open your mouth about miscarriage if you don’t know anything about it.
It is not “just like a period”.
It is not something that “you can just try again”.
It is physical AND emotional pain.
It is a fluctuation in hormones.
It is waiting.
It is your body expelling something that should have a life and future.
It is possibly having to take medication to open your cervix so that your body will start the “natural process”.
It is seeing your future physically fall out of you, or a hospital room because your body couldn’t correctly do the job and now the doctor will do it for you.
It is bleeding for days/weeks on end.
It is depression.
It is worrying about infection.
It is trauma.
It is waiting to be allowed to be intimate with your partner again.
It is never wanting to to be intimate again.
It is blood draws and HCG level testing.
It is a follow up gynecological appointment, and physical exam from a stranger when you don’t want anyone near that fragile part of your body.
It is possibly another ultrasound… of your now empty belly.
It is possibly the need for surgery.
It is crying on the bathroom floor feeling like your body failed you.
It is months of waiting for your cycle to regulate so you can “just try again”.
It is never forgetting the excitement, the waiting in the ultrasound room, the horrible news, the images, the pain, the due date, and the fact that you SHOULD be a mother to that child but you will never be.
And no other pregnancy, no other baby, will ever replace the one that should have been but is not.
It is never being able to truly feel excited when you become pregnant again. Because this never leaves you, and this could happen again.
A miscarriage is a natural and common event. All told, probably more women have lost a child from this world than haven’t. Most don’t mention it, and they go on from day to day as if it hadn’t happened, so people imagine that a woman in this situation never really knew or loved what she had.
But ask her sometime: how old would your child be now? And she’ll know.
- It wasn’t your fault. I promise.
- Your body isn’t “wrong” or “unnatural”. Loss is a very natural part of life and it’s unfair but you aren’t “wrong”.
- Take your time to grieve. It will hurt but it will get better each day.
- There are millions of people out there who’ve faced exactly what you are facing.
- Support is everywhere, you just have to look. Someone cares, I promise you.
- Everything will be okay 💕 your little angel is watching over you.
- If you need to talk, I’m always here!
It wasn’t like I thought it would be: seeing you on the screen in front of me with your dad next to me holding my hand. It was cold, and I was alone, your dad outside the door sitting in a chair with strangers and a lone Christmas tree surrounding him. We were waiting to go see you on the screen in front of us, to see if there even was still a you to see, when I saw you in the bathroom.
I got down on my knees to be sure. You were the size of a blueberry, maybe longer. You were pink and red and covered in blood. Covered in the same blood that covered me and covered my underwear, pink and white and red and in the trash so I never have to look at them again, because the emotional stain won’t come out in the wash.
I saw you today for the very first time, and the very last time.
I lost you today.
I lost you and I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. This hurts. Oh, God. This hurts. I never thought I’d have a child, let alone lose one. And I miss you. I miss you more than I ever thought I could miss someone I never really met, but I loved you. I loved you more than anything, more than anyone. I can’t even explain it.
Seven weeks: that’s how long you lived inside of me.
I could feel you. Not anything substantial of course, because you were so small, but I knew that you were there. I felt… full. It was almost like a constant cramp, but a good one. The best kind, because I knew it meant you were there and you were growing and you were okay and your heart was beating and you were mine and I was yours and I loved you and couldn’t wait to meet you.
I miss you so much. You’ve only been gone a handful of hours and already I miss you, and I can’t stop sobbing, and I’m so sorry.
My dearest Baby Bowman, I love you to the moon and back, and I am honored that God chose me to be your mother for the short time that I was, and I pray that you are with Him now, and with your father and my loved ones.
Wait for us.
I don’t want today to be the last time.
I saw you today for the very first time, and I lost you, and I loved you, and I love you, and I will always always always love you, from then and now until eternity, to the moon and back, and I’ll see you again someday, little one. I promise you, I’ll see you again.
A miscarriage is a natural and common event. All told, probably more women have lost a child from this world than haven’t. Most don’t mention it, and they go on from day to day as if it hadn’t happened, so people imagine a woman in this situation never really knew or loved what she had.
But ask her sometime: how old would your child be now? And she’ll know.
I could very well carry her for one, two, three, four more months, my body continuing to stretch, strangers continuing to excitedly comment,…my husband silently suffering as he watches both his girls struggle, my face continuing to belie my grief, my heart continuing to break.
No one tells you that it’s a possibility.
No one tells you that it will make an impact on your life.
No one tells you that it’s an excruciating pain.
No one tells you that you will feel like your heart has been ripped out.
No one tells you that you’ll feel empty.
No one tells you that you’ll resent your spouse.
No one tells you that it will eat you alive.
No one tells you that you’ll spend nights blaming yourself.
No one tells you that your eyes will produce never ending tears.
No one tells you that the days will go slow.
No one tells you that you’ll cry whenever and wherever.
No one tells you that you’ll lose your faith.
No one tells you that your mind will be consumed.
No one tells you that seeing one child can ruin your day.
No one tells you that eventually everyone will go on with their life except you.
No one tells you that it will hit you when you least expect it.
No one tells you that you will lose your motivation.
No one tells you how hard it is to try again.
No one tells you that you’ll become jealous of those who have what you don’t.
No one tells you that it’s okay to cry.
No one tells you to take your time.
No one tells you that it’s okay to not want to get out of bed some days.
No one tells you how long you’ll be stuck.
No one tells you that you will never be the same.
No one tells you how traumatizing it is.
No one tells you that in the back of your mind, you’ll ask ‘why?’ and ‘what if?’.
No one tells you that it’s a long journey to recovery.
No one tells you that losing a child will be so hard.
“If you lose a baby, and nobody knew about it in the first place, does it make a sound? You’re damn right it does. And when you are brave, when you open your mouth and tell people about that hole that was punched through the center of your heart, you’ll be surprised at who comes to fill it, at how many women raise their hands and say “me, too.”