by The Wannabe Mom
As I pull away from my house, I check that my garage door closes completely. I glance at the clock. 8:47am. Perfect: 13 minutes until our appointment. I follow my hubby all the way across town. My air-conditioning is off. My radio is off. I inhale. I exhale. I am quiet and I pray.
…
I am pregnant. Six weeks and four days. I’m the girl I hate. I’m the girl who—after 18 months of trying to conceive—goes on vacation to Mexico and brings home HCG levels high enough to trigger two pink lines on a pregnancy test. Or 21 pregnancy tests.
I’m the girl who impresses her doctor with hormone levels that double perfectly during those initial BETA blood tests. I’m the girl who thinks she’s the exception to the rule–the one who gets pregnant by “taking a break” and “relaxing.” I’m the girl who thinks she is oh-so-lucky.
…
The nurse tells me this sonogram will be just like all the others. She will look at my uterus. She will look at my ovaries. She will look for my baby. She will not speak because she will be measuring. I glance at my hubby who winks at me from across the room. I inhale. I exhale. I am quiet and I beg.
…
I watch her face. I should look up at those flower and animal pictures on the ceiling, but I don’t. I look straight at her face. She says my uterus looks good. My ovaries look good. Her face flushes. I watch the blood rush from her forehead—over her cheeks—and down to her chin. Baby is there. Baby is tiny. Baby doesn’t have a heartbeat.
Photo by Amy L. Hatch
We sit in an office. The nurse comes to show us the sonogram picture. She explains how Baby is measuring too small–4 weeks and 5 days. She says it may be fine. Our dates could be off. She wants to repeat the sonogram in seven days. Seven days of waiting and wondering–torture. I know my dates are spot-on. My eyes swell with tears. I go numb. My hubby asks if she’s seen other babies with similar measurements survive and thrive. He asks for our “chances in percentages.”
I groan. I demand another BETA blood test. She draws my blood. I don’t inhale. I don’t exhale. I refuse to take that sonogram picture of Baby.
I am quiet, and I sob.
…
I get in my car. It’s hot, but I leave the air conditioning off. I don’t want to hear the fan. I don’t turn-on the radio. I don’t want to hear music. I drive. I do hear my thoughts–dark, horrible, angry thoughts. The tears stream down my face. I see the man in the truck next to me wondering. “What the hell happened to her?”
…
The nurse calls. Finally. Three hours later. My HCG level is 300. It should be over 10,000. I’m quiet on the phone. She apologizes like it’s her fault. She tells me what I already know—no more Baby. She instructs me to stop my progesterone supplements. She explains that Baby is half an inch and will pass naturally. It will feel like a period. I should be fine by this time next week. Riiigghhttt–fine by this time next week.
I gag.
…
My hubby meets me at home. He breaks. He sobs. We lay in our bed. He rubs my back. I whisper to him what the nurse said. We cry some more.
…
That night we order Gumby’s Pokey Sticks. Comfort food. As I dip mine in Ranch, my hubby speaks. He tells me there will come a day—sooner rather than later—when we will sit at this table dressed just like this in our jammies. We will be surrounded by pink or blue balloons and lots of flowers. It will be our first night home from the hospital, and I’ll be too tired to cook.
We’ll order Pokey Sticks and I’ll dip mine in Ranch with one hand while I hold our new baby in the other. And we will be fine. I know he is right, and I nod. In that moment I love him more than I have every loved anyone. I close my eyes. I am still quiet.
I begin to heal.
The Wannabe Mom has been trying to conceive for more than a year and was recently diagnosed with unexplained infertility. She and her husband live and work in Champaign, and they desperately want to drive a Toyota Sienna minivan someday. We’ll be following her journey, so buckle up and get ready to cry with her — and cheer her on, too.
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i am so sorry for your loss. i have had 3 miscarriages. it is terrible loss and my heart goes out to you and your husband. go easy on yourself and know that you are not alone.
I am so sorry for your terrible loss. Having suffered through miscarriages I understand your pain and my thoughts are with you.
I know oh too well your pain. And no, it never goes away completely. I can’t claim to know what God has in store for you, but don’t give up or lose hope. I had 2 miscarriages, and almost despaired. My husband didn’t want to try anymore because he couldn’t stand seeing my pain & grief. Now, about 18 years later, I am blessed to have 4-yes four- wonderful, healthy children. May you also be blessed!
Words are so trivial and lack the power to address such a heartbreaking loss. Just know that I, as well as many others, are thinking of you.
I could feel your anguish in this post. There are no words. I am so very sorry.
And, I believe your husband.
Many warm healing thoughts, and prayers for healing and new life.
I am so very, very sorry for your loss. This is likely to provide only a small comfort, but miscarriages are very common, even in women without infertility issues. It’s only because we have better ways to determine early pregnancy that we find so many more miscarriages these days.
That doesn’t lessen the pain of losing a pregnancy, or the chance of a precious person in your life. I hope that you will heal with time, and I wish you luck if and when you try again.
I am so sorry. My thoughts are also with you.
I believe your healing journey and transparency will help to bring healing to others as well. My prayers are with you.
I am so so sorry for your loss. We experienced almost the same exact scenario in the sonogram room…twice… it is horrible. May healing come quickly and hope be restored. We now have two healthy children…I hope you can say the same thing some day!!
Thank you for your courage in writing about this. And, appropriate or not, I’m compelled to say “congratulations”! Even though it didn’t last, you did it!
Your description of those events is so spot on. It brought out emotions in me I didn’t even realize were still there. Thank you for sharing. Peace.
Mourn, cry, sob, be sad, be angry, scream, heck punch a wall if that helps…but DON’T give up hope…don’t EVER give up hope. It CAN happen. (Took me 7 years.)
I am so, so sorry. Give yourself plenty of time to grieve.
No, no, no, no, nooooooo! It is a horrible, horrible feeling. I know that no one who hasn’t been through it can understand. There are no words, and no explanations will do. It’s just heartbreak.
So all I will say is that you are entitled to your sorrow, and you are loved by those who know you, and supported even by those of us who don’t. We will be sending lots of prayers, and thoughts, and positive energy for healing. And of course, for the blessing of children in your life at some point.
I am so very sorry for your loss. Please know that my thoughts and prayers are with you and your husband!
We had the same experience in the ultrasound room. Twice. It’s a gut punch kind of pain that no one ever talks about, and that’s really unfortunate, because it marginalizes all of our losses – as if they weren’t painful enough.
Be good to yourself.
So sorry for your loss.
p.s. Your husband is right. And he sounds like an angel.
I am so sorry for your loss. I find it very brave to put yourself out here like this. I hope you are giving women a platform to discuss these issues and that, at least in our community, it becomes a bit less taboo. Praying for your healing as you go through this and continuing to pray for you and your husband to be blessed with a child.
I am so sorry. Been there 2x–it is so very hard. To reiterate what others have already said: take it easy and give yourself plenty of time to heal. IME, people are quick to underestimate how hard a miscarriage can be on your body as well as psyche. Thank you for sharing your story, too. I only heard about other people’s miscarriages after I had miscarried myself. There seems to be a strange and very really taboo about talking about it, a silence that does no one any good.
So sorry to hear this, but thank you for sharing it. Praying for healing and blessings.
So sorry for your loss.
I’m so sorry for your loss. No words can make you feel better, but know that people who don’t even know you are sending thoughts and prayers your way. You have touched us all.
I am so so sorry for your loss. Please give yourself space and time to grieve your loss. Add me to the list of people who are grateful for your bravery and eloquence in sharing your experiences — so personal, and so universal.
Also, add me to the list of people who found out about a miscarriage in the sonogram room. Wow, does that ever suck.
I am so sorry for your situation. I have had 4 miscarriages all before 9 weeks. I was, however, able to take one pregnancy to the end and have a beautiful 3 year old daughter that I cherish all the more for what we had to get through to have her. I will hope and pray that your journey ends happily too.
This left me in tears. I am so sorry for this terrible loss. You are such an amazing woman to go through something so awful, and yet to continue writing and putting yourself out there like this.
My heart aches for you. Thank you for sharing your story. You are not alone.
You brought me to tears. You have such a gift for writing about this.
I, too, am sorry for your loss and I have been through the fertility issues wringer as well.
I can only continue praying for you… Hang in there…
I have been there, too–the feelings of “maybe this time it’s our turn” only to be knocked down. I am so, so sorry.
Tears were running down my face reading your post. I am so sorry for your loss. Like others, I’ve experienced the same exact scenario in the sonogram room. One thing I found was the more I talked about it, the more I found others who could relate because they had miscarriages as well.
Every single thing that happens to us shapes who we are. You will be a stronger, better mother for all that you have gone through to get there. Be positive, stay strong. Keep writing. How lucky you are to share your life with such a loving, supportive husband.
I know it’s been said already, that words can do little to help ease your pain at this time. However, you should know that you are not alone in this. There are so many of us who have experienced what you have and when we hear of it happening to another person we can’t help but speak up. Part of the pain from this experience in time becomes empathy and a mission–to be there for anyone else who experiences the loss of a child–helping you carry your burden when it’s too much for you to bear just as, at one time, it was too much for me to bear by myself. After suffering infertility issues for too many months to count, my husband and I conceived in March. On April 8 (a day I will never be able to forget or “get over”) they found it on an ultrasound–directly beside my right ovary. There was nothing they could do since it was ectopic and I had to go to the emergency room and have cancer treatment medicine given to me to end the life that I wanted so so much. I made 3 doctors explain to me how this was the only option if I didn’t want to die of internal bleeding when my tube burst as it grew potentially killing us both. How do you “get over” that? The answer is, you don’t, not fully anyway. You will never be the same and maybe there’s a reason that you can’t see yet…
I am sorry for your loss.
I hate the dimly lit sono room. I hate the cold. I hate the calendar on the desk. I hate the ugly wallpaper. I hate shaking every time I enter because I know personally not everybody gets that white picket fence; the icing on the cake.
I know you you have written about religion before. I don’t know if you would be interested in this now but one day you might be and I want to pass it on to you just in case that one day comes.
http://www.innocents.com/shrine.asp
An online acquaintance shared this with me years ago. I am not Catholic but all five of my babies are inscribed in this book. Everyone carries grief differently. Some people want to forget and some need to remember. It humbles me to think people prayed for my dead babies when I wouldn’t and when I couldn’t. And that they are remembered.
It is hard. I’m sorry you are a sister in this club that no one wants to be in. I’m glad you have a safe place to go quiet. And I know no matter how your children come to you–you will treasure them.
Dear Friend,
I offer you my heartfelt sympathy. I have also cried while looking at my own sonogram screen where there was no heartbeat. You have a lot of company here among others who know something of how you feel. We are sisters in this.
Many of us have gone on to become mothers through conception or adoption and yet we still remember and honor the loss. Know that we are sitting with you quietly and supportively at this time wherever you are. You are not alone.
Love, Donna
I went through this 4 times before my daughter was born. Hang in there.
Been there. SO been there. It’s the most horrible, empty feeling in the entire world, especially after all the drugs, the endless pokes with needles, the even more endless probing of the lady parts with ultrasound wands, progesterone supplements, etc. Then on top of that you get these helpful and supportive gems … “There must have been something wrong with it.” “You’re young. YOU CAN TRY AGAIN.” (GRRRRRRRRRRRRR what do you think I’ve been DOING here?!?) “God doesn’t give you what you can’t handle.” “Well, at least you know you can get pregnant now.” As if any of this were helpful, or comforting, or anything less than breathtakingly painful to hear.
Hang in there. Keep trying. Keep talking to us. You WILL have your baby.
I went through the same thing you did to get my son … 18 months of trying, fertility treatments, etc. He is beautiful and everything I ever wanted. I went back to the RE to talk about having a second child only to find I was PREGNANT AGAIN!!! No Clomid. No two week wait. No spending an amount akin to the national defense budget on home pregnancy tests. No timed intercourse. None of that. So, just because it was THIS HARD for the first time, doesn’t mean it has to be THIS HARD the second (and third and fourth!) times. Again, hang in there. You’re in my thoughts.
I am so sorry for your loss! I went through the exact some thing a year ago and time will heal you! I know its hard because you had already fell in love with this little child inside you. So it breaks your heart into a million pieces when you know you will never get to know them. You are in my thoughts and prayers.
I just wanted to say that I’ve recently found your blog and I empathize so much with what you’ve been going through. We have been trying for well over 18 months now (oh wait, we’re actually going on 20 now that I think about it), Clomid cycle #3, all the charting, testing, etc. And every month this is my biggest fear, that we’ll finally get that desired “+” sign on a test and find out that it was too good to be true. Part of me is slightly happy to have my period start so that I know I don’t have to go through that grief. I’ve broken my POAS-aholic streak because I’m terrified of -’s and I’m even more afraid of what a + would mean.
But what I wanted to remind you was that as horrible as it feels right now, at least you know now that it CAN happen. I know that doesn’t ease the pain of your child now being an angel, but you know that the parts CAN work and that all of this trying has made progress.
You are in my thoughts and prayers. I’m in this journey with you and hopefully soon we can both be annoying all of our friends with baby bump pictures and annoying stories of morning sickness, and having TMI discussions with others about their labor stories and what to expect. But until then, try to stay strong and remember that there are so many of us praying for you. The temping every day and OPK testing and ultrasounds and medicines can be so very overwhelming, I know, some day it will all be worth it.
I’m so sorry for your loss. My heart aches for you. You are not alone. When I had my miscarriage, it helped to talk with someone who could relate. I love my friends; I know they love me. But I needed someone who could relate to my greiving, and that I wasn’t crazy to feel a certain way. Good luck to you and your lovely husband.
I’ll never forget the day that was my story. Do not give up hope, but open your heart. There are many ways to build your family. Fertility treatments and painful, expensive procedures are not my way. My way is foster care. I hope you find your way.