I haven’t always known I wanted to be a mother.
I’ve spent the past decade working and adventuring around the globe, and didn’t know how children fit into that picture. Somewhere in the last couple of years, things shifted and I knew it was a path I wanted to walk, hand-in-hand with Matt. We made the decision to become parents in the midst of a difficult diagnostic journey, during which I struggled to find help for a chronic illness that flared up in 2020. I spent the following years testing different medicines, struggling with the side effects on top of my daily symptoms as I tried to find some relief.
I found out I was pregnant in October of 2022 and was overjoyed and a bit surprised that we had conceived after all that my body had been through. Matt and I reveled in our secret, deciding to share with only a few people until we hit the second trimester. Early as it was, my body was already making subtle changes. My breasts ached, and my daily nausea intensified–our cupboards soon full of Preggie Pops and ginger tea. We found a doctor and booked our first appointment. I made a secret Pinterest board with gender neutral nursery ideas. We dreamed of all the things we could and would do with our baby, and imagined how it might feel to finally hold them tight.
One morning I woke up with a pulling sensation in my groin but quickly dismissed it. Later, panic flared as I found blood in my underwear. A quick call with my nurse assured me that light spotting can be normal, but as the day wore on, the bleeding didn’t stop. I woke the next day to even more blood and clotting, my breasts feeling strangely normal after weeks of intense aching. I felt empty, even as people told me to be hopeful, my heart full of dread.
My bleeding eventually stopped in the days that followed and repeated blood tests revealed that my HCG levels, which usually double every 24-48 hours of pregnancy, were slowly creeping upwards but not in an expected way. Two weeks after I started bleeding, I went in for an ultrasound that revealed tissue in my uterus. The ultrasound technician was not responsible for giving diagnostic information, but as we stared at the little blob on the screen and noted the absence of phrases like “fetal pole” and “yolk sac,” any last bits of hope vanished. I had obviously had a miscarriage. Our baby was gone.
My doctor informed me of my options: I could continue monitoring my HCG to see if it returned to zero, indicating my body had cleared the remaining tissue; I could take meds to force it to clear but it would take 3+ months to recover from them; or I could have a procedure that day to remove the tissue–the fastest way of clearing it so my body could heal and return to normal.* Given the options and my mental state, I elected to have the procedure. I asked my doctor about pain management for the procedure. She said unfortunately, it wouldn’t be done under general anesthesia and that I should prepare myself for some pain. I was given anti-anxiety medicine and a local anesthetic to numb my cervix, but what followed was one of the most excruciating things I’ve experienced and I couldn’t hold in my screams of pain. When it was over, my doctor gave me my aftercare instructions and we drove home.
When they say grieving is non-linear, they mean that somewhere in the space between one heartbeat and the next you fall into a well of pain so sharp and deep, it takes your breath away. There’s no warning, the bottom just falls out from under you as you curl into yourself between wracking sobs that rise from depths you didn’t know existed. The emotional and physical violence of the procedure caused flashbacks of sexual assaults I had endured, and my mental health plummeted. My sorrow and immense rage at having something I so desperately wanted taken from me intertwined, even while I recognized the futility of my emotions. I had enough grief to swallow the moon, but it couldn’t bring my baby back.
I spent the weeks that followed filling the house with Christmas decorations in an attempt to distract myself, but nothing filled the void. Matt was sweet and supportive, but he couldn’t shield me from my pain. We went to the mountains, where I broke down in a friend's hot tub, grateful to be sipping a glass of wine outside while simultaneously devastated to be there. You can’t hot tub while pregnant, and wine is equally off the table. I had resigned myself to missing moments like this while growing a new life; necessary sacrifices to protect the health of the baby. Their return and everything that return signaled hurt more than I thought something so mundane could. I cried quietly in the darkness, feeling small and terribly alone against the vastness of the wintry sky.
We returned from the mountains and I continued to fall apart. I told myself to look for silver linings but they felt hollow. I cried a lot. I journaled and went to therapy. I blocked keywords to stop the onslaught of targeted pregnancy ads–the ghost of my pregnancy following me across social media. I spent an inordinate amount of time in the bath, giving my tears up to the hot water. Slowly, I began to heal. I still break down at the most unexpected things, but my grief has begun to feel more like hope and less like mourning. I’m spending more time with my head above the water than below–able to honor the joy I felt on that very first day of pregnancy while holding it close to my chest in hopes of feeling it again.
I’m sharing all of this because while I’m usually a very transparent person, something about this felt different–like I was carrying a dirty secret I wasn’t supposed to share even as I ached to heal in community. There’s a stigma to miscarriage that needs to be broken, and I want others who are on their own difficult fertility journey to know that they are not alone. Miscarriage is shockingly normal. Miscarriage is not your fault. Miscarriage is not something to be ashamed of. It doesn’t matter how early or late it happens to you, your grief is valid and you deserve whatever space and grace you need to process. We move through our experiences individually, but we don’t have to heal from them alone. Wherever you are on your fertility and parenthood journey, I hope you are surrounded by love.
Resources for those hurting from pregnancy loss:
https://miscarriagehurts.com/en/healing-pathways
https://www.samhsa.gov/find-help/national-helpline
https://www.postpartum.net/get-help/loss-grief-in-pregnancy-postpartum/
*In the months following this procedure, many conversations with different practitioners highlighted the inadequacy of the information and care I was given. If you’re ever in the same situation, please don’t hesitate to ask for more information and pain management options. You should never be pressured by your doctor to endure such a painful procedure in this way.