Why I Talk About My Miscarriage

I remember exactly where I was when I got that positive pregnancy test. I was at my parents’ house celebrating my Dad’s 60th birthday and we were so excited. We had our older son walk out to my family with a shirt on that said “Big Brother.” I remember exactly where I was a week later when I started heavily spotting. I was at my nephew’s first birthday party in their upstairs bathroom. I frantically searched for a new OB/GYN as we had recently moved. I remember the cold way the doctor told me there was no baby due to a blighted ovum. The front desk lady insensitively asking me with tears streaming down my face if I wanted the appointment summary. I remember telling people and how uncomfortable it made some of them feel. I could tell they didn’t want me to talk about it.

I talk about my miscarriage because as soon as I started talking about it, I realized I wasn’t alone. One in four pregnancies end in miscarriage, yet it’s something no one wants to talk about. I know, it’s hard to talk about. It still brings tears to my eyes. But when some people acted like it never happened, it hurt. It made me question my grief.

I remember sitting there just waiting for the medicine to kick in to make my belly expel the empty sac I had been carrying for weeks. They warned me the pain could be unbearable but I felt nothing when I passed the amniotic sac. I remember the humiliation of being out shopping and running to the restroom because I was still bleeding six weeks later. I walked out of the store wearing one of my son’s diapers, the only thing I had, to keep from bleeding through my pants. I remember when my brother called to tell me they were expecting their second with a due date two days from what my baby’s would have been. It’s hard when you’re so happy for their news but seeing an ultrasound of a healthy baby just reminds you of all that you have lost.

I talk about my miscarriage because I know how overwhelming it can all feel. From the unknown to the heartache, it can feel like too much. I had no one to ask all of my questions. How bad would it hurt? How long would I bleed? After being treated poorly at the doctor’s office, I relied on Google and ended up completely terrified when there was no need to be.

I remember standing in the kitchen on my husband’s 30th birthday making him cupcakes when the bleeding came again, but this time wouldn’t stop. I called my husband through the labored breathing of a panic attack to let him know that I was on the toilet and I might pass out from blood loss before he could get home. I thought I was going to die right in front of my son. I remember walking into the ER with a bath towel between my legs because the bleeding was so intense. I remember the first thing the doctor on call said was that I was an inconvenience because I went to the hospital closest to me instead of to him. They told me I had not passed all of the fetal tissue and would require a D&C. I later learned that my doctor should have tested my hormone levels again after the first miscarrying procedure at home to make sure I had passed everything. She didn’t. I remember waking up from surgery and feeling a sense of relief that this seven-week long nightmare was finally over.

I talk about my miscarriage because I want women to know there are certain protocols to follow and that no one should ever treat you as an inconvenience. I want women to know that it’s okay to feel as though your world has stopped and you’re drowning in grief. I want women to know that so many others have the same story to tell. They might not be ready to share their story just yet, but I encourage them to do it when ready. I wish I could take away the hurt, but I know that I can’t. The one thing I can do is share my story. To be there to listen, or to talk, to grieve, or to provide a needed laugh. Know that you are not alone.

If you or anyone you know is going through a miscarriage, please feel free to reach out.