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I ran into an old friend the other day who told me his wife is 12 weeks pregnant. Oh! I started to say. I would’ve…
I would’ve been 12 weeks pregnant this weekend too.
I stop myself before I say it. I talk about and live through infertility and miscarriage so much that sometimes I forget that you don’t just nonchalantly announce to an old friend that you had a miscarriage last week. I don’t want to be one of those people that overshares — you know the people I’m talking about. The ones who share way too much personal information with way too many people. And I’m not looking for sympathy either. Most of all, I don’t want to make him feel uncomfortable and awkward, leaving him unsure of what to say, when really I’m just making conversation.
I know — there are people out there saying that I should’ve spoken up, should’ve talked about it, destigmatize it. I get it. I’m just not sure this is the time or place.
Maybe it’s more the time or place on a night like tonight, when a friend at dinner who knows about my miscarriage asks me how I’m doing. I shrug and say alright — truthfully, alright — unsure, once again, of how much to share or even where to start. She looks at me, surprised, when I tell her this miscarriage has been much more difficult than my previous one. Oh really? she asks.
And I realize she has no idea.
I wish she — or any of my friends at this table — had experienced a miscarriage before so someone knew what I was talking about, I instinctively think without thinking. Then I quickly take it back. I don’t wish that on anyone, let alone a good friend.
But how do you explain to someone what it’s like to lose a baby?
And so that’s the response I settle on: Alright. I’m doing alright.
Here are all of the things I don’t say.
How it Feels to Have a Miscarriage
I don’t tell her that — you hear how our friend at dinner is saying how exhausted she is, no matter how much she sleeps, since she’s 10 weeks pregnant? — I don’t tell her that’s how it feels to lose a baby too, not just have one.
I don’t tell her how you have to wait to miscarry even after you know the baby is gone — whether you wait to miscarry naturally or take medicine or opt for the D+C. I don’t tell her how excruciating that wait is, how brutal. How every day when you wake up you wonder if you’re going to start bleeding at work or in the middle of the night or when you’re out with friends. How you’re afraid to do anything or go anywhere, how you have no idea what to expect.
And how even after you miscarry you can’t be sure that everything has actually passed — how even the doctor after an ultrasound can’t tell for sure. I don’t tell her that I had to take misoprostol because the doctor thought there was still some tissue left — how I didn’t want to but didn’t know what else to do. How I felt like I had to do whatever the doctors recommended, how it’s not like you have the time to get a second opinion. How everything has to happen fast to not prevent an infection, but how in reality everything happens so slow. How you have to make decisions you never wanted to make. How three weeks post miscarriage, long after everyone else has forgotten about it, it’s still not all resolved, how I’m still waiting for my HCG levels to get back to zero.
I don’t tell her that miscarrying is scary. That passing so many blood clots made me lightheaded and dizzy. That I laid down in the bathroom in the middle of the night and had to crawl back into bed so I wouldn’t pass out. That heavy bleeding and passing all of the tissue takes much longer sometimes than the couple of hours the doctors predict.
When she tells me she thinks I’ll get pregnant again soon with a healthy child — like I did last time shortly after I miscarried — I don’t tell her how I can understand now why people take a break from “trying” after a miscarriage. How much miscarriage tears apart your body and your emotions. How getting pregnant again — which I do, in fact, want — makes me nervous now too. How I don’t even know how I’d react if I got another positive test right now.
I don’t tell her that I feel a little awkward talking about baby names and registry items with the friends that are pregnant here at dinner and want advice — especially when baby names are brought up that we talked about for this baby. That for some reason it doesn’t make me jealous anymore, but just sad. That I’m just so incredibly disappointed and exhausted. That I know life isn’t supposed to be fair and that God never promised that life would be easy but it’s just that…it’s still not fair.
When she asks if they know why I miscarried, I shrug instead of telling her that it’s not the norm for OBs to investigate it or figure anything out. I don’t bring up how sometimes I feel like I’m beyond trying to figure anything out anymore too. I don’t vent about the fact that I don’t understand why it’s so hard for me to get pregnant and then stay pregnant and how frustrating that is. How depressing it was to haul back out all of the fertility supplements and vitamins and powders that I had put away when I found out I was pregnant. To think about going through all of that again.
And I don’t mention the worst part of it all: The part where I feel like I’m letting everyone else down. The feeling that there’s something wrong with my body that I can’t figure out how to fix. That I’m too exhausted and let down to have the energy to do anything with my husband. How I feel guilty. How my miscarriage ruined our Labor Day weekend plans, my husband’s favorite weekend of the year up north. How he had to stay back because of me. That we get in arguments because I can tell he’s disappointed and even though I know it’s because of the situation, I still feel like it’s my fault. That I’ve let him down.
I don’t tell her how sad I am still.
And yet. There’s something else I don’t tell her either.
Because I can’t quite explain how it is that I feel just as blessed by God during this miscarriage as I did when I delivered a healthy baby boy. How I’ve been frustrated and sad and angry at God…but how I’m finally beginning to understand the meaning of “blessed are those who mourn” (Matthew 5:4) too. How “outwardly I am wasting away, yet inwardly feel renewed day by day” (2 Corinthians 4:16). How “day by day, without fail, I’m finding everything I need” (this song). How despite my inability to comprehend it, I have never been more certain as I am right now that God is in control of and has a plan for my life — and how that gives me peace. How I’ve come to realize that had I never experienced this miscarriage, I also never would have experienced this depth of God’s love for me that I feel right now. And how, at the end of all this, that somehow makes me grateful.
So if you ask me how I’m doing after my miscarriage, be prepared for me to shrug and tell you I’m alright.
Because sometimes trying to tell you what it’s like to lose a baby is just too much to explain.
My body is in the process of miscarrying. This is my first pregnancy. Everything you said was perfectly put. It’s exactly how I’m feeling right now. Thank you for verbalizing it.
Wow. Truer words have never been spoken. It’s like I wrote this. You experienced everything I have. I have gone through 7 loses. To this day I still don’t know why. I have two beautiful children. My first born I had with no problems. No idea the mountain I would have to climb for my second. 6 loses in between. I went to a specialist and shots and medicine later I was able to have my daughter. I had another loss after and stopped trying all together. Thank you for sharing your story. It truly means a lot to others who have gone through the same storm. We are not alone.
wow this just gave me so much encouragement. i feel almost exactly the same way w the process and the emotional part of it. thanks so much for sharing.
Perfect explanation for the thoughts in my head and my heavy heart. It’s been months an I can’t get over it and cry on command at a moments notice, but stop if I have to, because not everyone knows or needs to know yet. I didn’t go through the same loss as you but did suffer a loss of female twins super early, through IvF when I thought everything was great. My heart broke, world shattered, guilt set it, and “not enough time” thoughts creeped up.
I have To believe it’s in cards, but I haven’t tried again since. 6 months of straight trying to tragedy to recuperate and start again, takes a toll on the mind, body and soul. It will happen, I have faith and I hope you do too.
Thank you for your comment. I’m so sorry. There is nothing quite like the excitement of pregnancy followed by such terrible grief after a loss. You’re in my prayers!