Our Miscarriage
(Warning: This post is very raw and very real. I wrote most of this post 6 months ago and have debated ever since whether or not I should share this, mostly because I don't want to be seen as attention seeking or someone to be pitied. Over time, through the process of grief, and as my heart continues to heal, I've come to realize more and more that miscarriage in our society lends to "silent suffering of crippling grief." Our society as a whole tends to breeze past this pain with momentary acknowledgement [read: sympathy] and gloss it over as a "sad event" that happened to our loved one while assuming that the parents' hearts have healed much faster than they have in reality. I'm raising my hand here. Until our miscarriage, I largely fell into this category, though I would have told you I felt great sympathy for my friends and family who've been there. I even imagined I knew a lot of what they felt. We thought we were losing Charlotte for most of our first trimester, so I thought I understood what it must feel like. But now. Now having lived through this, I realize I only had the smallest idea of what it actually felt like. No one ever gave me a real and raw look into the pain and grief of losing an unborn baby, probably because it's too hard to go there. It's too hard to be this vulnerable with the most tender thing that ever happened to you. I don't pretend that my story and feelings are every person's story and feelings, but I hope that by sharing, someone reading this can understand a little more what the person you love and care about is going through. That someone going through miscarriage themselves will feel less alone.)
I hardly know where to start. We lost a baby. I was 12 weeks and 5 days pregnant. I went in for my 12 week ultrasound. You know, the one where they start looking for the scary stuff, measure the baby's growth, check for signs of syndromes, listen to the beautiful sound of a heartbeat. Make sure that growth is on target. The ultrasound that is supposed to give you the all clear to start telling everyone you know that there's a new little life joining your family!
I hardly know where to start. We lost a baby. I was 12 weeks and 5 days pregnant. I went in for my 12 week ultrasound. You know, the one where they start looking for the scary stuff, measure the baby's growth, check for signs of syndromes, listen to the beautiful sound of a heartbeat. Make sure that growth is on target. The ultrasound that is supposed to give you the all clear to start telling everyone you know that there's a new little life joining your family!
As soon as the picture popped up on the screen, I knew. Our baby was laying still. So so still. Perfect, tiny, little arms had fallen backwards above that tiny, little head. That image is forever burned into my memory like a terrible scar. My eyes frantically searched the screen for a flutter, something, any kind of movement - there was nothing. The tech turned on the sound to scan for a heartbeat and there was silence. The room was heavy with a deafening silence. She turned on the scan that lights up a living baby with colors - red, green, blue. They each indicate blood flow and functioning organs. Our baby stayed dark and grey. I knew. She quickly left to get the doctor, and I looked up at Shaun and told him I was pretty certain our baby was gone. Two minutes later the doctor came in and confirmed our fears. I burst into gut wrenching sobs and crumbled into Shaun's arms. My baby. My precious baby. The baby we wanted so so much. The baby we had prayed for, the baby we went through months of genetic testing for. The baby that felt like our biggest miracle yet. The doctor left the room to give us a moment alone together and gather ourselves. We were shocked and broken.
A few minutes later she came back to talk through our options. We could try to deliver the baby at home on our own or opt for a D&C so that we could do (more) genetic testing and see if something chromosomal was going on. Ugh! Genetic testing. Everyone in our family has been through genetic testing. Given our history of a chromosomal abnormality and a birth defect, we opted for the D&C so that we could find any answers possible. So that we could determine if we should ever try for more children again.
I'll never forget that day. I had to fast for 12 hrs prior to the procedure. I woke up the morning of my surgery with my stomach churning. I felt so weird. I felt crampy. Or was my stomach just tied in knots because I knew what was coming? They were taking my dead baby out of my body. Was I starting to feel my body recognizing that it was miscarrying? I threw up. It was too much. I wanted it over and at the same time I wished it away because I just wanted a little more time with my baby inside me. I wasn't ready to say good bye forever yet. Once the baby was out, it was going to be over. I wouldn't be pregnant anymore. I would never see evidence of that little life in my body again. But knowing a dead baby was inside me was strange and hard too. I felt so full of emotions and so very numb all at the same time.
I'll never forget laying down on that O.R. table. I started choking in sobs as an overwhelming wave of emotion coursed through my body. My mind was spinning in grief for the loss of my baby. As I looked around the cold, white, and sterile room full of bustling nurses and medical staff gowned from head to toe, horror washed over me as I realized that my sweet Carter had been in a very similar room multiple times, that he too had been scared and I couldn't be there to comfort him or soothe away his fears. I was grieving my dead baby, I was grieving my son's surgeries. My sweet doctor leaned down, she held my face in her hands and gently whispered, "It's okay. I know your heart is so broken. You're a really good Mom. Just breathe. Just breathe. I'm not leaving you..." I woke up about an hour later to a nurse gently rubbing my arm and talking to me. My doctor came in. My head was spinning. I was so groggy from the anesthesia, but I knew this was my one chance. I asked her if I could see my baby. The thought of never laying eyes on the person I loved so dearly, the person I would have gladly given my very life for, was crushing me. I needed to see my baby. I wanted some kind of closure. I knew I wouldn't be able to touch the baby, I just wanted to lay eyes on my sweet little angel. I wanted to tell my baby how much it was loved and wanted. I wasn't afraid of what I would see, I just needed to lay eyes on my baby just once on this side of heaven. It was the hardest part of all of it. "Oh Honey. The baby is so tiny and we can't compromise the results of the testing. You love your family so much. You're a good Mom." And that was it. She quietly left. I tried to shake off the anesthesia and clear my head, but I couldn't. Shaun came in a moment later, took me home, and I went to bed for the rest of the day.
I'll never forget laying down on that O.R. table. I started choking in sobs as an overwhelming wave of emotion coursed through my body. My mind was spinning in grief for the loss of my baby. As I looked around the cold, white, and sterile room full of bustling nurses and medical staff gowned from head to toe, horror washed over me as I realized that my sweet Carter had been in a very similar room multiple times, that he too had been scared and I couldn't be there to comfort him or soothe away his fears. I was grieving my dead baby, I was grieving my son's surgeries. My sweet doctor leaned down, she held my face in her hands and gently whispered, "It's okay. I know your heart is so broken. You're a really good Mom. Just breathe. Just breathe. I'm not leaving you..." I woke up about an hour later to a nurse gently rubbing my arm and talking to me. My doctor came in. My head was spinning. I was so groggy from the anesthesia, but I knew this was my one chance. I asked her if I could see my baby. The thought of never laying eyes on the person I loved so dearly, the person I would have gladly given my very life for, was crushing me. I needed to see my baby. I wanted some kind of closure. I knew I wouldn't be able to touch the baby, I just wanted to lay eyes on my sweet little angel. I wanted to tell my baby how much it was loved and wanted. I wasn't afraid of what I would see, I just needed to lay eyes on my baby just once on this side of heaven. It was the hardest part of all of it. "Oh Honey. The baby is so tiny and we can't compromise the results of the testing. You love your family so much. You're a good Mom." And that was it. She quietly left. I tried to shake off the anesthesia and clear my head, but I couldn't. Shaun came in a moment later, took me home, and I went to bed for the rest of the day.
I honestly can't even begin to describe the heartbreak of miscarriage. Physically I felt fine. Normal even. My heart, though. Oh my heart was shattered into a million pieces. We WANTED this baby. I had been just as giddy about this pregnancy as I had been with my very first, my Charlotte. We had prayed so hard for this. Spent thousands of dollars in genetic testing and genetic counseling to find out if we could even try for this baby. We were heart broken. Dazed. Confused. Crushed. I always thought I could understand how miscarriage must feel for the people I had known that had been through it. Wow, I was so wrong. No one ever tells you that it feels like something reached inside your body and ripped your heart right out of your chest, shattered it into millions of pieces, and then stomped all over it. That this is just as terrible as losing anyone that you love if not more so. This miscarriage wasn't something that didn't happen for us, it was the death of our beloved baby and the grief was so overwhelmingly real and deep. I cried myself to sleep every night. I was severely depressed. I was angry. I was hurt. I was broken in every possible way. I cried all the time. I'd wake up in the middle of the night crying and would crawl into my husband's arms sobbing until I fell back asleep. This grief is so very real.
A week later my father in law died suddenly and unexpectedly from a heart attack. The grief we felt over our baby was forced to the back burner as we rushed down to Florida to be with family, plan his funeral, and remember him with all those who loved him. I didn't know how to do that. How to push it aside. I somehow stumbled my way through that week. I remember breaking down in sobs because my baby wouldn't get a funeral. We wouldn't get this moment to publicly remember our baby too.
A week later my father in law died suddenly and unexpectedly from a heart attack. The grief we felt over our baby was forced to the back burner as we rushed down to Florida to be with family, plan his funeral, and remember him with all those who loved him. I didn't know how to do that. How to push it aside. I somehow stumbled my way through that week. I remember breaking down in sobs because my baby wouldn't get a funeral. We wouldn't get this moment to publicly remember our baby too.
The week after my father-in-law's death, my doctor finally called me with the results on our baby. Our baby was a precious little girl who had Down Syndrome. A knife to the heart. Another baby with a syndrome. I knew what came next...the recommendation of all my doctors to not have anymore biological children. They had no answers for us as to why my husband and I are unable to have "genetically perfect" children. It almost seemed surreal. Leading up to hearing the results, I knew. We knew. In our hearts we just knew that there would be something, but when the moment came, it just felt so completely surreal.
It's been 9 months of grieving the death of our little girl while simultaneously grieving the loss of ever being able to try and grow our family again biologically. Some days we're still trying to wrap our heads and hearts around the depth of that news. Life has grown easier, though. The anger is gone. The depression has lifted. The sadness? Not one single day goes by that our baby isn't thought of, longed for, and loved so deeply. Sometimes it's the little moments that catch me by surprise and the floodgates of grief swing wide again and tears run freely. It can be as simple as seeing my two living children playing together as my thoughts wander and I wonder what three would be like. It can be overhearing a Mom of more than two children complaining about what a burden they are and I turn my head and try to desperately swipe the tears away that brim up as I wish that my baby was here and I could feel her same frustration. Most recently it was the holidays that were hard. Thanksgiving was crushing. Most of our extended families would have been meeting our little girl for the first time. Christmas hit me like a ton of bricks as I hung Charlotte and Carter's 1st Christmas ornaments on the tree. There should have been three this year and there's not. Mostly, it's the moments when I least expect it that grief shows up and sometimes it's the moments I do expect that I find my grief is still there. Like this week. It's been hard, so I started self examining why my heart is so tender... and it hit me. One year ago this week, we found out she was growing inside me. So, this week is hard. And next week? I expect next week will feel much easier and the pain will have lessened again and for a time I'll be okay until the next little moment catches me off guard or the next big milestone happens.
In the meantime, we'll keep moving forward in life. We'll keep tunneling our way through the grief. We'll continue to heal. We'll find reasons to laugh and reasons to smile. We'll even find joy along the way. We'll make new memories. We'll cherish the old ones. We'll always remember, but we'll never forget. Our baby she'll always be.
It's been 9 months of grieving the death of our little girl while simultaneously grieving the loss of ever being able to try and grow our family again biologically. Some days we're still trying to wrap our heads and hearts around the depth of that news. Life has grown easier, though. The anger is gone. The depression has lifted. The sadness? Not one single day goes by that our baby isn't thought of, longed for, and loved so deeply. Sometimes it's the little moments that catch me by surprise and the floodgates of grief swing wide again and tears run freely. It can be as simple as seeing my two living children playing together as my thoughts wander and I wonder what three would be like. It can be overhearing a Mom of more than two children complaining about what a burden they are and I turn my head and try to desperately swipe the tears away that brim up as I wish that my baby was here and I could feel her same frustration. Most recently it was the holidays that were hard. Thanksgiving was crushing. Most of our extended families would have been meeting our little girl for the first time. Christmas hit me like a ton of bricks as I hung Charlotte and Carter's 1st Christmas ornaments on the tree. There should have been three this year and there's not. Mostly, it's the moments when I least expect it that grief shows up and sometimes it's the moments I do expect that I find my grief is still there. Like this week. It's been hard, so I started self examining why my heart is so tender... and it hit me. One year ago this week, we found out she was growing inside me. So, this week is hard. And next week? I expect next week will feel much easier and the pain will have lessened again and for a time I'll be okay until the next little moment catches me off guard or the next big milestone happens.
In the meantime, we'll keep moving forward in life. We'll keep tunneling our way through the grief. We'll continue to heal. We'll find reasons to laugh and reasons to smile. We'll even find joy along the way. We'll make new memories. We'll cherish the old ones. We'll always remember, but we'll never forget. Our baby she'll always be.
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