Quantcast

Tuesday, July 1, 2014

54

How to Have a Miscarriage

 You’re going to need some Gatorade. For the fluids, electrolytes, sugars. Or instant chicken broth, if you can get someone to make you a cup, because you’re going to be there for... Wait. Back up.

Start over.

You’re 40 years old, and this is your second marriage. You’ve waited until you’re ready. Waited so many times, really. Until you got remarried. Until your husband got back from the deployment, got through graduate school. Bought your house that you will never move from, because you hate moving and refuse to do it again. There’s room in it, even if your kids (two boys from your first marriage, one girl from his) have to shift bedrooms to make way for the baby. They’re all so big, those kids. No bottles or diapers left to deal with among them. You don’t entirely know how they’ll take this, but it won’t be through toddler tantrums, at least, when the baby comes.

So you start to try, and that’s the happiest time. You’re just old enough that you’d begun to take the kinds of medications that preserve old people—cholesterol pills, blood pressure. But trying to get pregnant, you get to stop taking those. Once the test comes back positive, anyway. And that is a great day, although you and the husband pretend to take it calmly, keep your hopes under wraps. Anything can happen, after all.

But it becomes real very, very quickly. Painfully. Not the cramps and heartbreak, that’s later. When you hit about eight weeks, the morning sickness kicks in. “Kicks,” pretty literally. It’s the heartburn kind and the algebra of it works out so that you can never be not eating. Or drinking that Gatorade. You’re never without a Jolly Rancher at hand (now, months later, you may never look at one of the damned things again). Because when you’re not eating, you’re hurting, burping, repeating that mantra that it’s going to be worth it, it will all be in service of a goal.

Conveniently, the sickness hits you right at the culmination of your major work project for the year. You’re sitting in training classes, paying as much attention as you can while your brain’s second track plots what you can eat next to stave off the cycle of belching and burning that appears whenever you’re not physically in the act of eating or drinking. You gain a bunch of weight, but again, that’s okay, that’s pregnancy.

What you can’t do is keep things fully under wraps. The weight can be written off, file it under “people gain weight,” but you’re going to have to tell some people what’s going on, why you are acting ill and not like your usual self. One weekend you visit your mom’s house and it’s clear you’re under the weather. Your mother being your mother, this becomes an issue of concern, and follow-up phone calls make it clear she wants to know you’ve been to the doctor to be seen about this illness. When it gets to the point that she is discussing this with your own siblings so that they might goad you into following up, it becomes untenable not to share the news: You explain that you have been to the doctor, you know what this is.

Your family is—well, not overjoyed. Appropriately joyed. Very happy for you, although with a touch of the same Slavic reticence that attends your family tradition of not throwing baby showers until there’s a baby to shower. Your husband tells his parents too; it would seem lopsided not to. They are excited—their only child, your husband, is going to have a second child of his own (your boys are their grandkids too, but you can acknowledge that it’s something different for them, now). You’ve also let your boss in on the secret, to explain why you don’t stand at your desk any more, why you’re always subdued and haggard. She’s excited, too.

You never expect the excitement. You expect a lot of Jesus, forty and pregnant, you’re crazy, what are you even doing, as this is secretly a little bit of how you are feeling. The first friend you tell, especially—she’s had four kids, got divorced, got snipped, is never going down that road again. But she only has happy words for you on the phone. Hearing others voice the hopefulness you can’t even quite say out loud feels so good that you tell three more friends, who have similar reactions in varying degrees. But that’s your limit. You do have those. 

So that’s where you are when you go in for the genetic counseling and ultrasound appointment. You’ve been pregnant for eleven and a half weeks and you’re hoping against hope that the sickness is ending soon. Your husband is there with you, and the dozens of questions they ask “high-risk” couples like yourselves—all the risk is in your “advanced” age, mind you—feel like a ritual incantation. If you are still not bleeding, and still feeling morning sick, and successfully complete the call-and-response rigmarole, then surely you’ve fulfilled the magical requirements of this pregnancy.

You carry that confidence into the ultrasound room, watching the black-and-white monitor while the tech mauls you with the wand. That’s okay, you know, that’s what they do. And after a while, a tiny figure does appear on the monitor. But the tech is curiously silent. She tells you to clean up and dress, and leaves with a few bland, non-committal words about fetching the doctor. The little figure stays on the screen, and it’s only now, writing this, that you realize that was a still shot, that it wasn’t a live feed of what was continuing to go on—or not—inside you.

The doctor comes in, after you spend a long, long moment in the room with your spouse, carefully thinking about nothing. “We have some issues,” she begins, and proceeds to methodically break your hopes into small pieces. There is a lot of crying. You will feel later that you owe that doctor no small portion of your sanity. She stays there in the room, answering questions, watching you, never looking away, never rushing you, not the least bit. She knows that today her role is being there. Bearing witness. She is old enough that she must have seen this many, many times. You later wonder if she got into this field knowing this day would be part of it. You want her to know that she is perfect, that you see her being unflinching and stalwart, watching over you until the questions are exhausted and you think you can leave, even if it is to go back into a world where there was never going to be this baby.

As glad as you were to tell who you told about the pregnancy, you are exactly a hundred thousand times as unglad to bear this news. You call your boss first, because the primary impact on your immediate life is that you will need to be off work for at least a couple of weeks. This is what they call a “missed miscarriage,” where the fetus lived to perhaps eight or nine weeks of gestation, but your body stayed pregnant all the same, put you through that nightmare of sickness and stress for nothing. Less than nothing. That anger comes a little later, not just yet. In any event, you won’t be back at your desk until the material of the pregnancy is gone, one way or another.

But your boss. When you call her, she lets out almost a shout of anguish like you would never have expected from her. That is the extent of her breaking down, though. She can be a stickler and hard driver, but she is unstinting in her understanding of this situation. Take the time you need, we will work out the medical leave details, we’ll see you in a few weeks. This is definitely one of those things, if you can manage it, to set up ahead of time if you are going to have a miscarriage—work for a good company and a good boss. Recognize your tremendous good fortune in this.

It’s hard to feel any good fortune when you call your mother. She is just as crushed as you might expect. You knew this would be the worst of the calls. And it undoes you. You talk it through with her, but that is the most you can do on this day. You can’t remember whether you ask or she offers to give the news to your siblings, but you are grateful not to make those calls. And glad that someone else can help shoulder your mom’s hurt. You can’t bring yourself to call the friends, either. You ask your poor stoic husband to make those calls, in addition to telling his parents. Later on, one friend, a mutual friend who knew him first and then became close to you, notes it is the only time she has heard him cry.

That is the first day of not-pregnancy. The second goes little better. You go back to your OBGYN, who advises you on options. You could have a D&C, but the idea of general anaesthesia and surgery horrifies you irrationally. On a more sane level, you object to medicalizing this experience any further, and want to give your body a chance to resolve it naturally. The doctor explains how that will work, how it will feel. There is talk of the cramps, of the gush of fluids that will arrive at the culmination. The timeline isn’t clear—any day, or weeks from now. This isn’t appealing, but you like the idea of giving your body a chance to redeem itself. Or, you can stand the idea without wanting to run for your life, like you do when you think about the surgical option. As though you could outrun any of this, anyway. You will wait for it to come instead.

And so that’s the beginning of the waiting. It is awful, but not unrelentingly. You resent that it is, and that it isn’t. If you had questions about the effects of state of mind on pregnancy, they are answered by the almost-immediate disappearance of the vicious heartburn and sickness. The intellectual knowledge of the pregnancy’s non-viability seems to have wrought this distinct physical change, and your gratitude is voluminous. You never would have guessed that being able to not eat would be such a relief. You relish that, and also resent your enjoyment of it. You spend a lot of the following couple of weeks enjoying and resenting everything around you in turn.

Not your husband, though. He is a rock. He stays home with you as much as he can, and you honestly enjoy it. You feel guilty over the occasional stray thought about the luxury of taking two straight weeks off work outside of Christmastime. But mostly—you can’t properly say you have “fun,” because that isn’t on your spectrum. You pass the time, mostly pleasantly. There is a lot of TV- and movie-watching. Not a lot of going out and about—you can’t be sure that something dramatically messy won’t happen while you’re away from home. And you do spend a large share of time grieving, feeling angry or sad either in the background or foreground.

You are able to shield the kids from the worst of it. You hadn’t talked to them about the pregnancy and certainly aren’t about to start. You allude to “going through a sad time” and tell them not to worry. They are comforts to you without knowing it. They reduce the scale of this tragedy from monumental to minimal. You have had a turn at motherhood, two turns, and this cannot take that from you.

You are aware pretty continuously, for that matter, of all the things that make this less terrible. Husband (both the existence and character thereof), family, boss, work situation, children. Home. Comforts.

Like the Gatorade. Now you can loop back to that. You spend your two weeks off waiting for intermittent bleeding and cramping to ramp up. This is not terribly painful in a bodily way, but it is thumbscrews to your equanimity. Finally, heading into your final weekend of time off—and it could have been extended, but that’s not the issue—early, early one morning there are major cramps. Like the contractions you felt in labor, but in miniature. You are in bed, and you breathe through them, and there is more bleeding, but not the burst the doctor said to expect. You call your mother and ask her to come stay the weekend, as your kids will be at your house and you might be out of commission. Oh, and it was her birthday, the week prior. You can celebrate, as odd as that may seem.

So. Early the next morning, a Saturday. The contractions resume. This time you are ready. It’s time to go sit in your bathroom, and finally, finally that telltale burst of liquid comes, and here you’ve reached the limit to what you can or should put into words. You will be there, on that toilet, for a few solid hours. That’s where the Gatorade comes in; it’s mead of the gods when one of your internal organs is methodically dumping its contents. Your husband (you should try have a spouse, preferably a high-caliber one, if you’re going to get into this mess) should wait outside the door, ready to bring you anything at all. The waves of contraction-ettes continue and subside, and they hurt kind of a lot, but what’s worse is your legs falling asleep. You feel like you have to be careful about changing positions while the bulk of the material is passing.

“The material,” you should know, is not recognizable as anything. You’ve heard that in some cases it is, but thankfully, for you, that tiny still figure on the monitor is never identifiable. There is a lot of blood and menstrual-like tissue. You wait out this purgation in a favorite old t-shirt and no other clothes, and you sip your sports drink and bouillon and you don’t dehydrate or vomit or die. Eventually the cramps subside. And, depending on your definition, it’s over.

This means you’re an old hand when the second miscarriage comes along just about five months later. Not that knowing the drill helps much; it doesn’t. You start bleeding literally the hour before the first ultrasound this time, which happens two weeks earlier in the process, so your brain is already brimming with curses and anger. You expect the bad news. You don’t even see a little figure on the ultrasound screen. There is no doctor to be your shieldmaiden through the process of accepting this one, but that’s okay—the tech telling you what’s up in a sympathetic tone and expressing her condolences is enough. What does help (or “help”) is that you didn’t tell anyone, and that you never even got sick, spent no interminable weeks stewing in your own stomach acid. All that showed on the screen was an “egg sac,” no tiny human potentiality that you could identify. Nothing to see here. You leave the lab and call your husband with the news, unsure of whether you are too callous or not enough. This time you go back to work that same day.

In fact, absent our new-fangled pee sticks and technology, you wouldn’t have known about this miscarriage at all. You would have had a several-weeks-late, extra-heavy period, the end. You might guess what happened after the fact, but there would be comfort in a less-definitive narrative. So you somewhat rue the knowledge, but you remember that without knowing the previous time you would have been rudely shocked at the actuality. Knowing you were pregnant is also what made you tell everybody you care about, and then hurt them. This means you are glad you didn’t tell anybody this time.

But you also wish you could. It burns you to keep eliding this from your life, particularly when talking to your mother. It’s worth it, not dragging her through it with you—it would have been the third awful thing in her life right then—but it stings, too. After a while you start wanting people to know. There’s no shame here, although there is some desire for privacy. But you find yourself telling a friend. That first friend that you told the first time. She is going through her own, much worse, hell at the time. She is brilliant and supportive anyway, maybe even because of her own circumstances. You remember for not the first time that letting people in and letting them help is a gift to both of you.

And that’s when you find yourself writing this, feeling sure you should be writing this. You should write about it, let it out and let it go. Write it now, before you try again, before you can have any inkling of a conventional happy ending. The happiness of your ending can’t wait for or depend on the “she DID get pregnant and HAD her baby and they lived happily ever after” conclusion. You imagine putting it out there, and someone reading it and feeling good for having read it, or recognized themselves. You imagine offering sympathy to people who have been here and accepting it in return. How to have a miscarriage is, you keep breathing. It will end. You will keep going.

 

Photo via gabrielcarlson/flickr.

Amanda Holm is an editor at heart, but will write original thoughts under duress. She documents the scents of the Motor City at @smellsofdetroit.

54 Comments / Post A Comment

sunbeam

Oh my god. Thank you for sharing this experience. I have not yet had (or tried to have) any children but I saw my mother go through several miscarriages (one of which I was too young to understand)and this made me weep for both her and you.

thebuffster@twitter

Although I can't identify with your experience, this was absolutely beautiful writing and very moving. Thank you so much for sharing.

FlufferNutter

Echoing the thoughts above. Beautiful and powerful work, Amanda. Thank you for sharing. It helps me better understand the experiences of women in my life who have been through this.

stonefruit

Oh, ow. This was heartbreaking and so beautifully written. Thank you for sharing this with us, it was so brave and well done.

Olliegator

This is beautiful. I had a miscarriage at 12 weeks several years ago, and though it was an unintended pregnancy, from time to time I think "I could have a 10 year old right now..." You describe the actual event (I too did it naturally) in a way that makes me wish you were in my life 10 years ago. So exhausting in every way. Truly, the Gatorade tip is not lost on me. I am so very sorry for your losses. It sounds like you have an incredible family and support system. Thank you for writing this. I am sure it will help heal others, and I hope it helped heal you.

bryn

Thank you for writing this. I had a similar experience about 5 years ago. Wasn't prepared for how much like labor it was going to be. This was so beautifully written.

Officedronette

Thank you for writing this so beautifully. I had a missed miscarriage last month, my first pregnancy, long awaited and very much wanted, and though I opted to complete the miscarriage surgically, so much of this resonated for me.

I hope writing this was healing for you. One of the first things I did the day after we found out was to grab my laptop, lay in bed, and write it all out.

Thank you for sharing your experience. Women need these stories. I read every account of miscarriage I could find, and each woman's story helped me so much as I dealt with my grief. Not only to feel less alone, but also to provide the reassurance that I would make it through the grief. Thank you.

roseandthen

This rocked me. I've never read anything like it. I'm glad that it exists, and that you told your story. And I'm so sorry for what you're going through. This one will stay with me. Take care.

Winter Wooskie

Thank you for sharing this. I had a miscarriage at 11 wks a few months ago and your post was comforting to read. Beautifully written.

MandaX

Thanks, all. Hearing all this is exactly why I wanted it to be out in the world. You're all very kind and I am glad it's helpful.

I also popped in to say that I munged my very own Twitter handle when I submitted this, argh. I'm @smellsofdetroit without the underscores, if anyone was wondering.

April Genung@facebook

This was so similar to my own experience, except after waiting three weeks I had to take medication to remind my body to let go. Thank you for writing about this so beautifully.

aka
aka

This is so beautifully written, and so heartbreaking. I'm sorry you went through this, but I admire you and thank you for sharing this essay.

Kate Baum@facebook

Thank you for writing this. My heart is aching for you.

eizverson22

Birth of a child, it takes a lot of thought.

JessGo

Thanks for this. I feel like so many people go through this but none of us really wants to talk about it (except for the times where you just want to scream it at the top of your lungs to everyone). When I got pregnant again after my miscarriage (took almost a year-it sucked) I didn't tell anyone I was pregnant until I was almost in my 3rd trimester. Everyone thought I was hilarious for trying to keep it a secret. Nope, sadly, I just thought saying it out loud would jinx the whole thing.

tofuswalkman

you are a talented writer. this was beautiful. i'm sorry you went through this, but thank you for sharing it with us.

Vivie Loxton@facebook

Join me celebrate for these great and perfect day which my lord God has done for using these great and powerful healing doctor called DR ABEGBE to heal my sickness HIV/AIDS which has been chocking me up for over 5years now without solutions, i have seek for solutions online, and through hospital, they keep on giving me orientations about drugs that can extend my years.now since DR ABEGBE has helped me to erased my disease out of my life, i we owe you greatly for healing me truly and to again, contact Dr ABEGBE for hiv cure today at: DR.ABEGBESPELLHOME@GMAIL.COM OR DR.ABEGBESPELLHOME@HOTMAIL.COM +2348113017989

Tracy Sherman@facebook

I recognize myself. Thank you for sharing. We had a missed abortion the first time, and 2 months later, were pregnant again. 17 weeks later, we were in abortion clinic because our baby was not coming home from the hospital with us. Remember the movie, Dead Man Walking? We had dead baby kicking. So as we scrapped together the money for a termination we did not want (because our insurance will only cover it when the mother's life is in danger, not when the fetus is not viable - they are bastards), after paying for DNA tests too new to be covered by insurance, I wondered how other people (younger people...) with less stable jobs paid for this. I started an abortion fund so that others who want to show mercy can afford to do so. Being over 40 is nice when you consider your career, your home, relationships. But it sucks badly when you want another child. I encourage people to donate to their local Funds, they are caring people who want to help when no one else will. Check out fundabortionnow.org to find a Fund. And hold off showing your baby pictures to your friends until you know those pictures won't break her heart.

anna_havana

Dear Amanda, thank you for this. I had a VIP a couple of weeks ago. I went in for my 12-week sonogram, and the doctor informed me there was something very wrong with my baby. She said the pregnancy was "incompatible with life", and that we needed to terminate the pregnancy as soon as possible. And so we did. Although she followed all protocols, I'm sure, to make it sound like I had a choice, I didn't really. For all effects and purposes, it really felt like a miscarriage. So again, thank you for writing this. Ever since that day, I'd been feeling like no one would ever understand how awful I've been feeling. My husband, friends and family all did their best at trying to console me - in vain. But this really helped. You described exactly how I've been feeling. Word for word. Thank you. It's been a very lonely couple of weeks, but I can safely say, I don't feel lonely now.

Vixen Feyfire@facebook

Thank you SO much for writing this. I had nearly the same ultrasound at age 36 - the tech became quiet & then said "I will get the doctor". He explained to me that we were seeing a baby but there was no heartbeat...maybe not as supportive as your doctor was, but calm & matter-of-fact that "we do see this quite a bit in high-risk situations" (age & diabetes), & giving me the options. After the D&C, the analysis showed "healthy female tissue" - no definable reason for the lack of life there. That was the hard part, I think...I wanted a reason. Your narrative helped me, nearly fourteen years after-the-fact, just reading someone else's experience, because that all felt so very isolated & alone, even with an amazing husband's love & support. Much the same scenario - he made the family phone calls, did everything that needed done. It still feels lonely when people talk pregnancy details over lunch at work or in the social settings...I, too, could share that I had symptoms X, Y, or Z, but no one wants to hear that from someone who did not successfully deliver - especially when the conversation is due to a present pregnancy at hand. It is hard & painful to hold our own stories inside...your sharing of yours helps the rest of us, more than I can say.

JB Notah@facebook

Thank you for sharing your experience. I, too, had miscarriages, five, in fact. It was heart-wrenching and scary to go through all of them. Some babies were merely 12 weeks and 6 months for the longest I had carried. It is strange for me to read this article today. Because today is my firstborn's birthday. She is now 20 years old. When I got pregnant with her, I had little hope of carrying to term. But, she was a strong, feisty girl who wanted her place in the world. I would go on to have two more boys who are now 15 and 7. Thank you for sharing your experience and am happy to share mine.

Penny Rene Russell Janiak@facebook

Thank you for writing and sharing this. Unfortunately, I can identify with this. I hate that I can, but there it is. I won't ever forget my 2 miscarriages. One, that only my husband knew of, and another which the whole family know of. Both were equally heartbreaking. I have 2 children now and, for all the info out there on pregnancy, there is too little available on miscarriage.
Again, thank you.

IAmSam22

Thank you for sharing your story. I also had a miscarriage though completely different from your's. I was only 18 & had just recently gotten engaged. Unfortunately the miscarriage ruined that, but he was amazing & there for me completely during it. I was 12 weeks along & had just found out that my hcg levels were too low & that there might be something wrong. A couple days later I started bleeding very lightly but was told it could be nothing. Then a few days later I had severe cramps. I rushed to the hospital, but because it was late they put me in a room in the labor & delivery part of the hospital. The next morning my OBGYN arrived & did a bunch of tests. I was pregnant with twins, but there was one stuck in my tube & just an empty sac left in my uterus. They had to do a D&C & also give me a small dose of chemo to make the baby in my tube pass. I was told I had a lot of issues & might never be able to have kids. Almost 4 years later I got pregnant & although it was a very rough pregnancy, I now have a gorgeous almost 4 year old daughter with a different man. Miracles happen. It sounds like you're already surrounded by quite a few wonderful miracles.

cakeums

Thank you for putting yourself out there to help others understand. I had 5 miscarriages in my early 20s - 4 before my firstborn daughter and the 5th a couple of years before my second daughter came along. It isn't lost on me that, should I choose to have another baby, I could be looking at going through it all over again as it's been 11 years since my first loss and I'm now in my early 30s. It won't get any easier to have a sticky pregnancy with age...

Cristina Bush@facebook

Very beautiful. Thank you for sharing.

Stacie

So sorry. We don't deal with this well in our culture. I had a friend experience miscarriage recently and wrote this with her in mind, about the Japanese ceremony of Mizuko Kuyo, a way to honor and acknowledge miscarriages and babies born still: http://www.staciebingham.com/my-blog/mizuko-kuyo-the-loss-of-a-water-baby

Brianna Earles@facebook

I love you for your bravery and honesty. The telling of your story has changed this world for so many people. <3 I wish you peace and continued happiness.

sufirose

Thank you for putting yourself out there to help others understand
Highly fragant candle

sufirose

Thank you for putting yourself out there to help others understand
Highly fragant candle

Christina M

I know so many women go through this, but reading such a personal, and detailed narrative has helped me. I had just celebrated my 26th birthday, and a week later, the day before my first ultrasound I had started spotting. They told me that although I was 7 weeks the baby only measure 5 and they couldn't see the heartbeat. I miscarried the following week. Next month will be one year since it happened, and I know there's a piece of me that will always grieve my lost baby.

Michelle Kurulok@facebook

After 25 miscarriages, I have never found the words to explain it. Thank you for sharing this.

Jill Johnson Hauser@facebook

This story replicates my experience but with two exceptions. I chose to have a D&C at 11 weeks. Then almost 6 weeks later I had a spontaneous miscarriage at 3 weeks. Fortunately, I was able to get pregnant again (although it was the pregnancy from hell) but I have a beautiful 7 year old son. And I'm DONE having babies. The breeding instinct is gone thank goodness.

Cathie Hefferen@facebook

Thankyou for writing this beautiful well written piece!! Its as if you have seen inside my head and finally written it down.!! Ive survived two recently in exactly the above scenario's and its never easy. Putting it out there helps others heal or at least connect and feel human again. Goodluck!

34620294@twitter

"You imagine putting it out there, and someone reading it and feeling good for having read it, or recognized themselves. You imagine offering sympathy to people who have been here and accepting it in return. How to have a miscarriage is, you keep breathing. It will end. You will keep going." Thank you. I am just recovering from this exact experience. I had a missed miscarriage at 12 weeks and then 5 months later had one at 7-8 weeks. I wrote about the first one but never really told anyone about the second one. I am also 40 and even though I know I will keep going...it is nice to hear someone else say it and validate the experience for me.

Priscilla Pasimio@facebook

Thank you for writing it down and putting it out there. Such a powerful piece, which as we can see has given light to so many women's own stories.

Thank you for the reminder to write it down, and let go. Peace be with you.

14622402@twitter

Thank you for sharing. I had a miscarriage at 9 weeks last year and I'm still sure I'll never fully get "over" it. I do have a little boy, and like you said, he helped make it more minimal than monumental, although he is still an only child and he and I wish he wasn't. Since then I lost my job and my home and now wonder if we'll ever get a chance to add another to our family, if another pregnancy will fail, etc. I'm no longer too scared to try, but remain scared overall.

The biggest thing I learned in my MC was how many women I knew who had had one (or more). We need to discuss these things more.

Kathy Appel Idsvoog@facebook

Thank you for sharing this so beautifully. I had three miscarriages and was devastated. I went through many tests to determine what was wrong. They could find nothing. Some of the tests were worse than the miscarriages. I was so tired of having my body probed and prodded I couldn't handle it any more. My friends didn't invite me to their baby showers because they thought it would be too hard for me. They were right. At 38 I got pregnant again (unplanned) and knew what would happen. But I was wrong. I delivered a beautiful, healthy baby girl! We called her our miracle baby! Four years later, I got pregnant again and had a healthy baby boy! Today these babies are 25 and 29 years old and have brought us more joy than I can say. I had totally given up hope of having any kids....all I can tell you is that sometimes, when you least expect it......miracles can happen! And I truly believe things happen for a reason.....though we may never really understand why. Good luck to you and your husband!

Michelle Leikin Ondshrafn Gase@facebook

I have had 9 losses, one was 'missed' one was a vanished twin, the rest were simply lost in a flood of pain and fluid.

you have written this so beautifully, in a way that speaks to my heart.

thank you so much for sharing your pain.

Jamie Andrews-Croom@facebook

Love how you told your story. I also share this same experience, but times 5. The passion you have brought to a subject was beautiful. Thank you for sharing.

brooklynGal

I noticed that the doctor only offered two options for miscarriage? D&C and "waiting". I am so sorry you weren't offered Misoprostol which is a medication you can take to induce a miscarriage. This way, you can literally plan when it happens, without having the surgery. No waiting. This was my painless and manageable experience. While everything else in this beautifully written piece rang true for me, I am saddened that women are still not receiving the medical options they are entitled to.

JerseyGirlinVA

THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!
I read this and now I feel like I can breathe. If feels like I wrote this myself. Unfortunatley my husband was spending time with his father who passed a few days later. I have 3 beautiful boys already but that didn't make this miscarriage any easier. I lived by the mantra I can be sad but not mad. I plan to share this article with everyone I can so they can understand the pain of miscarriage.

Kismet

Your piece just gutted me. So poignant and eloquent. I felt like I could have written it myself, had I been able to find the words. I also experienced a missed miscarriage followed by an earlier loss 5 months later. It is so isolating and you captured the feelings exactly. I am now pregnant again and hoping for the best. Thank you so much for sharing your experience.

494402091@twitter

This is a brilliant piece. I love the dark humor. It captures exactly what it's like. I've been there too. Had three early miscarriages before my daughter, and three after. The later ones were different (not as monumental, as you said) because I have my kid, thank God. I asked my doctor if we should stop trying and he said it depends on your tolerance for miscarriages. True that. Wishing you all the best.

Suzanne Lanzon@facebook

That was written by me in a world where I am an eloquent and talented writer. Thank you so much for putting my thoughts and feelings into words and for helping me through my miscarriage.

291513467@twitter

I'm currently in medical school, and I hope to be an OB/GYN. It is my hope that I can be as compassionate and caring as your physician was for you. Thank you.

CAgirl

I had 3 daughters very young. Finally met my husband, we got pregnant and 6 weeks along bad bad cramps, heavy bleeding and then what I knew had to be a miscarriage. Drs appt revealed still pregnant with the surviving twin( Male), fraternal twins they were. I always wonder if it was a boy or girl. Had a daughter not long after. Still always wonder. Unanswered thoughts. I thank you for your story. No ones ever discussed this with me. Thank you.

Angie Weidenbach-Elliott@facebook

I am at a loss for your loss. Your story, so painfully and beautifully told, hurts my heart.

Sammi Wharton@facebook

That was very honest of you. Having naturally lost 3 pregnancies in the same way and knowing that comforting words don't really matter I have truly felt that pain. The shock, pain and anger of the first. The cold defeat of the second and feeling worthless after the third. I was lucky enough to carry the fourth full term. I wish you the best. Being honest and sharing experiences makes things better but not easier for anyone. <3

StellaN

beautiful words which I can identify with. My first miscarriage was at 11 weeks - it started with spotting and then 'my baby' came out whole and so unexpectedly. Being Polynesian, we buried 'her' (I felt it was a girl) with the placenta/tissues as is our custom and planted a tree over her in a private park. For the next misscarriage 4 years later, I had a DC because it was so painful and nothing was coming - 8 weeks and the scan showed just a mass with no heartbeat. We planted a memorial tree in the same park next to the previous one. It helped with the pain and something tangible to remember. My children knew of both and were present for the tree planting ceremony. WE sometimes talk about it and they wonder if it was a boy or girl, how they would look etc. The pain of loss has gone and at 46 years old and quite so very unexpectantly (3 months after the last miscarriage) I was pregnant again and went on to have a beautiful daughter who is now 10 years old.She is my 'travel companion' a joy for my older years as her next oldest sibling is now 17. She tells me to colour my hair because when the greys start to show, she is asked if I am her grandmother and very indignantly she replies, "No, she's my mother". She keeps me young at heart but the first nights of night time feeding, the post natal bleeding, the exhaustion, had me thinking 'What was I thinking?!" well not thinking was the problem! But I will never regret having her and although she and I kid about how old I will be when she is 20, her presence in my life saves me. The marriage is over, he wasn't supportive through both miscarriges but that is another story. Thank you for sharing and letting me have a place to share about it.

Beth Arnoto-Possage Beverly@facebook

This was so eloquently written! You have described in detail exactly what I went through during my own miscarriage. I have gone through one miscarriage that I knew medically about and I'm quite sure of a second one but it was the same as above, I didn't realize it was a miscarriage until I thought about what happened months later. I haven't been able to get pregnant again and neither my husband or I had any children so this really hits home. Sometimes the only thing that remotely helps is knowing I was able to be pregnant at least once even though it wasn't meant to be a child. It sounds weird but when you can't have children for unknown reasons for some reason it makes sense. Thank you so much for puttin my own feelings and thoughts into words.

Alison Sven

Just wanted to add another thank you for writing this. Well written, it had me laughing at points which is always appreciated in a sad story. I had a missed miscarriage six months ago, and I'm still hoping every month is the month I'll get pregnant again. I also found that writing out my story helped, although I've only shared it with friends so far.

Post a Comment

You must be logged-in to post a comment.

Login To Your Account