I don’t ever recall learning about miscarriage in high school health class. I honestly never gave it much thought, despite hearing murmurings from relatives about how some of the women in my family had lost babies before, in between or after their other pregnancies. (And for the record, I never once heard anyone say, “I lost a fetus.” Those of us who have experienced this trauma only refer to it in one way: “I lost my baby.”)
“You just had a bad baby,” said the doctor matter-of-factly as I was doing all I could not to ugly cry. I did not know this male doctor sitting behind his desk, arms folded, telling me pretty bluntly this unplanned pregnancy was now over. “It happens. Just go home and let your body get rid of it. It just wasn’t a good baby, so you wouldn’t have wanted it anyway,” he said with zero compassion.
Let me rewind for a second, because this moment was a mix of emotions, not only because I was in shock of losing what would have been my fourth child, but because there were so many other things going on at the time that were so emotionally confusing, and I felt them all at once.
It was the beginning of November 2004 when I had that “feeling” something was off. Having gone through three pregnancies already, I was a pro at knowing the signs. The problem was: I had been planning to leave my husband. It was a very volatile and dysfunctional relationship, yet I struggled with wanting my children to grow up in a two-parent home.
When I saw the two pink lines, my heart both sank and sang at the same time. I love kids. I’ve wanted to be a mom for as long as I can remember. So the thought of another baby to snuggle and love on was pure joy. With three sons, I also wondered if this would finally be my girl. Those thoughts quickly transformed into sadness, as I had to now figure out an uncertain future with someone I no longer wanted to be with.
I decided I would just suck it up, put aside my feelings and try to make it work. I gathered my three sons—ages six through one—and told them the news. When they jumped for joy, their excitement made me cry. Not because I was happy, but because I felt guilty for wanting out of my marriage. How could I ever live with myself knowing what divorce does to kids? I took this pregnancy as a sign to hang on and keep trying.
When my husband got home from work, the boys were bursting at the seams with excitement. They wanted to give him the news, so I told him, “You’ll want to sit down for this.” As soon as he took a spot on the floor next to the kids, the boys all shouted, “Mommy’s having another baby!” He was shocked—and happy.
The next few months of the pregnancy seemed to go fine with lots of morning sickness. I had what I thought was food poisoning a few times, only to find out a few years later that it was really gallbladder attacks. I still wonder if this caused my baby so much stress that its little heart just gave out. I did have an ultrasound early on—so I know it was fine at one point.
Everything changed at the beginning of January 2005 when I began spotting around 12 weeks. The first time I wasn’t sure what was happening. I knew next to nothing about miscarriage. I wasn’t sure if some small bleeding was part of the first trimester of pregnancy.
After three days, I called my mom, a nurse, to try to sort it out. The tone of her voice told me I should be more alarmed than I was.My husband didn’t think much of the bleeding either, as it wasn’t much, and went to work instead of coming to the ultrasound appointment with me. I’ll be fine, I thought. Until I watched the ultrasound tech’s face as she kept moving the doppler around my abdomen. I saw the baby and at that moment, and I thought that was good enough. There he or she was—so that meant no problem, right?
“What do you mean get rid of it on its own? Don’t I need to go to the hospital?” I asked the doctor, completely confused. I was really upset my midwife was not in the office at that time. I really needed her to clearly explain to me what was going on. “And what do you mean by a ‘bad baby’?”
His explanation was much like the teacher in Charlie Brown and I couldn’t tell you what he said because I was too busy in my head wondering how and why this happened and what it would be like to lose the baby at home. Was I going to go into labor? Would it be painful? If I sat on the toilet, would the baby come out? And then what? I scoop it out and do what with it?
Then my thoughts switched to, “Is it my fault I lost this baby? I didn’t want to be married. Did those feelings and stress cause the baby harm?” And, “Now what? Things aren’t really any better, does this mean I can leave? Should I be grateful this pregnancy didn’t go to term?”
I left the doctor’s office grieving and confused. My emotions were all over the place and my anxiety over the unknown had me on edge.
Fast forward to midnight and I woke up in severe, but recognizable, pain. I was in labor. I was surprised by how intense it was. I was bleeding more heavily now. All I could do was cry out in pain as I sat on the toilet. I began hyperventilating at the thought of having my baby come out at that moment. I didn’t know what it would look like at 12-weeks gestation. I didn’t want to know. There were lots of large clots. Was that my baby? Oh my God, just make it stop!
My husband, feeling helpless, called 911. They asked me to walk out to the ambulance, but I could barely move. I was hunched over in pain, one contraction after another, and blood everywhere, but I eventually made it out onto the stretcher. While this was going on, my husband had awakened the neighbor to see if she could come to the house to watch the boys. EMS told him he had to follow behind, as I laid on the stretcher sobbing. It was chaos. It was awful.
We arrived a few minutes before my husband and I laid in a small ER room with glass and curtains on one side. A doctor, who I later found out was just a visiting doctor due to staff shortages, and a nurse came into the room.
I was crying and the doctor sternly asked, “What are you crying for?” although he knew the answer.
I barked back, “Because I’m losing my baby!”
“Crying isn’t going to help, so stop crying” he told me.
I could hear my husband arguing with security that he wanted to come in the room with me. It would be the only time I would be OK with his temper. I wanted him in there to save me and to fight his way in if he had to.
Things were moving so fast and I was in so much pain, but there are things in this moment that are just as vivid as I write them now as they were then.
“OK, the baby is coming and you’ll need to push,” the doctor instructed me.
I couldn’t understand why I’d need to push when the baby would be so small, but I did it anyway. He then turned to the nurse and said, “See that? It’s the foot. And that’s the head. Get me a cup.” The nurse got a clear specimen cup, as I stared at the ceiling crying. The next thing I knew the nurse placed the cup on a table next to my head and walked out of the room while talking to the doctor.
Horrified, I slowly turned my face to see the beginnings of what was my baby smooshed up against the side. I cried even harder. My husband was still not allowed in the room.
I started yelling for him through my sobs. The nurse returned and I pointed to the cup and yelled, “Is that my baby?”
She covered her mouth, even giggled a little and said, “Oops. Sorry about that” as she picked it up and left the room.
My husband was finally let in at that point and we were told I would be admitted and would require another ultrasound in the morning to “make sure it all came out.” I was even more horrified at the thought this nightmare wasn’t yet over.
When the ultrasound showed there was still tissue left behind, it was explained to me that I would need a D&C or I would be at risk for a potentially life-threatening infection. I had no idea what a D&C was, but the word “abortion” kept being thrown around. First, the miscarriage was a “spontaneous abortion” and then the D&C was a tool to complete the abortion.
At one point while in the surgery waiting area, a technician asked me indignantly, “Do you understand the procedure you’re about to have? You understand it’s an abortion, correct?” The tone in her voice made it sound like this was by choice. And while I am pro-choice, I did not choose this.
Looking back, I have so much compassion and empathy for my thirty-one year old self. So many things happened that shouldn’t have and I placed far too much blame on myself I shouldn’t have. No one to talks about this pain, the agony and the feeling of being ashamed of your own body.
It’s beautiful to see the conversation starting to change around miscarriage and pregnancy loss, with women speaking up about their experiences, as well as striving to be there for those who need it. Miscarriage is a trauma—but it isn’t one-size-fits-all. Time and distance, from what would be my first—but not my only miscarriage—has certainly helped me heal, and I know I am in a better head space to help others. It’s taken 19 years to get here but I’m ready to be a part of not allowing society to let us suffer in silence. I’m part of the movement—and I’m here right with you.
