Hellobee

I’m in the middle of a long, drawn-out miscarriage. Well, what I thought was a long, drawn-out miscarriage. Now that I’m a little more educated about all of this, it seems to me that all miscarriages are a slog, both physically and emotionally. This is one of the many lessons I’ve learned while navigating this process.

We’ve all heard so many stories about what it is like to get that awful news in the ultrasound room. So when it happened to me, it was a little surreal. I remember thinking, “Ok, this is what it’s like.” The technician told me that the fetus was measuring two weeks behind. She wasn’t concerned, but I was. I was confident in my dates. As soon as she measured the baby, I knew the pregnancy was not meant to progress.

A congratulatory gift from a good friend 

At the exact moment I was coming to this realization, the technician was zeroing in on a faint, but present, heartbeat. But I was too wrapped up in the math to appreciate what I was seeing. Looking back, this is something I regret: I wish I had taken the time to enjoy that heartbeat when I had the chance.

My doctor was breezy about the prospect of a miscarriage– she simply told me to get in touch if I had any bleeding. She didn’t schedule another ultrasound; my next appointment was set for a month away. For a few days I was furious about this. I called back a week later and requested a follow-up. The nurse said ok, but advised that the scan wouldn’t be covered by insurance. I thought about it for a while. By this time I had settled down and was thinking more logically. What was the purpose of an elective ultrasound? The miscarriage would–or would not– happen regardless. The only consequence of knowing would be that I would have a difficult decision to make: natural miscarriage, medicated miscarriage, or surgical miscarriage. Or, ideally, all could end in a healthy pregnancy.

So for a month I wavered between believing I was pregnant, and believing I was not. If I woke up in the morning and was grossed out by making Scribble’s scrambled eggs, I took that as a good sign. I ate carbs and ice cream with abandon, trying to will my waning pregnancy symptoms into reality. We told friends our good news, with a caveat.

Being in pregnancy limbo land was a challenge. I had statistics on my side: the chance of miscarriage after a heartbeat is present is only 10%. But I found comfort in emotional distance. I communicated less with family and changed the subject from my pregnancy any time someone brought it up. I even asked my husband not to mention it unless I said something first. I did not attach as I had with my first, successful pregnancy. I kept it all at arm’s length.

I did one night open my heart to the experience of the baby, and allowed myself to empathize with him or her. I lied on the couch, hugged a stuffed moose, and cried. I couldn’t help but respond to the image of that tiny, fluttering heartbeat. Reluctantly, I put the ultrasound picture on the refrigerator door.

One day before my appointment, I started bleeding I was grateful to have started the process on my own, but was absolutely terrified; much more frightened than I had been when I went into labor with my son. I had heard that miscarriage pain was worse than a period, but far milder than full-term labor. I rarely had bad menstrual cramps. With my previous pregnancy, my water broke before I started contracting. So I had no idea how my body would react. Would it happen all of a sudden? Would I be ready? At the moment I didn’t even have a pad in the house.

It was around this time that I realized how ignorant I was of the reality of miscarriage!  So, of course, I got on Hellobee and reached out for help, which was immensely useful and comforting to me.

I ended up being really lucky. My bleeding didn’t get much heavier. I went to the doctor the next morning. The worst part was the anticipation of the transvaginal ultrasound; the very thought of it turned my stomach. But by the time we got into the ultrasound room I was ready for closure and the method was an afterthought. The fetus stopped developing at a little short of seven weeks. Because the pregnancy had been nonviable for between three and five weeks (depending on your math), my doctor urged a D & C. Although part of me wanted to go the natural route, I was thankful for strong guidance after a month of uncertainty.

My reaction to the news was milder than I anticipated. I believe this is because I had a month to process the idea of miscarriage, tell my friends and family, and tease out of my heart all the sadness and ugliness.  And without a doubt, snuggling my toddler was balm for my soul. I tend toward the dramatic, so this response has been unexpected. One thing that surprised me is how I find myself valuing my previous, healthy pregnancy and birth experience more intensely than I did in the past. Miscarriage is a topic that is minimally discussed, so I had never fully understood it as a birth process. Nor did I know that miscarriage can take months to complete. Looking back at my first pregnancy, I realize I felt entitled to the perfect experience. Like a bride, I expected to be the center of attention in my own story: showers, birth plans, and nursery painting. Now I realize just how remarkable it all truly was. I don’t think my son ever looked as beautiful to me as he did on the day I got our sad news.

But yeah, I’m also really angry. I find myself getting irrationally frustrated with really petty things. I’m mad that I’ll be paying more for my D & C than I did to deliver my son. I am frustrated that I managed to gain baby weight. Nursing feels impossible– after being prodded and poked, the last thing I want to do is give over yet another part of my body. I feel a little guilty for these feelings. I try to offer myself a little sympathy: the financial and physical impact of miscarriage is not one of those things you think about when you’re trying to get pregnant. And it isn’t fun to see the nest egg you saved up for a baby diverted into a procedure you never wanted to have.

I appreciate that I’m at peace right now, but I expect my feelings to change as I re-enter the frustrating world of TTC.

But I value the perspective that this experience has offered me. I am more in awe of the female body and its resilience than I was before. Even with all the medical interventions that I’ve had along the way, nothing has challenged me more than pregnancy and birth. I hate being a part of the club that no woman wants to join. But going through this has given me so much more respect for the women in that club, in particular those who have endured multiple losses, later losses, and those whose first– or only–experience with birth is through the lens of loss.

A few hours after we got home from the OB, we were in our yard, getting Scribble out for some air. Everything so green it was almost hard to look at. Earlier that day, it was actually hard for me to take in; as we were driving to the OB I couldn’t help but find it cruelly appropriate that this was all happening during Easter week, when the whole world was bursting with color, and there were birds flying around everywhere like a scene out of a Disney cartoon. But now I was able to see the world with fresh eyes. Although I never had the chance to meet this baby, I could feel his or her presence everywhere– in the flowering buds, and in the face of my son, who at that moment was pulling up clover and tossing it all around him. I felt an immense gratitude that this soul, now gone, had helped me to experience such an intensity of feelings– sadness and wonder intermingled.