I’ll never forget that dark, cold ultrasound room. The teary-eyed, compassionate radiologist. The look of pity in her eyes as she told us that our 10-week-old baby was no longer alive. My midwife told me she was so sorry, and hung up the phone.
And so began the hardest week of my life. A week of silent suffering.
My dear friend Shelly was so right when she looked me in the eyes and said,
“Nothing will ever tear you apart quite like this does.”
We waited a week, and went in for a follow-up ultrasound just to be sure. They did two different kinds, spent about 20 minutes looking in depth, and just plain nothing had changed. Our baby had stopped developing around seven weeks.
For weeks I had been carrying my lifeless baby, completely unaware. I avoided alcohol and caffeine. I didn’t do any heavy lifting. I tried to keep my calorie intake up despite constant and severe nausea and vomiting. My body just never caught on.
After five days of lying in bed, numb and quiet, with tears intertwined, I went in for a consult with a local OB. She explained that she was concerned about other, potentially dangerous complications. She asked when I had eaten last, and scheduled my D&C for later that night. I signed the papers and left, barely remembering a word she had said.
We drove home, terrified not only for a procedure I’d never had (and hoped to never have), but now we were fearing for my own health too. I’ve never felt so helpless as in that moment.
I was discharged from the hospital a few hours after the procedure. On my birthday of all days. A day that’s usually full of joy, was so full of pain.
I woke up and wept. It was really over. There would be no growing belly in the summer, no gender reveal, no baby shower, no Christmas baby. I had gone from sky high to depths of despair in the matter of one week.
And I’ll never forget what that radiologist told me after my last ultrasound.
“I know it’s hard. It feels unfair to see beaming pregnant women everywhere you go. It’s hard to see even me sitting here pregnant. But what you don’t know is that this is my in-vitro baby, and so is my son. I’ve had two miscarriages and years of infertility. And one of the beaming women you saw in the waiting room? She had three miscarriages before that baby.
Miscarriage is a silent suffering, and I don’t know why people never talk about it.”
I left that room and decided that eventually I was going to break the silence. Because the truth is, I’m far from the only one who’s been through this.
I’m not the only one who’s wept in a dark ultrasound room. I’m not the only one who has wondered if she’ll ever hold any of her babies on this side of heaven. I’m not the only one who’s had her dreams crushed.
Miscarriage is a tragedy. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever been through. It’s a private mourning. And part of my heart will always be in heaven, looking forward to the day I get to meet my sweet baby.
But we don’t have to do this alone. And so I share my story in hopes of helping other women realize that they’re not alone. In hopes of helping other people realize just how devastating miscarriage is. Instead of keeping it locked up inside my heart, I want to share our story.