“The bleeding doesn’t look like it’s coming from your cervix.”
“There is probably about a 50/50 odds that this pregnancy is viable.”
“I’ll tell you, because you’re a nurse, but I don’t see a fetus.
There’s just a small gestational sac, and it doesn’t look quite right.”
“I’ll have to check with an endovag ultrasound.”
“No, he can’t come in the room.”
“There’s no baby.”
“I’m so sorry.”
It’s been two weeks since I miscarried our baby.
I typically really love to share my life and my family through social media and this blog. I love to write and I like looking back through old posts and reading about what was happening or how I was feeling through different stages of my life. I love sharing recipes and foods that I’m obsessed with. I love writing about parenting and talking about the different milestones of our two-year-old baby bird. And I love to write about babies and pregnancy and share my weekly “bump dates”.
But then I had a miscarriage.
Since the pregnancy itself was not even the slightest bit a secret, the miscarriage couldn’t be either. So I shared online that something not-so-great had happened, and I knew I would want to write about it here.
But what do I say?
I would love my words to inspire hope and help other grieving families but this loss is still so fresh that I’m not sure I can really do that. I’m still trying to find my own hope.
What do I share?
Do I tell you, chronologically, how this whole horrible thing happened? Do I talk about how I felt and what I did? Do I spare you the details? Isn’t that what I fervently “Google’d” in the midst of my agony?
How am I doing?
This is the question I am asked the most. From family and friends, amazing coworkers, acquaintances and people who have “heard what happened”. I want to look everyone in the eye and honestly say, “I’m doing fine!”. I don’t want to be weak, or sad, or make people uncomfortable.
But I spent 35 days thinking I was going to have another baby. We surprised our family at my daughter’s second birthday party with the news of another baby bird on the way! For 35 days I felt sore, and nauseous, and I was anxious about delivering a second time. I craved cheese slices and McDonald’s chicken nuggets and I would lay my hand on my belly at night and dream about our daughter meeting her sibling. I worried, about having another +MSS, and pregnancy complications, and horrible perineal tears and that first poop after having a baby. I worried about taking more time off work, because I really love my job. And I was so beyond thrilled that I was having the summer baby I always wanted, due on August 8th, 2017.
And my husband, every once in a while, would look at me with this ‘look’ on his face. This loving, tender, sweet and sometimes goofy look and say, “Babe! You’re pregnant!”. And I would laugh and shoo him away and get back to whatever I was doing. But it made me smile.
Then after days and days of bleeding, bloodwork, ultrasounds, cramping and waiting, I had a miscarriage. I was home alone, sitting on my bathroom floor, crying and wondering why I couldn’t stop. Wondering why I wasn’t handling it “better”. Why I couldn’t seem to put on my ‘nurse face’ to deal with this. Crying into the phone, trying to catch my breath. Begging someone to help me. Wondering for the millionth time why this was happening.
Now, two weeks later, I’m doing okay. Kevin is back to work. I am back to work. We are talking to each other and not arguing or fighting. I am writing in a journal and talking to family and friends and leaving the house to do normal and fun things. I am coping well and trying to move on. I seem to have this huge army of amazing people surrounding me with love and understanding. We are talking about when to try again.
But every now and then I feel a tsunami of sadness wash over me and I never seem to see it coming.