My Miscarriage

To be honest, before I miscarried, I didn’t want to read or hear anything about the subject. I thought that by merely hearing the word, I’d somehow energetically draw that to me. And as a pregnant mama or a hopeful-someday-mama, that’s the last thing I wanted. So, I skipped chapters of books or I tuned out when people tried to tell me about their experiences with losing a baby. And, now I understand both sides. I understand why some people weren’t quite there for me the way I wanted. Why people dodged me or ignored my experience. I’ve been there too.

Miscarriage can be so different for so many people. There are women who miscarry before they even knew they were pregnant and those that lose their babies right at the end of pregnancy. There are women who miscarry unwanted pregnancies and women who miscarry again and again, who desperately want to be mamas. It’s tempting to say that some of these experiences are harder or easier than others, but I really don’t think that’s anyone’s business to say. Not even, necessarily, the mama’s. I think for me it’s been tempting to compare my experience to others’ and find reasons I shouldn’t be as upset as I was or reasons my experience was tougher than other ones. Miscarriages, like anything, are whatever they are to you. And that can change with time too.

If I’m honest with myself, I knew it was coming. I had the most fleeting moment a couple months before the pregnancy. I remember where I was standing when I knew in my gut I would get pregnant soon, and I knew in my gut, I would miscarry. I knew it as sure as I knew anything, but I tucked it far, far away and continued on.

As soon as I was pregnant I had dreams about eggs. The first dream was beautiful. I held an egg in my two hands. It was painted like the Earth, and I thought to myself in the dream, “I’ve got the whole world in my hands. What will I do with it?”

But then my egg dreams changed. Instead of this image of a whole, precious egg, I dreamed of eggs cracking and breaking and slipping behind furniture. The night before the miscarriage, I had this dream:

There’s an egg carton. I’m putting an egg back in. The rest of the slots are empty. (My daughter) wants to see the egg, but it has crushed down and is oozing out of the shell. The raw egg is even seeping out of the bottom of the carton.

On the morning of the day I miscarried, without any outside, physical indication, I cried to three people that I just didn’t “feel” pregnant anymore. And, I guess I wasn’t.

My miscarriage came at 10 1/2 weeks. I don’t know what miscarriage is like for other women; I only know mine. I bled and bled and bled. Too much. I didn’t want to admit what was happening at first. I didn’t want to go to the far-away hospital. Thank Everything-in-the-Universe though, that I did. My baby’s miscarriage was tied in with my own near-death experience. The ER let me bleed too long. And then when I passed out, suddenly I ranked as needing attention. I woke to a room full of people and IVs being shoved into me at rapid speed. My heart went cold and I looked across the room at my husband and daughter and was too far gone to even see them as a reason to hold on. I hate needles. I’m beyond squeamish about blood. But some sort of life-grasping instinct took hold, because I weakly, but firmly, begged for blood. The trauma nurse was on the way for an emergency transfusion. I pleaded with everyone in there. BLOOD. NOW. FASTER. MORE! And as I watched the first two pints of blood empty into my bloodstream and then the second two, I remember thanking the Lord above for whoever donated that blood and promised myself that whenever I can and wherever I can, I WILL be donating blood. That blood saved my life. I can’t even write this without tears of gratitude. Thank you.

My miscarriage experience will never be about just losing our baby. It will always carry the memories of so much more. Of my own journey into facing death and coming back.

So, when I reflect on my miscarriage, there’s that added bit to it, as there is an added bit for everyone. I feel very lucky that I had announced my second pregnancy early on. Some people wouldn’t have liked that—having to go back and tell everyone the new news: “The baby wasn’t ready. The baby is gone.” But, for me, I couldn’t have done without the support. Women came out of the woodworks sharing their own miscarriage experiences with me. Some talked, some listened. All were helpful. I couldn’t have gotten through without them.

I laid in bed for so many days. So many weeks. I didn’t want to read or talk or watch TV. I didn’t want to do anything. I sobbed and sobbed— loud, shaky, uncontrollable tears for that baby. For days and weeks and months. And, sometimes, I cried for me too. I cried out of fear that my own life had been so close to ending. And in those instances, I mostly cried for our daughter, to think of how it would be for her to lose her mama.

And then one day I stopped lying in bed. I got up, and I wanted change. A big change. I wanted to sell all our possessions and travel the world. I wanted to grab Life and make things happen. At the very least, an adventurous, long road trip. This yearning clashed with reality, and our “big change” got smaller and smaller. We settled on a long-talked-about trip to the East Coast. Not huge, for most, but big enough for us. And all I could think was, “Baby should have been here with us for this.”

I didn’t sleep for months after the miscarriage. Everyone thought it was my sadness about the baby. I love that baby so much. I’ll always remember. But the lack of sleep had way more to do with my own frightful experience during the miscarriage. I’d lie there in a panic, night after night, worried that if I closed my eyes and relaxed, I’d pass out and die in my sleep.

Just about the time I was learning to sleep again, I got pregnant. I had been told for months after the miscarriage by multiple medical professionals that my chances of getting pregnant at my “ripe old age” of 36 were decreasing by the minute, and that if I did “miraculously” get pregnant, I was taking a big gamble with my health and my baby’s. So, on top of my own huge concerns about being pregnant again and my needing time to heal physically and emotionally and my yearning to be a mama to this new baby, I had all those lovely warnings running through my head as well. It had taken all my strength to be patient and wait until I felt healed before trying to get pregnant. And it took an even greater strength to allow the possibility of new heartbreak and, as I saw it, to put my own life on the line again. The first opportunity we “allowed” after the miscarriage though, Baby was ready.

Sometimes I believe that our second baby did her or his job, for whatever the bigger reason, and is with Grandma and Grandpa wherever souls go when they’re done with their bodies. And sometimes I think that little soul hung out and waited for a new body, a body that was healthier and ready to grow, and that our son is that same baby. I change my mind all the time on this. Maybe it doesn’t much matter, but I think about it often.

Nobody really likes to talk about miscarriage, but even less people talk about what it’s like to be pregnant after a miscarriage. I think there are assumptions that the mama will be overjoyed to be pregnant again. But I can’t tell you the tough, confusing, scary, worrisome, sad feelings associated with my third pregnancy. My hormones and emotions were all over the place. And nobody can really understand except the mama going through it. Some people ignored the pregnancy, perhaps worried I’d miscarry again. Some people ignored the past miscarriage, and acted like that second baby had never happened. Some people told me that now that I was pregnant again, I’d forget all about the “other experience.” Some people were convinced I’d never want another baby after what had happened and thought this third baby must have been a “mistake.” None of any of this mattered. Except that it did.

I was very protective of this third baby. Perhaps even more so than my first. I think subsequent babies, in general, get less attention and gifts and excitement. That’s the way it is. But, it hurt my feelings more than I could say. And this was probably due to the fact that I, myself, faced fears and doubts about this baby every single day. Right until the moment he was born, I did everything in my power to put my fears at ease. And even after the midwife helped pull him out, since he was (not surprisingly) stuck in the birth canal, I looked up to see Baby was a boy, and even then, I thought he hadn’t made it. That’s how deeply planted losing a baby had gotten. For days and weeks and months, I felt that fragility about our son’s life. I tried affirmations, meditations, and anything I could think of to trust in our baby and his body, but my miscarriage, along with my tendency to worry and overthink, had wreaked havoc on my faith. I had to work very hard to allow myself to love this baby unconditionally. To go all in and not hold back out of fear that I’d lose him.

It’s only now, a year and a half in, that I’m finally settling in a bit. Our boy doesn’t like to let go of Mama. Ever. And it can be quite frustrating to never, ever have a moment to myself, if I can be honest. But, when I am able to step back and reflect—to think that maybe, just maybe, this is the same soul who had to leave us so suddenly three years ago—I think perhaps he just needs the same time and space to settle in that I, too, have needed. Now that I’ve allowed myself feel a little more trust and faith, I hope I can help share that with our little man. And together we can realize that this time, he gets to stay.