The Second Post about Miscarriage

October is, among other things, “pregnancy and infant loss awareness month.” I couldn’t find the right words in time to post during October, but I haven’t been able to find the right words to post about anything else since then, either. I started or worked on at least 4 google docs that might materialize into blog posts someday, over the past few weeks, but they felt fake, while I feel like this.

I think the only way to spread true awareness is for women who have been through it to share their firsthand experiences, to let those who haven’t have a look at what it’s like. To give them something to work with in the empathy department. It’s hard to walk beside a friend through a storm one has not weathered herself. Here is a peek into my storm, in case your heart needs to be fortified to walk beside someone else who has this storm in her past, present, or future, too. Or in case you’re going through it now yourself, or have in the past, and need someone to walk beside you.

It took me a long time to get comfortable sharing about my first two miscarriages. You can read more about them here. But by a sad twist of fate, I’ve had a third one. Starting this October. Like, right now I’m still in the middle of it. This one has happened over the anniversary of my second one, and over my birthday (again), and during pregnancy loss awareness month (again).

My previous miscarriages occurred at 4.5 and 5.5 weeks gestation: before the onset of any pregnancy symptoms (other than a missed period). No nausea and fatigue yet. With my “rainbow baby” pregnancy after those two, my first trimester symptoms were a daily paradox of unpleasantness and discomfort against the reassurance that “the hormones are doing what they’re supposed to do, which means the baby is fine,” until I could feel the baby kick regularly and be assured of her vitality that way. This time, the nausea and fatigue started right on schedule between 6-7 weeks along. As far as I knew, that meant everything was fine. I was cheerful and chatty with the receptionist when I arrived for my standard 8-week prenatal appointment; I was making jokes with the nurses; I mentioned to the doctor that we had just found out one of our cousins was expecting twins, but we were hoping to see just one heartbeat on my ultrasound here in a minute.

And then, the doctor said, “I’m a little concerned.” She turned her screen toward me, and we both looked at an empty black blob in the middle. No jelly-bean shaped baby. No flicker of a heartbeat. She asked if my dates could be off, meaning it could be too early to see anything, but even she admitted that since I chart my fertility for Natural Family Planning, that seemed unlikely. She left the possibility for hope open, which I appreciate, but she also didn’t mince words about that more probable ending—that this is a miscarriage that, for some reason, my body isn’t finishing off on its own yet.

I must have been more shocked than I realized. I kept a straight face through the rest of the conversation with the doctor about what our next steps would be to figure out exactly what was going on. “What’s happening is happening. Now it’s up to you and me to figure it out.” I kept a straight face as I navigated myself to the lab elsewhere in the building, to get typical early pregnancy bloodwork plus an HCG level check. (I went back two days later to compare the HCG levels; they were decreasing when they should have been doubling, which confirmed our suspicions/my fears.) I had a civil “have a nice day” exchange with the ladies screening temperatures at the door on my way out. I didn’t know I was going to cry until I was unlocking my car and the tears just came. I had to sit a few minutes before it felt prudent to drive. I didn’t know what to think! It had never happened like this to me before. The other times, I had to call my doctor’s office and reschedule my first prenatal appointment from “in a few weeks” to “today, please,” because the bleeding started, alarmingly, at home. I’ve never had someone else suspect my miscarriage before I did. I’ve never been in public when the possibility/likelihood of it came to my attention.

Even before I got the blood test results back to confirm miscarriage, I knew. There should have been a tiny baby to see, even if the heartbeat couldn’t be detected yet for some reason, if there was a baby. But it was just empty. Just a black blob in the middle of the grainy black-and-white on the screen. There is no baby anymore.

And that felt completely unfair. At the time I was still feeling fatigue; I needed a nap daily—or to go to bed at 8:30pm. I still felt nausea; I’d just thrown up three days before, and if I didn’t get up and eat First Breakfast within half an hour of waking in the morning, the entire morning I’d be playing defense against feeling sick, until I could stomach the thought of something with protein long enough to get said protein into my stomach and into my bloodstream. I was still hungry all freaking day long, while nothing sounded good except specific tomato-based foods like Totino’s frozen pizza, pan con tomate, and spaghetti with marinara sauce, which, incidentally, I ate for four of my six meals one day, because seriously everything else in our house sounded gross, even though I was the one who did all the grocery shopping that week. Things that normally smell fine, smelled bad; things that normally smell bad, smelled really bad. I was still getting up to pee three or more times a night. Why is that? What evolutionary purpose did that one serve? Pregnancy is an enigma.

I don’t think it’s any secret that I do not love being pregnant. I’m friends with some unicorn moms (as in, “sparkly, enviable, rare breed of mom,” not “mother of unicorn”) who particularly enjoy being pregnant. I enjoyed the second trimester of my first pregnancy, but I’ve enjoyed very little of Being Pregnant besides that.

But even as much as I kind of hate being pregnant, there’s never been a moment of denying that, in the end, “the baby is worth it.” Because the baby is SO WORTH IT!! Yes, I hate pregnancy, but I LOVE babies. Even once they turn into opinionated, mischievous, defiant, naughty, scheming—and delightful, too—toddlers/little kids. Pregnancy sucks but it’s worth it.

Except. If there is no baby….then what?

The pregnancy symptoms all subsided over the next couple of weeks. Today, it’s been three weeks since I got the call that my HCG levels were dropping, confirming the diagnosis, and I’m just now finishing up the physical part of the miscarriage. My doctor had said to call on Monday if things hadn’t started yet. Well, they started on Sunday. My husband is taking extra good care of me, and helping so much with my usual responsibilities toward the kids and cooking. I feel well taken care of, at least.

It’s not easier, though. It’s not less painful the third time than the first, or second. I’m more calm about it, perhaps, but not less sad. I’m looking again to my friend in heaven, St. Zelie Martin, who lost several children in infancy, for her to pray for me, for my own sanctification. And I’m hugging my in-arms children extra, especially the toddler who is just barely no longer a baby herself. A sleepy, sincere hug from a one-year-old is truly a balm for a hurting mama heart.

I’m trying not to be numb. There have been days of that, to be sure. I’m trying not to be short-sighted. I know God has a good plan for our family, I just don’t know what it is; this part doesn’t feel very good. There have already been a few new pregnancy announcements among my circles, for babies due in May, as this one would have been. It’s hard to look out cheerfully at the world, even when I truly am happy for those families about their new additions. I’ve got three healthy and wonderful ones in my arms already. And now I have three in Heaven, too. I never thought, or hoped, this would be my story, but it is.

St. Baby Bobby, pray for us. (May 2018)
St. Baby Zelie, pray for us. (October 2018)
St. Baby Jude, pray for us. (October 2020)