Embracing life and healing after a miscarriage

Eight weeks ago I went to the doctor and learned I had lost my baby. I was almost 9 weeks into my pregnancy. That day, that moment I learned there was no heartbeat, is something I will carry with me forever.

This was my second pregnancy. My first was relatively simple and I was just naïve enough that I didn’t even know how lucky I was to end up with a healthy, snuggly baby after 9 months. My biggest concerns for most of the pregnancy were gaining too much weight, morning sickness, baby names and other minor issues that now seem trivial and insignificant.

My husband and I found out I was pregnant early. We had been actively trying and I was taking regular pregnancy tests. When I got my “positive”, I was ecstatic. I’m a planner and immediately began to imagine how we would transform our spare room into a little nursery and move my toddler into his own “big boy” bed so that the baby could have his crib. I made lists of baby items we would need that we didn’t have from my son. I dreamed of buying little Mary Janes for a girl or pulling out Jackson’s old baby clothes if we had another boy. I imagined pulling Jackson in his wagon with a little brother or sister, dressing them in “big brother” and “little brother” t-shirts, or Jackson kissing his little sister’s head. We began to sell some old household items on Craigslist in order to save up money for bigger ticket items – a double stroller, for instance. We kept a little “bank” with all the money we earned so that we could save it for the baby.

Then one night, out of nowhere, I started to bleed. Just a little. Enough that I noticed, but not enough that I panicked. I waited to call the doctor until the next morning. When I did, a nurse reassured me that spotting in early pregnancy is very common, that it was probably nothing to worry about. She told me to call back if the bleeding got worse or if the color turned bright red. By that afternoon, both had happened.

I called the nurse again. I was starting to panic. She had me come in right away, and because it was such short notice, I had to bring my son along with me.

Once there, they performed an ultrasound and determined that my baby had stopped growing at around 6 weeks, and there was no heartbeat.

My doctor recommended I try for a natural miscarriage, since my body had already begun to bleed. She prescribed me painkillers, and sent me home to wait. The next 4 days were a blur of intense cramps, heavy bleeding, extreme exhaustion and lots of tears. It was much worse than I had imagined – somewhere between a really terrible period and actual labor pains.

My miscarriage was terrible. I don’t think there’s any other way to say it. I have heard the same comments from well-intentioned people over and over: “It’s very common”; “It happens to 1 in 5 pregnancies”; “The baby probably had severe health problems”; “At least it happened early”. I don’t blame anyone for saying any of these things – before this happened to me, I may have said them, too. But now I realize that hearing that it’s common actually makes it worse for me – I’m terrified it could happen again, and I certainly wouldn’t wish it on anyone else.

It’s been eight weeks and I still carry so much heartache around with me that I wonder if it will ever go away. There are a lot of nights I wake up around 1 or 2am, wide awake, heart racing, something that never happened to me before my miscarriage. There are days that I just want to plop my toddler in front of the tv so I can lay on the couch and read a book. I grieve for the loss of the baby, but also for all the hopes and dreams I had for my family, for the plans I had made for us all.

There are glimmers of hope, though. I have been so blessed by the kindness of family and friends. I wake up to a happy little toddler who keeps me busy and active most of the day. I have days that I forget what I lost, and only a sad song on the radio, or a quick look at the calendar to realize I would have been 15 weeks along, will remind me of what happened.

My husband and I have been trying to decide about whether or not we want to try for another baby. The thought makes me simultaneously panic about another loss but yearn for another healthy child. I know that for me, pregnancy will never be the carefree journey it was with my first child. I will be terrified until I hear the heartbeat for the first time, and then until 12 weeks (the supposed “safe zone”, although obviously there is no real guarantee), and then until I hold my precious newborn in my arms. I just have to have faith that if I am meant to have another baby, I will. If not, I am still incredibly blessed to be raising my wild, active, rambunctious son. He is a reminder to me even on the worst days that life goes on.

For the past few weeks, I have slowly felt like myself again. I no longer want to cry when I see a pregnant woman, or want to change the channel when I watch a woman get an ultrasound on a tv show. I feel like the worst of the grief has passed, replaced now with a desire to move forward and embrace the life and family I have already. I will never forget the baby I lost. I think about it every single day. But I am finally healing, and hopeful that another baby will come in time.