Miscarriage & Hope

Too many friends have lost pregnancies recently and I always feel my heart aching to hear the sad news and feel their broken hearts. Miscarriage is far more common than we’d like to think it is, but that doesn’t make the experience any more common place or easy to navigate. It hurts deeply, and the loss stays with us…always.

I’ve shared parts of my own late miscarriage in quiet conversations over the years, when it was relevant or connecting. But I have never shared or written down the whole story and felt compelled to do so here in this space. I don’t know who said it or where but this quote, “There is nothing so personal that isn’t universal” comes up often in my mind. We may not experience the exact same trials, struggles, losses, or joys in life, but we all feel the emotions that come with those very things, across deepest depths and brief shallows. Empathy connects us.

So here’s my story. Our story…

Ours because my husband, Matt, felt this same loss, trauma and sadness, just through a different lens from me.

Loss was foreign and I didn’t want to know it. At 26, we planned for our second baby and assumed it would all be easy as it was with our first, and it was for the first three months of pregnancy. The horrible morning sickness and fatigue lifted as expected but the second ultrasound wasn’t routine, or joyful. I remember the technician turned the screen away from me and was silent for what felt like a long time. He left the room. The doctor on call returned with abrupt news that there was no heartbeat and I would likely miscarry any day. I couldn’t wrap my brain around what it meant. Matt was at work and I was alone to process the news…it just sat there, on the surface for days. It was something beyond my comprehension.

I wanted to hope for different news and there were plenty friends offering unsolicited and hopeful stories of someone they once knew who had been given the same news but then a heartbeat appeared weeks later at another ultrasound. They told me to have certain hormone levels check, watching for symptoms and signs to indicate all was well and on track. The doctor hadn’t given me much information or a plan of action so I just waited and felt badly that I wasn’t feeling sick anymore.

I was young, alone, caring for my 18-month-old son and away from family and friends in a new state. Matt was devastated by the news and worried in the waiting perhaps even more than I did. I remember overhearing him sob on the phone to tell his parents. We had only been married for a few years and this was a side of him I hadn’t ever known.

Weeks of waiting and still nothing happened. It was Christmas time so there was no consistency with doctors or nurses I spoke to—everyone was an on-call. The lack of consistency made things more difficult to be sure.

Another ultrasound and round of bloodwork that delivered the same news but with some urgency from the doctor that I would need to have a natural miscarriage soon or I could experience dangerous complications. I was given a prescription to initiate labor and specimen containers—those words still sound awful to me— and told to take the medication after a week if nothing happened before then, and to collect everything to bring in for testing. There was nothing that could have prepared me for what this would mean.

Nothing happened naturally. And I felt guilt, frustration, anger, fear, and deep mourning and sadness for the whole process of it.

We put our son to bed one night after Christmas, and I took the medication, expecting it to be a quick process. It hit me like a wall—regular labor contractions as painful a full-term delivery. When I could feel things moving after an hour I went to the bathroom, and sat on the toilet in time to catch our 15-week-old baby.

My body heaved sobs to see fingers and toes and Matt quickly placed her in the specimen jar and panicked as I began to hemorrhage. I didn’t know what was happening and was too exhausted to know what to do.

Things slowed and I cleaned up and went to bed. Matt woke me in a panic an hour later—I was still hemorrhaging and he knew we needed to get to the hospital fast. It was a blur as I was in and out of consciousness, but he somehow got me dressed, woke our son, and got us all in the car to drive 45 minutes to the nearest Army hospital. I was able to walk to the ER desk to ask for help, and I laugh to think of the woman at the registration desk casually handing me a clip board of papers to fill out as I stood there in an ever-growing pool of blood.

“I need help now. I need help now. I need help now!”

I was the only one in the ER. It was quiet and dark and I just remember wanting to sleep. I had lost so much blood and they found that the placenta was stuck inside. It was horrible having it removed and as they were preparing for a blood transfusion, I stabilized.

Lots of things should have gone differently! I should have had a D&C, not labor at home and bring in what came out. I didn’t even know that was an option because the doctors never mentioned it. We should have called an ambulance and gone to the nearest hospital, without our toddler son, but we were new military kids and didn’t have any friends we’d call in the middle of the night, and we didn’t know we could go to any hospital—we thought we had to go to the nearest military one. There were lots of things that should have gone differently.

I slept for days at home and just remember being very weak. It was so difficult and I mentally and physically felt like a shell of a person. Acquaintances tried to offer words of comfort and I learned in such a personal way what not to say to those who have experienced loss:

“Oh you’ll have another baby, don’t worry.”

“I’ve had eight miscarriages, it’s totally normal, you’ll be fine.”

“At least you have already have a child.”

“You’ll forget in time.”

“Maybe one kid is enough for you.”

I never felt upset with advice given, but felt observant to how each well-intended interaction made me feel. I think we all say things we later regret or don’t understand in the moment. We all say things that are more about our own understanding at times. I learned to be ok to sit with others in loss and heartache. I learned to just say,

“I am so sorry you’re going through this. I am here. What do you need in this moment? I am holding space for you wherever you’re at.”

I was so sad to lose our baby girl. I was so sad that the whole experience was unnecessarily traumatic. It is still hard looking back and feeling that doctors could have given better care and guidance, offered better resources and support. It is hard coming to understand the questions I should have asked to have navigated it better.

I do know that I learned empathy in my heartache. I see loss differently than I ever would have been able to otherwise, and I feel hope differently. I trust God differently. I feel His love for me differently.

We did welcome three more children to our family. I learned they will come when they are meant to be here. I learned I am strong and I learned to better advocate for my health. And I am okay. I am not lacking and all will be restored. I know that.

I know everyone experiences miscarriage differently. Just because my experience felt traumatic, doesn’t mean it is for every woman. But as women, we are amazing at mourning together…at least we can be. And there is so much love in those circles of holding sacred space for each other to feel and experience their trials and losses in their own way and in their own time.

Empathy and hope are needed. And love is in the details, always. I hold space for you my friends.

xoxo

Dayna