1 in 4 women will experience a miscarriage. Maybe that statistic is supposed to be comforting, to help me feel less alone. As it stands now, I hate that statistic. I would never wish this kind of pain on anyone, let alone 25% of all women. The pain of knowing that I’ll never get to hold or even see my little one is overwhelming sometimes. I would have been 11 weeks pregnant today. Instead, I lost my baby Tuesday at just over 10 weeks. I didn’t even get to hear a heartbeat.
My boyfriend and I were scared when we first found out I was pregnant. It was our first, and we hadn’t exactly planned it. Neither of us knew how to be a parent. Even worse, my family was, and still is, completely against our relationship. My mother even offered to pay for an abortion. I never even considered it. The thought of destroying something I had helped create, a child that was a part of me from the moment I saw those two pink lines, was unthinkable. Much to my family’s dismay, I was going to keep this baby.
Gradually, our fear was replaced by excitement. We began planning our future as parents. Where we would live, what we wanted the nursery to look like, and even picking out names. Kaidan David or Kaylee Ellen were what we had in mind. My doctor booked my first appointment for August the 21st, when I would have been 12 weeks along. Hayden and I were never more ecstatic than when we were imagining how our baby would look or what the heartbeat would sound like. I can’t help but think that we got excited too quickly.
I had been spotting lightly for about 2 days before I finally went to the ER. I hadn’t thought much of it at first. Lot’s of women spot during their first trimester, right? Still, I wanted to make sure everything was as it should be. The pelvic exam and blood work went well, and the doctor seemed optimistic. It wasn’t until the ultrasound that I started to think something had to be wrong. The ultrasound was showing that the baby was only 6 weeks into its development. My last period had been in May, and according to all the estimates, I should have been at least 10 weeks.
They couldn’t have been that far off, could they? My baby shouldn’t be that small. To make matters worse, there wasn’t even a heartbeat. Still, everyone seemed optimistic. I was told to rest and keep a close eye on what was happening, and to come back if it got worse. I ended up returning to the ER less than twelve hours later.
The blood work from that second ER visit showed that my hormone levels were falling and that everything I was afraid of was quickly becoming a reality. I was given an IV and transferred to PCU, where the doctor laid out my options. I could either have a D&C, take a pill that would force the miscarriage to happen more quickly, or go home and let it happen naturally. I opted for the D&C. The thought of having to flush my baby down a toilet was more than I could handle.
I remember the first thing I did after I woke up from the surgery was cry. It was all I could do that whole night. Hayden said he had never heard sounds like the ones I made come out of any other human before. I know he knows a lot about the pain of loss. Two months prior to my miscarriage, his father spontaneously passed away. Three months prior to that, his mother had passed after a two year battle with leukemia. He told me that even after the deaths of his parents, losing this baby was the worst pain he ever felt.
I wish I could say I was getting better. The urge to cry isn’t as overwhelming now. Maybe I’m just running out of tears. All I know is I’m not better. I’m tired. I’m bitter. I’m angry. I wish people were more sympathetic, my mother in particular. “It was just a cell, Kris. It wasn’t a real baby.” I wanted to punch her more than anything the moment she said it. I know she’s just ignorant. My sister and I are both healthy, and she’s never gone through anything like this before. Still, it hurt. That comment helped stir the pot for one of the worst fights my mother and I have ever had. She still isn’t speaking to me. I want her to understand how I feel more than anything.
I feel broken, like my body betrayed me and my baby. I feel like I see babies everywhere. One of my co-workers just had a healthy baby boy. My best friend is pregnant with her second child. Even as I was leaving the hospital, the first thing I saw coming out of the elevator was a window full of balloons and flowers celebrating the birth of a baby girl. I think I hated that woman for a moment. She got to hold and kiss her baby, while mine had died that exact same day.
It wasn’t fair. I had wanted my baby too. In a few short weeks, I came to love my child more than I had ever loved anyone, and in a few short hours it was all ripped away from me. Now, a week later, I still feel empty. I can’t help but think that I shouldn’t feel this way. What normal person cries all night over a tiny, unfinished baby? Apparently, I do. I miss him/her everyday. I’m dreading work tomorrow. I’m supposed to be up in two hours to get ready. I need to sleep, but I just can’t. I really don’t want to go, but I’ve been out for a week now, ever since I went into the hospital. I don’t think my managers will understand if I try to take anymore time. I hope they can at least understand enough to be more supportive than my family has.