When our first baby turned one, we decided we were ready to try for another. After just a couple of months, I was elated to learn I was pregnant. A few days after my positive test, I had a little spotting. I called the OB and they brought me in to check my hCG forty-eight hours apart. I tried to keep myself from getting too excited while we waited for the results. The OB office called and said the growth looked good, consistent with a progressing pregnancy. What a relief! I told myself it was still so early, so many things could go wrong, but I also felt these blood tests meant my pregnancy was healthy and strong. I had another kid already, so my body knew the drill, right?
A week later, I had more spotting. I called the OB again and they brought me in. I will never forget sitting in that appointment as the OB tried to find a heartbeat, or any signs of a viable pregnancy. With compassion in her voice, she told me maybe I just wasn’t as far along as I thought, it could still be too early to see anything. But I knew. We had a 15 month old. I knew exactly when we conceived. I dressed as quickly as I could, silent tears building behind my glasses and dripping down into my mask as I ran to my car, got inside, and collapsed into a loud, messy sob. I tried to text my partner, but I couldn’t even find his name in my phone. A few days later, he dropped me off at the ER with severe bleeding and pain. I’ll never forget the book I brought with me that day. Unable to bring myself to look at it again, it sat hidden in a corner in my closet, in the same bag, for months. I can never read that book. I recently had to make an unexpected visit to the OB and that same doctor was the only one with availability. “I’ll wait,” I told the scheduler. I can never see that doctor again.
In the days that followed I did my best to be the mom I wanted to be for my toddler, while grieving a child I never got to meet. I was filled with so many emotions. Guilt for not being a “better” mom, worry that I did something to end the pregnancy, shame that I was so wrecked to lose something I had only known about for 16 days, fear that I wouldn’t be able to get pregnant again and complete devastation that I lost what I thought would be my next baby. It’s been two and a half years since my miscarriage and it still brings tears to my eyes to think about. We wouldn’t have our daughter now if that miscarriage hadn’t happened. Maybe that makes it easier, but it certainly doesn’t make it easy, it doesn’t make it forgettable, it doesn’t make it okay. Time has helped, but it will never fully heal. My miscarriage is a loss that I will carry with me for the rest of my life. Carrying that loss is hard, it is memorable, but it is also okay.
