Someone I love very much recently experienced a miscarriage. Talking with her brought back so many of the memories and feelings I've had over the last several years. It occurred to me that maybe there are things I can write that just need to be said.
My first miscarriage was our very first pregnancy. We were so excited and happy. We knew about the pregnancy just long enough to tell everyone we knew. Somehow good news is much easier to talk about than sad, crappy, depressing news. So it took a while for us to tell everyone about losing the baby. It's always fun to have to tell someone that the reason you look so good for being pregnant is because you're not. (Insert sarcastic eye roll here.)
Our second miscarriage we discovered via ultrasound. We'd had one successful ultrasound already. We saw the baby's tiny heart beating. It was there. Right in front of us. The next ultrasound, however, included the tech and the two of us talking about all sorts of trivial things. And then she just stopped talking. She got that look. Maybe you know what I'm talking about. It's the pursed lips, raised eyebrows, sad eyes, with a little head tilt. Of course, she couldn't tell us what was wrong but it became obvious. When we finally got to see the doctor she said I could get a d&c. But I hadn't had any symptoms of the miscarriage yet so I had hoped beyond hope that maybe she was wrong. So we waited and a week later everything began.
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| Even though she was only 1 mm, we could see her heart beating. |
The third time we hadn't told very many people about the pregnancy at all. Not even the kids. Well, especially not the kids because once they know everyone knows. But I was laying on my bed and felt the cramps. The awful, horrible, heart-wrenching cramps. I just grabbed my middle and cried.
All three times were different, but the aftermath all seemed to be the same process. I discovered a lot about what's normal to feel after a miscarriage. Pretty much, however you feel after you have a miscarriage is normal.
After a miscarriage it's normal to feel:
- super hormonal. With pregnancy, your hormones begin to go nuts anyway. They don't immediately flush out of your system. It takes a few weeks, maybe even a few months, to go back to normal. So if you're sitting there wondering why you just don't feel like yourself, it's because you're not. And that's fine.
- grief. Lots and lots of grief. I thought it was a sign of weakness that it took a week for me to stop crying after our first loss. How could I not handle things? I thought I was a strong person. Come to find out, I had to put into words the fact that I lost a baby. I lost a child. Even though it had been so early in the pregnancy, I lost the opportunity to hold, snuggle, love, and kiss my baby. I would never have a chance to physically love that child. Grief was just a sign of my motherhood potential. I was then, and always would be, a mother.
- conflicting feelings about love and support. Sometimes all I wanted was for Josh to take me in his arms, hold me, and whisper that everything would be okay. Other times I cried after the lights were turned out or when he was at work because I didn't want him to feel obligated to take care of me if he needed support. I had a hard time knowing if I wanted to be surrounded by people I love or completely shut away and alone. There's no right answer here. And there's no rhyme or reason to any of it. But, I did learn that Josh often kept his feelings hidden from me because he wanted to be strong for me if I needed him. Communication might have helped us a bit here.
- resentment towards kind words. Many people offered us their condolences, completely sincere in what they said. I can't quite put my finger on why what was said was wrong. I think because it was just the wrong timing. Right after losing our babies I just wanted a hug or a kind "I'm sorry." There were a lot of medical reasons that were spouted to try to give me comfort, justifications for our loss. Like, "there's nothing you could've done" or "maybe it was a chromosomal defect" or "it just wasn't meant to be." I didn't need any of those offers of comfort, especially in the first week of loss. And I never needed to hear, "Don't worry, there will be others." I definitely didn't need to know how much less my pain was because I'd lost the pregnancy early and not five to eight months into it. The first doctor I saw didn't call it a miscarriage or a loss. She insisted on using the medically-correct term of "spontaneous abortion." For someone who morally objects to elective abortion, this was as much of a slap to the face as the miscarriage itself. Stupid doctor. I still hate her. She was in the category of people that couldn't seem to understand why I couldn't just "get over it." There wasn't anything anyone could say that could help me just get over it. I just needed time. And someone to talk to that wouldn't pressure me into "feeling better."
- denial. The first and third miscarriages were hard to deny. The symptoms of loss were blatant. Cramping, bleeding. But that second one, I held out hope. I hoped so much that everything would magically be fine. The doctor warned me that it could take as long as a week after discovering the loss on the ultrasound for symptoms to occur. A week? I didn't have the patience for that. I just wanted a clear sign. I prayed for the Lord to either make me morning sick again or make me cramp. Because I would never quit hoping that everything would be fine. And then I'd cry for a week when the sign came and I knew without a doubt that I was no longer pregnant.
- disloyal. After a while I thought I might be ready to try again. But there was this nagging feeling that I hadn't honored the memory of our lost baby long enough. As if trying again was negating that our baby had ever existed. When the next pregnancy actually lasted longer than 8 weeks, I even felt a sort of "survivor guilt." Not only was I leaving my lost babies behind, but now I was leaving other friends behind that didn't get to have a pregnancy that thrived. That was a whole other feeling of disloyalty in and of itself. It actually took a while for my guilt to subside into happiness in a successful pregnancy.
- fear. There was so much fear after the miscarriages, especially after having two in a row. I feared getting pregnant again. I didn't want to lose another one -- I was terrified of losing another one. I didn't know if I'd have the strength to go through it again. I feared NOT getting pregnant. I didn't know how many more times I could handle a negative pregnancy test while waiting to finally get pregnant again. But after keeping the pregnancy after the last two miscarriages, I was afraid to truly acknowledge and accept that a baby would actually make it this time. I didn't want to bond with a baby I wouldn't get. Again. I remember vividly as I laid on the operating table (because I had a C-section) holding my breath and waiting for the cry. It was as she finally made noise that the surreality of the pregnancy finally lifted and I knew my baby was safe.
- anger. Anger is a really easy emotion to feel. And there are so many reasons to be angry when you miscarry. Why can't I stop crying? Why can't I just get over it? Why can't I function normally? Why can't I just have my baby when that is such a righteous desire? Why does she get a baby when I don't? Why doesn't the world stop turning long enough so I can catch my breath and just be sad? Why does God think I'm strong enough to handle this? The only thing I ever did that helped dispel the anger was to get down on my knees and pour my heart out to the same God whose judgment I questioned. Thankfully, He's understanding and loves me more than I give Him credit for. And He's pretty forgiving for my narrow-mindedness. Anger is the easiest part of losing a baby.
