I have been going back and forth on whether I have the energy to document my miscarriage. Part of me doesn’t want to re-live the experience, the other part of me is terrified I’ll forget. And forgetting feels worse. This tiny little life mattered to me. And writing about it will keep that memory safe so I no longer have to think about it on a regular basis.
A friend on Facebook had tagged me in another post titled “This is miscarriage” and as I read it, darkness and clouds crept in because everything she mentions I could relate to exactly.
“This. This is miscarriage.
The belly that still looks bloated and pregnant but isn’t.
The pregnancy line that always shows up by week 7, slowly starting to fade.
The breast changes that are always my first indicator that I’m pregnant, disappearing overnight.
The extra 8 pounds I’m still carrying, because I always gain a lot of weight in the first trimester and it always takes a few weeks to get rid of it.
The headaches and cramps still left over from the miscarriage and pregnancy hormones that haven’t yet gotten the memo.
The things you CAN do that you truly wish you couldn’t, like…
The few glasses of wine on the weekend you had hoped you’d be sharing happy news with your family.
The almost full bottle of prenatal vitamins.”
I was 5 and half weeks. Everything seemed fine. My HCG (pregnancy hormone) levels were on the low end, but still doubling every 2 days, which is good. My doctor was concerned about the low levels, so she scheduled my first ultrasound. My husband, Brian, was on a business trip and I asked the doctor’s office if I could schedule that ultrasound 5 days later so my husband could join. They wanted me to come in the next day. I told Brian that it would be fine, that he should just stay at his business conference. But he knew better than me. He got the first flight back he could. Thank god he did.
We have our ultrasound at 7:45 AM on Thursday, August 16th. The tech was friendly and professional. I couldn’t see anything on the monitor, but the baby is the size of an ant… so I figured that was normal and just fine. After we finished, we went back out to the waiting room for someone to read our test. Two nurses come out to get us… one wouldn’t even make eye contact. I knew something was wrong.
“We can’t see anything in your uterus.” The one nurse said. “We’re worried it could be ectopic (which is when the embryo implants in your fallopian tube, not your uterus) and have called the doctor to review.”
Back out to the waiting area we went. This was bad news. Brian gripped my hand as I watched Property Brothers in the waiting room, blinking back tears. I didn’t even want to look at him because he would see that I was upset, and I needed to be strong.
Finally, the doctor arrives, reads our ultra sound and calls us to her office. She prepares us for the likely outcome of miscarriage. And by prepares us, I mean, just says it’s probably going to happen, but she’s not sure yet and we just had to wait and see. She said she didn’t think it was ectopic (5% chance), but she couldn’t rule it out.
We cried all the way home.
Once we got home, I started having some discomfort. I assumed it was just more cramping from my uterus stretching, maybe the transvaginal ultrasound jostled my cervix and made it a little angry. I wasn’t too concerned at that point.
Brian goes to get us lunch.
I start having pain in my back on the left side. Really bad pain. And it was getting worse. I was pacing, breathing, doing cat/cows, all my doula training coming in handy. But nothing was helping. I thought “is it just gas pain?” because I had heard that pregnancy can cause severe gas pain. So I popped some gas X and waited. Nothing. I started feeling nauseous because of the pain so I went in the bathroom and just hung my head in the toilet, waiting to vomit. I texted Brian that I was not doing well, and he started asking me questions, but I couldn’t concentrate to text him back and answer. He gets home and sees me on the bathroom floor, all the color drained from my face and lips. I know he was scared. We call my doctor’s office to speak with a nurse about what might be going on. I’m so worried at this point that it’s my tube rupturing, and that it was in fact, an ectopic pregnancy. What if I’m the 5%?
We can’t get through to the nurse, but the operator promises to have her call us back. During this time, I decide to sit on the toilet because I know many laboring women find comfort from this position. Brian insists I leave the door open because he’s worried if I pass out, he won’t know. Cue one of my biggest fears in life: my husband seeing me on the toilet. It seems silly now that I worried about this, but my brain was immediately embarrassed. I know some people poop and fart in front of their spouses, and that works for them. For us, we keep some things private. Anyway, I sit on the toilet with the door open and he keeps an eye on me, still waiting to hear from the nurse.
Then, I start bleeding. Strangely, it was a relief at that point. It eased my mind that my tube wasn’t rupturing. The terror of ectopic pregnancy is no joke because it can be life or death for the woman. The pain started to lesson now. I was able to lay down and find a comfortable position. About 2 hours after our initial call to the doctor’s office, the nurse calls me back. I told her what happened and that I was still bleeding a little, but the pain had subsided. Since it was so severe and only on my left side, she urged me to go to the ER.
We get dressed and head to Cleveland Clinic Emergency Department. The staff was seriously the nicest I’ve ever encountered. I was honestly worried it would be a bunch of crotchety old men who have no idea what I’m going through. But it wasn’t at all. It was all women, close to my age. And they were so sweet and encouraging. They ran some tests. I think they knew what was happening, but we were holding on hope that maybe the bleeding was from the ultrasound earlier, or that maybe I was having a kidney stone (I’ve had them before, and it feels really similar).
But then the blood work came back, and my HCG levels had plummeted. This meant only one thing: miscarriage.
They told me it would be like a heavy period. They were wrong. 3 days after the initial miscarriage, I started having what I can only figure to be contractions that would start at the top of my belly and roll all the way down to my pubic bone. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t drink, I could barely take a full breath without all the nerves in my pubic area screaming at me. For 3 days, I laid on the couch, unable to hardly move. This was NOT like a heavy period. Why didn’t they warn me? Why have I never heard that it can be like this? Will I ever be normal again?
Those were all questions that rang in my mind. The physical pain shocked me. I am so used to being strong and fit and able to go go go. I wasn’t used to my brain saying, “you’re fine” and my body saying, “you HAVE to lie down.” Even walking around the block was incredibly taxing. I honestly don’t know how mamas who have miscarriage after miscarriage after miscarriage can continue to try. Those are the true warriors.
As the physical symptoms started to subside, I got back into a somewhat normal routine. But there was this thought that plagued me: why am I handling this better than I’m “supposed” to? I had known others who miscarried at 8 weeks and couldn’t get out of bed or brush their teeth or shower. And I felt almost normal again. Why wasn’t I horribly depressed? Am I a sociopath? Do I actually lack emotions?
Of course, I was sad about it, but I just kept thinking that there was nothing to be done, so why hold onto grief? It wasn’t serving me anymore. So, I let it go. But maybe that was wrong? I’m still undecided.
There are days that I still think about it. The saddest part for me is that I have nothing to remember this little babe. I wanted that first ultrasound photo more than I think I’ve ever wanted anything. And I didn’t even get that. No proof that this little life even existed at all.
I know it was early, I know it was just a clump of cells. But I lost what could have been. A life I had already begun imaging with this sweet baby, gone. And that’s what hurts the most.
I know I will go on to have a healthy baby. I know that in my bones. But it doesn’t make the loss of this one any better.
I just hope my story helps others not feel so alone. That if you’re going through this now, or have gone through it, or will go through it, that I’m here. I survived. You will survive. You are loved, and you are important, and it was NOTHING you did or didn’t do that caused it. It’s common. And it sucks. But we are an army of mamas who are strong and resilient, and I want you to know that I have your back.
I love you all <3
Amanda
