Just seconds before, I had been excitedly pulling up my shirt, eager to meet our first baby via ultrasound at our 12 week appointment. To see the outline of their precious face, maybe see them dance or move or wave like I'd read about in so many other mother's stories. Daniel was recording everything on my iPhone so we could send the video to our family right after the appointment, to show both sets of parents their beloved first grandbaby.
But with the technician's words, I felt like I was whiplashed, my heart sent flying outside of my own body. Nothing felt real. It was like I was floating outside of myself, looking in and watching this happen like it was someone else's life unfolding on a dramatic TV show. Surely this wasn't happening to us. This wasn't how this story was supposed to go. I couldn't process any of the words that were said. I couldn't even move. I think maybe Daniel asked some questions, but it was all one big, horrifying blur.
I vaguely remember being escorted out of that room and into an exam room for holding until our doctor could see us in her office to talk about next steps. Daniel and I sat there, alone, bawling loudly, blowing our noses into the paper-thin doctor's office tissues. It felt like torture. I looked around the room at the bottle of ultrasound gel and the posters of infant development on the wall and felt angry and confused. I wanted to go home immediately. I didn't want to be in the office one second longer; the office that had once held so much promise and excitement. The office with a waiting room full of happy women with round bellies and healthy babies.
The doctor finally saw us, and told us she was sorry. That this happens sometimes, and we could likely try again soon. Gave us some information that I could barely process about the D&C procedure she was recommending. Then she directed us to the office down the hall to get bloodwork done, and told us they would be in touch to schedule the procedure some time next week. Kind, but clinical.
As I waited to get my blood drawn, I sat scrolling through my phone, crying uncontrollably and deleting the pregnancy apps I'd so joyfully been following for the last couple of months. "Baby is the size of a lime" I'd read just that morning, smiling to myself as I thought about the best secret that I'd ever carried, and how excited Daniel and I were to share our secret with the world soon.
In an instant, that secret had completely changed. Our secret joy became secret sorrow.
The thing about carrying the burden of miscarriage around is that nobody can possibly guess why you're sad unless you tell them what happened. And in the days and weeks that followed, telling people was really, really hard. There were a few people we let know about the miscarriage--our immediate families, three close friends who had already known we were pregnant, and my team at work, because I would have to miss a week during one of our busiest seasons of the year. It stopped there. I found myself not able to vocalize my grief to people. Not wanting to bring even close friends into our pain. I didn't want to make them feel uncomfortable, or put them in the position of not knowing what to say, or fearing saying the wrong thing. So those first couple of weeks, we held onto our sorrow and kept it tight to our chests.
We found out very quickly that keeping the secret to ourselves, looking people that know and love us in the eyes and talking to them, but not letting them know about the complete devastation we were experiencing felt disingenuous. After encouragement from our therapist, we finally started sharing our story, and for the first time since our ultrasound appointment, I finally felt like I could process what happened and begin to heal, to move forward.
As we let more and more layers of friends and family know what happened, people showed up for us. We got beautiful flowers from family and friends across the world. People would stop what they were doing to cry with us, check in, bring us lunch, share breakfast, take me out for pedicures. Ask me questions about my baby and my first trimester, which helped remind me that he was my baby. I was pregnant. I was and always will be his mom, even though that time was cut short.
And so we enter this "new normal" phase, where I struggle to answer the question that seems to come up so often from strangers or new acquaintances: "Do you have any kids?"
If you have experienced miscarriage, or love someone who has; if your arms are aching to hold a child you'll never know; if the thought of motherhood is particularly hard for you because of loss or longing, in any way, shape, or form--you're not alone.
If you have lost a child, you will always be their parent. Daniel and I became parents the moment we saw the positive pregnancy test. We will always have the deepest, most unfathomable love for our baby. His lack of heartbeat doesn't change that. And we know this because ours will always beat for him.
Robert Paul Clark
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