Just Those Few Weeks

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.

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I am the 22-year-old mommy of an angel.

  1. I don’t usually leave anonymous comments to people I don’t know, but I suddenly felt so compelled after reading your entry. First let me say that I am so terribly sorry for your loss. My husband and I also lost our first not-quite-planned pregnancy in September and know what you and your boyfriend are going through. To go from the shock and surprise of suddenly finding that you’re expecting, to the budding sense of determination followed by loving, building anticipation… and then have it all come to a screeching halt… well, there’s no other way to describe it than absolutely devastating. Second, I am so sorry to hear that your family has failed to provide you with the loving support you both deserve. Regardless of your mother’s opinion of your boyfriend, you are both grieving a very real loss. This pregnancy clearly meant a lot to both of you, and it angers me that she would be so insensitive. I know it’s a small gesture, but if I could reach out across the expanse of Internet Land to give you both a big hug, I unhesitatingly would. I understand your loss, and grieve with you both. Be good to each other and know that somewhere out there I’m thinking of you and wishing you peace.

  2. I also feel compelled to send you a message. In early February, I too lost my baby at ten weeks naturally, the night I went home from emergency after the brown spotting turned to red. I ended up flushing after examining it, but had I known I could have brought it in for analysis, I would have; a doctor who saw me when my regular one was away asked me why I hadn’t. Mine hadn’t developed past six weeks either. Then the father left me a month later, after suggesting we try again the night after it happened, but he also tried to comfort me by suggesting it was only a bunch of cells. This was a man I was in love with for three years, but he never quite felt the same.

    The good news for me is that I have found someone who is just as in love with me as I am with him, and there’s renewed hope for a family, but I’ve been thinking and grieving more about my loss in the last couple of weeks because, had I gone forty weeks, baby would have been born last week. The week of its father’s birthday. Possibly why I ended up wandering into the local maternity hospital I may have given birth in on the 3rd . And then this week of awareness came.

    Everyone’s experience is different. I have managed to survive somehow… but I want to try to offer you some hope. Somehow I managed to hold back and hide the pain… I went back to work on Wednesday after having the miscarriage on the prior Saturday night. Also lost my job after that… this contributed, but it was coming anyway.

    We had names picked out too… Miranda if it was a girl (the other name than Amanda that can be shortened to Mandy), and we were thinking Michael if it were a boy. I named it Rohana Nathan Miranda D. (the D is the father’s last name). In Sanskrit, Rohana means ascension, healing and medicine, as well as warriors in Lord of the Rings, which I watched two films of the trilogy with the father before and while expecting (finally watched the last film and finished it with current partner), my doctor mentioned the LOTR connection; I hadn’t even considered it when I found the name, it is unisex.

    I’m thinking of you, and hope you find healing and peace for yourself. Even if it’s slow in coming.

    Take care and be well.


  3. I feel for the deep pain you’re feeling; for I experienced it and still do to this day. My husband and I lost our baby at 12 weeks (or like you, the baby was only 7 weeks on the ultrasound and had died a month without me or my body knowing). This happened 3 years ago at Thanksgiving time, and the pain has come in waves like the ocean that have come, gone, changed, grown worse, grown lighter, back and forth, and forth and back. Understanding this deep pain and acknowledgment of the little person lost is what m heart wants most, and even when I think it’s there, it’s still not enough. I cried out to Jesus to please understand my pain, and not allow me to feel bad or stupid for feeling the grief the way I do all the time, and though I feel He is the only one who can truly understand and care, the pain deep in my heart remains. I hope you allow yourself to experience your grief and not let others push you or make you feel ridiculous for your feelings. You’re little one was a precious person you love and you lost that you never got to truly know, and that is so difficult to wrap one’s mind around. There’s so end to the pain, I think, but it can be handled and we have the opportunity to strengthen through it…the depth of the pain shows us the depth of our love. Catch 22…all the same, I’m sorry for the pain you feel.