This post is out of character for my blog, but I needed an outlet to share what was on my mind. Earlier this year, The Husband and I started trying to expand our family. We were lucky and got pregnant our second month of trying. Unfortunately, our pregnancy was not viable and we opted to induce a miscarriage instead of waiting for one to occur naturally. This was a difficult time for us, but we supported each other throughout the process and it has brought us even closer together.
Part of my grieving process resulted in an essay I wrote almost entirely on my phone as I tried to work through my emotions one evening. I'm sharing this now because I believe that it is important to remember that many women and couples will suffer a miscarriage. We tend to not talk about this as a society, but I think we should. Miscarriage is common and, instead of bottling up my feelings and experience, I'm opting to share them. It is healing for me to do so, but this essay could be triggering for others.
I also share this essay because I finished reading a book about pregnancy before we found out ours was not viable. I will be posting a review of that book in the coming days.
This week should have been the time we could happily share news that we were expecting. To all the women and couples who have suffered miscarriages - You are far from alone.
I keep wanting to say, “I’m sorry.”
I’m sorry I started asking sly questions of our pregnant friends. I'm sorry I started reading baby books. I’m sorry I started a baby registry. I’m sorry I started thinking of names. I’m sorry I was excited that I had no morning sickness. I’m sorry that I let us down. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep our baby.
Logically, I know I have nothing to apologize for. Emotionally, it’s not so easy. The miscarriage is not my fault, but I don’t believe myself no matter how strong I try to be. One minute, we’re pregnant. The next...
The pregnancy might not be viable.
It’s 50/50.
You should be nine weeks, but this looks like five weeks.
There has been growth, but it doesn’t look right.
There is no sign of a heartbeat.
How would you like to proceed?
You can take the drugs at home.
The worst should be over in 24 hours.
It’s not.
It takes two rounds of drugs and 5 days.
Then it just slipped away.
There was no pain of miscarriage to make me feel like I even did that right.
When we found out we were pregnant, it was a bit of a surprise. We’d really only been trying for a month. Two positive home tests then a positive blood test but it never got a chance to feel real.
We were so excited for the first sonogram at 7 weeks, but it was all wrong from the start. Too small. No visible heartbeat. But there was still a chance.
Nine days of waiting where every trip to the bathroom was terrifying. Every morning was scary. Every random symptom and physical change over-analyzed. Was this the day the miscarriage starts?
One morning, there was pink spotting. I immediately broke down. What did I do wrong? I’m sorry.
But then there was no more spotting. No cramping. No pain.
Hope?
The next sonogram and the news was still bad and the math from all the first pregnancy tests even worse. There was no chance this pregnancy was viable. The only decision to be made was how to handle the miscarriage.
It’s better we handle it sooner. At home. Together.
Then it’s over.
The few friends who knew sent flowers. Texts. Emails. Those bring tears and smiles.
We binge watch multiple seasons of The Office because it makes me happy. It keeps me calm.
We continue to read about the Capitals celebrating the Stanley Cup win. We went to Game 4. We cheered loudly during Game 5. We laughed and smiled when Ovi got the Cup. We watched all the GIFs. We shared the fountain and party bus videos. We went to the parade. It’s the thing that has made us ecstatically happy the past few weeks. We felt like we were hugged by this team. By the city.
I’m sorry I was happy.
I’m sorry I found joy when I should have been sad.
I’m sorry you’ll never hear these stories. How you were the Caps good luck charm. How we joked about possible boy baby names. Would you have liked Wilson?
Can you forgive me? For smiling? And laughing?
We still joke with one another as we wait for the pills to do their job. I’m sorry we joked. We still make dinner. We still get work done. We still clean. Take walks.
I’m sorry we acted normally.
I’m not sorry that this has made us stronger. I married the right man. He was there for everything. Every appointment. Every needle stick. Every bit of bad news. Every time I hermited on the couch. He held my hand. Offered hugs. A shoulder for my tears. Asked constantly if I was okay. Needed anything. Checked to see how I was feeling.
I don’t get the cramps or pain, but the pills seem to work. It takes an extra round, but the process was gentler than the doctor and online stories led me to believe. In that I’m lucky. I guess.
I’m sorry I feel lucky.
I’m sorry I said this was a stomach bug. Food poisoning.
Only a few people knew of you beforehand. Only a few people knew you weren’t viable. I didn’t feel like explaining things. I owed it to no one. I didn’t want the hassle. I didn’t want the sympathy. I didn’t want the drama I knew would happen. I didn’t want that stress.
I’m sorry I hid you. But I deserve to handle this how I want. It’s not their business. We don’t owe them an explanation. This is hard enough without prying questions and unwanted hugs.
I’m sorry that I didn’t cry more.
My tears remained held back. I don’t know why. I made a decision and I was ready for the next step. For this to be over. To start trying again.
I didn't cry in the doctor's office. I didn't cry taking the first dose of pills. The second. The third. The fourth. I didn't cry when I started bleeding. When I passed clots. When I passed the pregnancy.
I cried when I realized I could eat a sunny-side up egg.
I’m sorry I wanted to move on.
We kept the one sonogram picture from that day in week 9 when you were still in week 5. It’s all we have. Except those emails and pictures we sent to the email account we named for you. To keep and share memories as you grow up. That you’ll never see.
We don’t know what to do with it now. Do we delete everything? Do we create a folder so a possible future child knows what came before?
I’m sorry I don’t know what the right choice is. I don’t think there is a right choice. There’s just a choice.
I’m sorry that we had to make a choice. How to miscarry.
It happens. Twenty to thirty percent of known pregnancies end in miscarriage. It happens. You should be able to get pregnant again. Nothing in your history says otherwise. It happens. The gestational sac and yolk sac looked healthy. Just not the fetus. It happens. It’s normal. You’ll only need to wait one regular cycle after the miscarriage to try again. It happens.
I’m sorry it happened.
It’s not my fault. I know that, but it doesn’t feel that way. I feel like I could have been healthier. I could have eaten more protein or kale. I could have walked more. Lifted more weights. What if I didn’t have that one beer before the positive test? What if I didn’t eat those Caesar salads?
Did I do something wrong?
I know I didn’t, but I still feel sorry. Logically, it's easy to remind myself that there was nothing I could do. I did what you're supposed to. Emotionally, it's not that easy.
I'm sorry, you’re not still here. I'm sorry, I let you down. I'm sorry, I couldn’t keep you.
Part of my grieving process resulted in an essay I wrote almost entirely on my phone as I tried to work through my emotions one evening. I'm sharing this now because I believe that it is important to remember that many women and couples will suffer a miscarriage. We tend to not talk about this as a society, but I think we should. Miscarriage is common and, instead of bottling up my feelings and experience, I'm opting to share them. It is healing for me to do so, but this essay could be triggering for others.
I also share this essay because I finished reading a book about pregnancy before we found out ours was not viable. I will be posting a review of that book in the coming days.
This week should have been the time we could happily share news that we were expecting. To all the women and couples who have suffered miscarriages - You are far from alone.
I’m sorry I started asking sly questions of our pregnant friends. I'm sorry I started reading baby books. I’m sorry I started a baby registry. I’m sorry I started thinking of names. I’m sorry I was excited that I had no morning sickness. I’m sorry that I let us down. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep our baby.
Logically, I know I have nothing to apologize for. Emotionally, it’s not so easy. The miscarriage is not my fault, but I don’t believe myself no matter how strong I try to be. One minute, we’re pregnant. The next...
The pregnancy might not be viable.
It’s 50/50.
You should be nine weeks, but this looks like five weeks.
There has been growth, but it doesn’t look right.
There is no sign of a heartbeat.
How would you like to proceed?
You can take the drugs at home.
The worst should be over in 24 hours.
It’s not.
It takes two rounds of drugs and 5 days.
Then it just slipped away.
There was no pain of miscarriage to make me feel like I even did that right.
When we found out we were pregnant, it was a bit of a surprise. We’d really only been trying for a month. Two positive home tests then a positive blood test but it never got a chance to feel real.
We were so excited for the first sonogram at 7 weeks, but it was all wrong from the start. Too small. No visible heartbeat. But there was still a chance.
Nine days of waiting where every trip to the bathroom was terrifying. Every morning was scary. Every random symptom and physical change over-analyzed. Was this the day the miscarriage starts?
One morning, there was pink spotting. I immediately broke down. What did I do wrong? I’m sorry.
But then there was no more spotting. No cramping. No pain.
Hope?
The next sonogram and the news was still bad and the math from all the first pregnancy tests even worse. There was no chance this pregnancy was viable. The only decision to be made was how to handle the miscarriage.
It’s better we handle it sooner. At home. Together.
Then it’s over.
The few friends who knew sent flowers. Texts. Emails. Those bring tears and smiles.
We binge watch multiple seasons of The Office because it makes me happy. It keeps me calm.
We continue to read about the Capitals celebrating the Stanley Cup win. We went to Game 4. We cheered loudly during Game 5. We laughed and smiled when Ovi got the Cup. We watched all the GIFs. We shared the fountain and party bus videos. We went to the parade. It’s the thing that has made us ecstatically happy the past few weeks. We felt like we were hugged by this team. By the city.
I’m sorry I was happy.
I’m sorry I found joy when I should have been sad.
I’m sorry you’ll never hear these stories. How you were the Caps good luck charm. How we joked about possible boy baby names. Would you have liked Wilson?
Can you forgive me? For smiling? And laughing?
We still joke with one another as we wait for the pills to do their job. I’m sorry we joked. We still make dinner. We still get work done. We still clean. Take walks.
I’m sorry we acted normally.
I’m not sorry that this has made us stronger. I married the right man. He was there for everything. Every appointment. Every needle stick. Every bit of bad news. Every time I hermited on the couch. He held my hand. Offered hugs. A shoulder for my tears. Asked constantly if I was okay. Needed anything. Checked to see how I was feeling.
I don’t get the cramps or pain, but the pills seem to work. It takes an extra round, but the process was gentler than the doctor and online stories led me to believe. In that I’m lucky. I guess.
I’m sorry I feel lucky.
I’m sorry I said this was a stomach bug. Food poisoning.
Only a few people knew of you beforehand. Only a few people knew you weren’t viable. I didn’t feel like explaining things. I owed it to no one. I didn’t want the hassle. I didn’t want the sympathy. I didn’t want the drama I knew would happen. I didn’t want that stress.
I’m sorry I hid you. But I deserve to handle this how I want. It’s not their business. We don’t owe them an explanation. This is hard enough without prying questions and unwanted hugs.
I’m sorry that I didn’t cry more.
My tears remained held back. I don’t know why. I made a decision and I was ready for the next step. For this to be over. To start trying again.
I didn't cry in the doctor's office. I didn't cry taking the first dose of pills. The second. The third. The fourth. I didn't cry when I started bleeding. When I passed clots. When I passed the pregnancy.
I cried when I realized I could eat a sunny-side up egg.
I’m sorry I wanted to move on.
We kept the one sonogram picture from that day in week 9 when you were still in week 5. It’s all we have. Except those emails and pictures we sent to the email account we named for you. To keep and share memories as you grow up. That you’ll never see.
We don’t know what to do with it now. Do we delete everything? Do we create a folder so a possible future child knows what came before?
I’m sorry I don’t know what the right choice is. I don’t think there is a right choice. There’s just a choice.
I’m sorry that we had to make a choice. How to miscarry.
It happens. Twenty to thirty percent of known pregnancies end in miscarriage. It happens. You should be able to get pregnant again. Nothing in your history says otherwise. It happens. The gestational sac and yolk sac looked healthy. Just not the fetus. It happens. It’s normal. You’ll only need to wait one regular cycle after the miscarriage to try again. It happens.
I’m sorry it happened.
It’s not my fault. I know that, but it doesn’t feel that way. I feel like I could have been healthier. I could have eaten more protein or kale. I could have walked more. Lifted more weights. What if I didn’t have that one beer before the positive test? What if I didn’t eat those Caesar salads?
Did I do something wrong?
I know I didn’t, but I still feel sorry. Logically, it's easy to remind myself that there was nothing I could do. I did what you're supposed to. Emotionally, it's not that easy.
I'm sorry, you’re not still here. I'm sorry, I let you down. I'm sorry, I couldn’t keep you.
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