. She was nice, but quiet, the kind who didn’t say much.
I undressed and laid down on the table, cold and exposed, bracing myself for the ultrasound wand and the familiar discomfort. The image on the screen appeared just as before, a small gray form floating within a dark void.
No heartbeat, confirmed.
It felt like a replay of the Monday before, except this time I wasn’t as shocked. I had a week to process. However, the primary emotion was much the same.
There was deep sadness.
I would never get the chance to meet this baby.
An entire week hadn't changed the state of reality. There had been no progress made toward getting out of the pain, the ache I felt.
I had planned to ask the ultrasound technician for photos, but the scan was quick. It hadn’t been but a minute before she was telling me to get dressed. In the rush, I forgot to ask.
As she directed me out the door, she said in a habitual tone, “You can go back and sit in the waiting room while you wait for the doctor.”
I broke down in deep loud sobs.
I didn’t want to go back to the happy waiting room.
