You know what sucks? Miscarriage.

I recently added two big things to the list of major emotional milestones I’ve gone through in the last year: my first pregnancy, and my first miscarriage.

As these things sometimes go, I miscarried 4 days before my father’s birthday. 5 days before the one year anniversary of my mom’s death. And 6 days before Valentine’s day, which would have been the day we had our first ultrasound to see a heartbeat. While it wasn’t precisely the worst timing possible…it was close.

There were 17 days when I knew I was pregnant, then a interminable night of bleeding and cramping where I was terrified I was miscarrying, then a day and a half when I was hoping that I was overreacting, and then the doctor’s appointment where it was confirmed that I was, indeed, no longer pregnant.

I told my father I was pregnant about 5 minutes after seeing the big blue + on the pregnancy test–he’s a retired OB/GYN and is a great insider to have on your pregnancy team. I told my close friends the week after finding out–my math was “Do I need this person to know if I have a miscarriage?” More than half my friends who have children have had miscarriages. 3 days before I miscarried we told my in-laws that I was pregnant, and there was laughter and hugs and tears. The day before I miscarried we had told a handful of people: a brother, a grandma, an aunt and uncle, some close family friends. That night, it happened, and the next morning I called my dad and told him, expecting his usual calm and reassuring bedside manner. Instead, he cried.

Then was the administering of the pills that would help my body release the no-longer-a-fetus from my uterus, and the waiting for the chills, and severe cramping, and bleeding. There was a second dose of pills the following day, and then another ultrasound a couple days later to show that yes, the no-longer-a-fetus was no longer in my uterus.

That was almost 4 weeks ago. And, as it turns out, the fun isn’t over yet. My body has been very slow to let go of being pregnant, and my hormone levels have remained high enough for me to get a positive result from a pregnancy test (which resulted in a very confused few days) and I have had more ultrasounds and blood tests than you can shake a stick at. Who knew *not* having a baby would be so complicated, cost so much, and take so long?

And right now I simply waiting. Waiting for my hormone levels to drop enough that I will begin to ovulate again, and we can give it another go and hope for the best.

One of the things that struck me most about this experience was that it was not as devastating as I thought it would be. It was very sad, and there was about a week when I barely got off the couch and didn’t leave the house, but it wasn’t a horrible sadness. Just a quiet disappointment. In a way there was almost a small measure of relief of “Oh, this thing that I was so terrified was going to happen has happened, and I am going to be alright.” Maybe it’s because it was still so early in the pregnancy (just a day shy of 7 weeks) that I hadn’t seen an ultrasound or heard a heartbeat or begun to feel like it was real. But probably mostly because I have so many friends with happy, healthy babies, who also had miscarriages.

And that leads me to the most remarkable thing of all about this experience. My husband and I have told many people about the miscarriage–many more than we told about the pregnancy in the first place. When people have asked “Hey, how are you?” we’ve been largely transparent about what’s happening and how we are doing. And the percentage of people who responded to the news of our miscarriage with either “Oh, we had a miscarriage too, before our first was born” or “My mom had a miscarriage before she got pregnant with me” was easily over 75%. The vast majority of people we spoke to had either had a miscarriage or had talked to their mom about hers.

So if most of us have gone through this or know someone who has, why don’t we talk about it more often? When I told one friend she responded with “You know, most women have miscarriages, which is why people generally don’t tell people about their pregnancy early on.” And I was deeply confused by this statement–most people have this experience, so we don’t talk about it? That seems so backwards to me. I understand (from experience) that telling people “Oh, just kidding, we’re not having a baby” really sucks, but to me, that doesn’t mean that we should all stick with the norm and keep pregnancies a secret until past the first trimester. Who are we protecting by hiding our failed pregnancies? And wouldn’t we all be better prepared for the likelihood of miscarrying ourselves if we heard more about how often it happens?

Until next time,

The Cry Babe

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