On February 27th, Matt and I found out we were pregnant with our first child. We were filled with anticipation and joy - and the desire to shout our news from the rooftops. We told our parents within the first week, and as things continued to go well, we started telling a few friends, the kind who are so much a part of our daily lives that they would've guessed our secret anyway. We made a list of people to call as soon as the magical twelfth week arrived and all was "safe". I gave up my daily Bojangles tea and completely cut out Cokes. I felt great!
I called the doctor and made my appointments, and on March 21st we went in for a confirmation ultrasound. Our precious baby was the size of a smallish blueberry and its little heartbeat looked like a strand of chasing Christmas lights, but it was there!
On Thursday, March 24th, I started spotting. Of course, my heretofore tranquil pregnancy (all 4 weeks I'd known about it) became fraught with fear in the space of a day. By Monday morning, I'd talked to the OB nurse once, the on-call nurses twice, explained my (increasing) symptoms about 20 times, and was scheduled for an ultrasound at 2:45. I arranged for some wonderful coworkers to sit with my third core and off I went. Matt held my hand tightly as the tech started the ultrasound, and there was our baby, safe and sound. It had doubled in size in a week, and the heartbeat, a strong 156, actually looked like a heart. A miracle was happening inside my body.
The doctor who looked over my ultrasound diagnosed me with a subchorionic hemorrhage - a clot or tear between the delicate placenta and the uterine lining. This is not usually a big deal, is neither predictable not preventable, and usually corrects itself by about halfway through the pregnancy. The doctor advised me to forgo the trip to New York that Matt had been planning since last summer, so at ten o'clock on Monday night, I stood in the parking lot and waved as the bus pulled out, carrying my husband, my mother-in-law, a few dear friends, and some kids I really love to New York until Friday. I was sad and tired but feeling fine as I headed to my parents' house for the week.
Tuesday everything changed. I was out with my mom, who took the day off work to spend with me, when I started having some pretty strong cramps and back pain. I endured them for awhile because moving around helped and the spotting hadn't changed. However, when we got back to my parents' house, the cramps got worse and the bleeding picked up - a lot. I called the nurse again (dial 6 if you ever need the after-hours service at my doctor's office...). She advised rest and fluids and an office visit on Wednesday. The cramping increased in intensity until I couldn't tolerate it any longer. I called back. This time, the doctor said to take a Tylenol PM and sleep. Fortunately, the cramps abated soon after that and I was able to eat dinner and sleep without the Tylenol. (I hate taking medicine.)
On Wednesday, Mom stayed home again. I called the doctor and scheduled another ultrasound for 3:30. I texted Matt to let him know and tried so hard to stay positive. When 3:30 rolled around, Mom and I found ourselves in the waiting room again - my fourth visit in nine days. As soon as the tech started the ultrasound, I knew we'd lost the baby. On Monday, my uterus showed up as a black pocket around an alien blob with a heartbeat - our baby. On Wednesday, I couldn't even make out my uterus until she labeled it. The baby was just gone. I cried throughout the ultrasound and for awhile after. The techs and nurses were wonderful, bringing me tissues and hugs. I called Matt, who of course was on a bus full of students and couldn't really talk. Telling him we'd lost the baby was so hard.
The rest of the day has been a busy blur. I'm so sad. As I write tonight, four ultrasound pictures lay on the nightstand, proof that Matt and I can create a life. He told me the other day that he knows God has a plan for us, and he knows that plan involves children. One day, in His perfect timing, we will be blessed with a baby. Or two, or three. (Although not all at once...)
I have been thinking all evening about whether or not to write this, and what to say if I did write it. I don't want to come across as all "Oh, poor us, we had a miscarriage." I'm not looking for pity or special treatment (although I would love your prayers for, as a friend said recently, "sticky babies" in the future).
I think that miscarriage is a taboo topic in our society. It is painful and uncomfortable to talk about, especially if you are young and thinking about having children yourself. No one knows what to say.
I don't want to say nothing. I had a miscarriage. It was painful and scary and heartbreaking. Nothing I did caused it, and there was nothing I could have done to prevent it. I have survived. I will never forget our first baby, and I will welcome future healthy babies with even more joy because of this experience.
I joined the ranks of parents today who mourn an unborn child. This is a group no one wants to join, but many parents will. I am the first of my close friends to start trying to get pregnant, so I doubt any of them have experienced this, and I hope none of them ever do.
It's OK if you don't know what to say. It's OK if you have questions. Some people might find it too painful to answer questions, but I don't mind. I wish I had known in advance what to expect. It's easy to find information about being pregnant, but it's not as easy to find information about miscarrying.
I don't want to be silent because it's uncomfortable to speak. I want my friends and family to know that if they find themselves in this position, I am here. They don't have to be silent either.
So, farewell, Baby. May God hold you in the palm of His hand until I get there to meet you one day. Know that you are loved and cherished and missed already.
