I've written, erased, re-written, erased and so on this post so many times in my mind over the last few days that I thought when I finally sat down to write it, the words would just flow. Instead, I sit here trying to again organize my thoughts, feelings, apprehensions, etc as tears pool in my eyes for the ump-teenth time. I feel like this is such a personal and heart wrenching topic to share, but one that is also so important to be vocal about to help create support for other women suffering like myself. So please, bear with me as I open my heart and soul in hopes of providing comfort and support to someone else walking this same sad path.
In the last several months, Ryan and I had both started to feel rather strongly that it was time to start trying for Baby #2. We expected it to take awhile as it did with Noah, only to get our "big fat positive" (baby making lingo) after just our second month of trying. This was about 3 weeks ago. We were shocked with how fast it happened, but also beyond thrilled. According to the 14 pregnancy apps I downloaded (ok, 3, but still), our estimated due date was around February 25th. Baby and Noah would have been just shy of two years apart, which was great spacing in our eyes. We started to take guesses as to the gender (we both ultimately decided it was probably going to be a girl), talked about names, talked about the fun family things that we would do and how things would change with the introduction of another member to our family. Being the Type A personality that I am, I started mentally planning all of the logistics of having a new baby. Making mental wish lists of things I wish I had when Noah was first born, things I wanted to read about and maybe do differently this time around. I called and scheduled our first OB appointment and began to eagerly count down to that time when we'd find out our actual due date as well as get to see our little peanut for the first time. It's amazing how deeply invested you become, and how deeply you already love that teeny, tiny baby that you've only known about for 3 weeks.
During my early pregnancy with Noah, I experienced two episodes of bleeding. The first at 5 weeks, 5 days and the next at 6 weeks, 4 days. I remember how terrified we were going in for those early ultrasounds, expecting to hear the worst. It was an emotional rollercoaster. Instead of hearing the dreaded "M" word, we were told that I was experiencing a subchorionic hemorrhage. Anything containing the word hemorrhage immediately sounds ominous and terrifying, but in that particular case it was music to my ears. We weren't losing the baby. I just needed to take it easy and my body should take care of the rest. And it did. Noah grew healthy and strong and was delivered full term. While there was one other unexplained bleeding episode at 27 weeks, everything else went smoothly and the pregnancy as a whole was amazing.
Fast forward to this pregnancy. Based on my experience with my first pregnancy, I was terrified every time I went to the bathroom that I'd find blood. While everything turned out just fine with Noah, that didn't do much to help lessen my fears. Seeing blood during pregnancy at any stage has to be one of the worst feelings ever. Every time I'd go to the bathroom and there was no blood, I'd sigh in relief and move on about my business. That is, until Tuesday.
The week was already starting as a crazy one. Monday: My rotors were warped. My car didn't want to start easily. We discovered a my fuel was leaking. On Saturday, Noah had been diagnosed with one ear infection and the start of another. After a visit to the ENT on Monday, he was scheduled to have tubes placed on Wednesday. My friend's husband took my car to work on it Monday night, so we were left with just the truck. Tuesday: I took Noah to his last swim lesson because of the tube placement that was supposed to happen the following day. I dropped him off with my friend who does daycare for him, and got home. I went to change out of my wet swimsuit and jump in the shower. After quickly using the bathroom, I wiped, ready to breathe my sigh of relief when instead I saw red. Starting to pray fervently, I got Ryan and told him what was happening. Each of us taking a deep breath and hoping it was just another subchorionic hemorrhage, we called the OB.
Without going into the boring details, due to the OB's office inability to get on the same page, we made the 20 minute drive to their office 3 separate times that day. The final visit included an ultrasound, which showed nothing. No sac, no growth, no baby. The technician tried to remain positive, but I knew in my heart that it was for sure happening. No hoping, praying, crossing my fingers or anything else would stop the reality of the situation. I was losing/had just lost our baby. I was suddenly a part of the silent club that no woman ever wants to be a part of. The Miscarriage Club. Where all of your hopes, dreams, wishes, plans are suddenly ripped out of your grasp with no explanation. No reason. No nothing. Nothing but a big, dark void that has suddenly taken over your heart, soul and mind. Nothing but the despair, sadness, wondering, confusion and deep aching pain that all combined takes your breath away. In that instant, everything changes but somehow everything stays the same. Your entire world is suddenly shaken while the rest of the world keeps moving forward like nothing is different. As we left the OB's office, I couldn't bear to look around the waiting room. There sat all these ladies in various stages of pregnancy. All of those women still had living babies in them. I however, had nothing. My face of tears, agony and pain had no place among that happy, hope-filled crowd.
I cried an ocean of tears on Tuesday. I felt my heart shatter, my soul rip and my mind crack. There is such a whirlwind of emotions that happen at once they threaten to consume you and steal your sanity, even if just briefly. What if I had done x,y,z differently? What if I forgot to do this or that? What if Heavenly Father doesn't think I'm ready to have another of His children yet? What if, what if, what if?!? Those questions alone are enough to drown in. You feel angry that it's happening. You feel sad that this little tiny baby has been taken from you before you had a chance to know them. You feel broken, like a part of you is missing. You can google search statistics to make yourself feel better, but those numbers don't take away the pain. You had a baby, a new life that was growing within you one minute, and the next, it's no more. It's nearly impossible to wrap your mind around such a thing. I wanted to be strong, I wanted to be able to really feel it when people said things like "Well, it's all in God's plan". Instead, it just made me want to punch someone in the face. Maybe that's why miscarriage is such a taboo topic. There is no right thing to say. I couldn't tell someone what to say to me that would have been ok. When you've just lost your baby, everything is just wrong. In those moments, Everything. Is. Just. Wrong.
I have known people who have experienced loss before, both with miscarriage and still births. I never knew what to say or do in those situations. I still don't really know to be honest. But, speaking now from personal experience, here are some suggestions for you when dealing with a person suffering from this loss.
1. Don't try to fix it. This includes trying to "explain" why this is happening. Maybe some time from now, weeks, months, etc that will be ok. But right now, no explanation is going to make sense. I was pregnant this morning, and now I'm not. Your kind words of this being part of a grander plan are not, at this moment, going to fill that void.
2. A simple "I'm so sorry. I love you. My heart is breaking for you." goes way farther than an explanation for the situation. See #1.
3. Ice cream, cake, candy and hugs. Enough said.
4. Remember that if you feel awkward, I feel even more awkward. You don't know what to say, well neither do I. Create a safe place for feelings to be felt. Be prepared for me to be laughing one minute, and dissolving into tears the next. This is ok. This is normal. Treat it as such.
5. Reach out. This is an incredibly lonely process. It's incredibly personal too. Between those things, it's easy to want to isolate. Especially if you know the people around you are uncomfortable. I might not have it in me to reach out to you, but will grasp at the "life raft" of friendship you throw.
6. Give me space. While #5 is important, so is this. Grieving is a process. I need friends, but I also need space. I've got to have some me time to figure out how I'm going to move forward. And it takes time.
There are many other tips and suggestions I could list, but those are the ones that are at the front of my mind.
For those of you who are experiencing this horrible loss, here are some things I'm learning that I want to share with you. Some I already believe, others I know I will believe in time. Perhaps sharing them here will help me to further accept them as truths myself.
1. You are not alone. No matter if you have miscarried, experienced a still birth, or even the loss of a child, remind yourself that you are not alone. It's all more common than you think (sadly enough), and there are others who have walked this painful path before you.
2. It was NOT your fault. No matter what questions you come up with, or what potential situations COULD have caused it, ultimately, it was not your fault. But even knowing that logically, be prepared to keep questioning and wondering. Your heart may take longer to accept the fact that it was beyond your control than your mind.
3. No matter when you had your loss (5 weeks, 20 weeks, 42 weeks), you still lost. Do not compare, do not try to minimize, do not try to convince yourself that you have no right to grieve. I think that being farther along would have been more challenging. But even though I was only 7 weeks, as I watch my son play, I am reminded as to what I've lost. If this baby had continued to grow, I would have felt it move within me. I would have given birth and held it in my arms. I would have lost sleep as we nursed around the clock. I would have been there when they were given a name and a blessing. I would have been able to experience their first smile, their first laugh, their first words. All of those firsts that I have been a part of with Noah, I would have been a part of with this baby. And now I won't. And that holds to true for the mother who lost her baby at 13 weeks, for the mother who experienced a still birth at 21 weeks, for the mother who delivered her baby only to have complications take them too soon from this life. We have all lost, regardless of when on the path it happened.
4. This is a lonely, sad and painful process. You won't know what to say. You won't know how to respond when the cashier asks "How's it going?". You won't know how to discuss the details of what's happening physically and emotionally with someone who has never been here. What if you share too much? What if you don't share enough and you are drowning in your feelings? Those what ifs will make their come back and will try to suck you in. You've got to do your best to not let that happen.
5. It's okay to laugh. It's okay to cry. It's okay to feel the whole broad spectrum of feelings you are bound to feel over the next while. Let yourself grieve. Whatever that means for your specific situation, just let it happen. It's normal. It's needed. It's good.
6. Reach out. It's easy to turn inward, to isolate and shut everything and everyone out, but try to resist. You'd be surprised what support you'll find by reaching out, even just a little. If you don't have family or friends that understand, find a loss support group online. Finding others who understand provides a soothing balm that helps ease the pain.
7. Give yourself time and space. You don't have to jump right back into normal life. If you want to, and that will help you heal, then go for it. But taking the time to grieve and mourn is important. Do something just for you. Get your hair cut or your nails done. Take time to read a book or write down your thoughts and feelings. No one expects you to be fine overnight, so don't put that pressure on yourself either.
The day after my miscarriage began, I came across this quote on my Facebook news feed. It found a way into the shattered mess that is my heart and held on for dear life. I printed it out and stuck it in a frame by my desk so I can glance at it frequently as each day passes and I move one foot in front of the other with a healed self as my end goal. It's a quote from a book by the apostle Jeffrey R. Holland, from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. It reads (emphasis added):
"It may be that among all the broken things God loves, He loves a broken heart most of all.
So when our day of sacrifice comes - and perhaps sorrow will come with it - be trusting and be believing. Know that God will accept your offering and that, through the great miracle of the Atonement of Jesus Christ, He will give your heart back to you
healed and
whole. That is the ultimate truth taught by the Resurrection. Christ, the Great Healer, will make recompense for us in time and in eternity.
By His grace and the goodness of God, all broken vessels are fully repaired."
While I didn't want to be reminded by those around me that all of this was part of some plan, I've been able to arrive at that conclusion myself. It's still a work in progress. I'm still hurting. I'm still grieving. I'm still randomly bursting into tears when I come across something that reminds me of what I've lost. But deep down, above all else, I know that Heavenly Father is aware of me. I know that He knows the pain and anguish I'm experiencing. I know that both he and my Savior are extending their open arms to me, inviting me in. It brings to mind one of my favorite scripture verses, John 14:27. "Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you; not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid."
To my sweet teeny, tiny baby: My heart aches in ways that words cannot describe that we have had to say goodbye before we ever really got to say hello. We love you, and will always wonder what could have been. I know that we'll meet someday. Until that time, I pray that Heavenly Father will keep you close and hold you for me.
I love you my baby,
-your mommy
