There are billions of women all throughout time who have experienced the pain of miscarriage. Often alone, in silence, and in shame. We don’t talk about it. We don’t share our stories. We don’t want to. I don’t want to, but I will. For our grief, and for anyone who this helps to feel less alone.
the fear
It was April 30th, and I had a feeling I was pregnant. Something about the way my body felt, and gosh I was just so tired. I went to the store, got a test, and for the first time in my life, I saw those two blue lines. Instantly, there was fear.
But there was also love.
My partner and I aren’t yet married, although we’ve been together happily for five years. Something about my childhood trauma, or the way my parents split up when I was 3, or the way I wanted to do everything right so my child never had to feel like I did, but I was just terrified. What if we aren’t ready? What if I’m not ready?
What if we didn’t have enough money? What if my insurance didn’t cover enough? What if our home wasn’t big enough? Maybe we should move. What if we aren’t healed enough yet? Are we going to traumatize our kids? What if we fight? Oh, and not to mention labor. What if something goes wrong? The fear, so much fear.
the excitement
But then, the love. How a family is all I’ve ever really wanted. How my partner would be a great dad. How we would make it work with what we have, just like all of our parents did. How we would love our child endlessly, and not make the same mistakes our parents did. Then, there was excitement. I told my partner, and we talked and talked and talked. We talked about how we would convert his office into the nursery, how I would switch my insurance, how he would never miss a doctor’s appointment, how we need to get a ring on my finger, and how he’d be by my side every step of the way.
I started imagining the mural I might paint on the wall of the nursery. Mountains, or clouds, or trees. Maybe the ocean. We already have our names picked out; it was just a matter of waiting to know if it was a boy or a girl. For now, the app I downloaded on my phone said they were the size of a blueberry. So ‘blueberry’ – we called them. Sometimes they were a ‘she,’ sometimes a ‘he’. I wanted a girl, but I had a feeling it was a boy.
It was a week before we told anyone, but the news was just burning on our tongues. My mom came into town for Mother’s Day – the perfect time to break the news to my family. I bought her a card for grandmothers, and wrote about how my mom taught me everything I know, and I can’t wait for her to be by my side as I learn to be a mom. We cried, and talked, and cried some more. Everyone was excited.
My partner booked a trip to go home to see his side of the family. It was too early to tell every aunt and uncle and cousin – I told him – but I knew he needed to talk to his dad about how to be a dad the same way I needed to talk to my mom. He had a beautiful trip and told those closest to him. They cried, and talked, and cried some more. His dad called me, “anything that you need, you just let me know.” Everyone was excited.
the heartbeat
We had our first ultrasound scheduled. Normally, they wouldn’t schedule it so early, and it would be at least 12 weeks before there would be a routine ultrasound, but we wanted to confirm my due date. I didn’t know this until experiencing it, but they measure the weeks of your pregnancy based on the first day of your last period. It’s common for me to have 40+ day cycles, so according to that, I would have been close to 9 weeks along. I knew it was earlier than that for me, though. After all, I could practically feel it from the moment I became pregnant. Literally, I’m not joking. I know the date we conceived, and I tested only a week later.
So anyways, we had the ultrasound, and it confirmed my gut feeling. I was 6 weeks and 1 day pregnant, by their measure. Really, I had only been pregnant for about a month. We got some pictures, and we even saw a heartbeat! It was only day 2 of when a heartbeat would barely be detectable, so we felt really lucky. It’s a moment I’ll never forget, for a few reasons.
Of course, it was magical, and it made it all feel so much more real. The tiny little bean I could feel inside my womb, I could see it with my eyes, too. There was a continuous flicker of light that indicated the heart beating. It was so small, that she had to zoom in all the way to capture it, but there it was. It was alive. It was blueberry.
And then, because the moment the sonographer measured the heart rate, her entire demeanor changed. Although she tried to hide it, remain cheerful, and take pictures, I could tell there was something wrong. 96 beats per minute, she said. Of course, I had to wait after the ultrasound to see the nurse midwife, so I did some anxious Googling in the waiting room.
96 beats per minute is considered fetal bradycardia, when the fetal heart rate is slower than 110 bpm. But I also read that from weeks 5 to 7, the fetus’ heart rate starts slow, between 90 and 110. This was a relief because it meant we could be in a normal range, and I tried to put it out of my mind.
Then of course, the nurse midwife brought it up, and let us know it could be a concern. She scheduled us to have a follow-up ultrasound in just one week. If the heart rate was still slow at the next ultrasound, it could indicate that the pregnancy was ‘not viable’. I didn’t understand entirely what this meant, but tried to stay hopeful. She also let me know it could be nothing, so we carried on with the rest of the appointment like normal.
We went home with our ultrasound pictures, told a few more friends and family the exciting news, and carried on as normal until the next ultrasound.
the pain
You already know how this story ends, don’t you?
I knew the drill. Undressed, went pee, put on the gown, sat down, held my partner’s hand. A different sonographer came in, and we let her know why we came in to get another ultrasound so soon because apparently no one gives the sonographer notes.
The first thing she said was the measurement, “6 weeks, one day.” My heart dropped. It’s been a week, why is it the same as last time? It should be seven weeks, and one day.
Then, I could already see it before she said it. No little flickering light. “No heartbeat. I’m so sorry.”
Unceremonious. Clinical. She said a few more words that I don’t remember, and left the room. We were left to start grieving. After awhile, another nurse midwife came in to talk about our options.
I had what is known as a “missed miscarriage.” Essentially, the fetus had stopped growing, but my body didn’t know it yet. My options were to wait for my body to catch up and begin the miscarriage process naturally, take a medication to start the miscarriage process, or have a surgical procedure to remove the fetal tissue.
I didn’t have to decide today, she said, but I already knew what I wanted to do in spite of the shock and fear of it all.
We went for a long drive, listened to music, and cried, and cried, and cried. I still felt pregnant. I had all the same symptoms: nausea, sore breasts, fatigue, and the ballooned feeling in my womb which was holding a little blueberry. Except now that blueberry was dead. I felt like a graveyard. I needed her to be out, so I could start grieving. It was a ‘her’ today.
I never wanted to ego into that clinic again. Sure, they were all nice or whatever, but now it’s just a reminder of what was. Luckily, the next day, all I had to do was call. We picked up the prescription, I took the Misoprostol, and expected the worst.
It was so much worse.
what I didn’t know
I knew how common miscarriages were. I know more than a few women who’ve had them. I knew at 6 weeks my chances of miscarriage were about 1 in 5. I knew, I knew, I knew.
a new kind of pain
I didn’t know it would hurt so much. physically, and emotionally. The midwife said it would be “like a heavy period”. Bullshit. It was like labor. My long scrolls through reddit would confirm that I’m not the only one who experienced excruciating contractions and ghastly heavy bleeding. I wasn’t given any pain medication. I was told to take Advil. I took 800mg of Advil and 1000mg of Tylenol for the worst of it. It didn’t help. It’s been six days and I’m still cramping and bleeding. Not as badly as before, but each time the pain washes over me, I wonder when it will be over.
I wonder if it will ever be over.
a new kind of grief
I didn’t know a blueberry-sized embryo could capture my whole heart. I didn’t know I could grieve someone I’d never met. I didn’t know I could love someone I’d never held in my arms.
I’m no stranger to grief. Grief is an old friend to me, one that visits me on the holidays, and in life’s biggest moments. One that stops by occasionally on a random Tuesday afternoon, just to chat, and leave again. An old friend I can always count on to remind me of the meaning of life, and death, and to wonder what it’s all for. But this grief is new. It wears the same clothes and has the same mannerisms, but something has changed that I can’t quite place. It’s like running into someone you know you’ve met before, but you can’t quite remember where, or what their name is. So you say, “hey, how are you? Oh, I’m well, it’s so good to run into you!” and you spend the rest of the day or week, or the rest of your life, trying to remember who they were, and why they have this beautiful, mesmerizing air of nostalgia and meaning.
a new kind of fear
In spite of all the fear, I didn’t know how ready I was to be a mom. How badly I wanted to still be pregnant. How badly I wanted to still be afraid of labor, and money, and stress, and of my life changing. How badly I wanted my life to change.
I didn’t know I would be afraid to ever get pregnant again. What if this happens again? Some women have multiple miscarriages. Some have had a few babies and a few miscarriages. Some have had countless miscarriages and no babies. What if I can’t be a mom – the thing I’ve always wanted more than anything in this world? What if I’m not meant to be? What if all my fear, and doubts, and pain, is why blueberry went away?
We got to see her heart beating on the last day she was alive. How soon after we left the sonogram did she die? Why did her heart beat for one moment, and not the next?
the continuance
Life has to go on, doesn’t it? Life doesn’t care that our baby died. The bills keep coming, the work still needs to be done, the sun keeps rising, and the moon keeps falling. I’m not alone. There are billions of women all throughout time who have experienced this pain. Often alone, in silence, and in shame. We don’t talk about it. We don’t share our stories. We don’t want to.
I don’t want to either. This isn’t the pregnancy announcement I planned to make. I never planned any of this, or wanted any of it. But when I found out what I had, I wanted it so, so bad. It’s a contradictory feeling. I was afraid to have a healthy pregnancy, of my whole life changing, of becoming a mom. But I wanted it so, so bad. Maybe even more so knowing that it isn’t what I can have right now. I feel really guilty about that.
I know it isn’t my fault, but what if it is? I know I can have a healthy pregnancy someday, but what if I can’t? I know everything happens for a reason, but what if it doesn’t? And what if it does? What could possibly be the reason for this?
When I found out I was pregnant, I felt a peace wash over me. That everything I had ever tried to accomplish in life had been for this. That the pressure to know myself, actualize myself, discover myself, and heal myself was lifted, knowing that my purpose was to create the most beautiful life for my child that was within my power. I still want that, and I still know that. But is that enough? Does it even matter now?
I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. Not on any of my exes, or my exes’ exes, or the person who totaled my car that one time, or anyone with the most extreme political views I despise, or even God himself who allowed this to happen. So why, why does this pain exist? Why did it happen to me?
All I know is I got to hear blueberry’s heart before she died. And I’ll never forget her.
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