Miscarriage

I had a miscarriage. Like, 2 days ago. I was 8 weeks pregnant on Sunday and then not pregnant by Tuesday. And, unsurprisingly, the whole thing really sucks. It sucks enough that I feel like I need to write down some thoughts about it. And before you read further, I want to preface this post by saying that the following is my perspective only. I am not going to pretend like I’m the only one who has gone through something like this. In fact, miscarriage is so incredibly common. Up to 15% of all known pregnancies end in miscarriage. So I very much realize that I am not unique in this. That being said, I also recognize that my experience may differ very much from other people’s. You may be reading this and have had a miscarriage, or several miscarriages, or a miscarriage earlier than mine, or a late miscarriage. You may view life before birth very differently than I do. And you may not relate to any of the feelings I’m going to talk about regarding miscarriage. And that’s ok. I want to acknowledge and respect each person’s perspective up front. I’m simply going to share mine.

Andy and I had been trying to get pregnant for about 7 months. Which I know is not very long at all. In fact it’s a very normal amount of time to be trying. But it was long enough to feel a little nervous that it wasn’t going to happen, and then super excited/relieved when we finally got a positive test. Things were going fine. I wasn’t feeling nearly as sick as I did in my previous pregnancies, but I tried not to read too much into it. I was able to sneak in to get an early scan (one of the many perks of having OB/GYN friends) and even saw a heartbeat, which was incredibly reassuring and exciting. 

On Monday, I started having some bleeding. Very light. Not bright red. No cramping. So I really tried not to freak out. (Of course I freaked out). I started texting all my OB friends, asked Andy a million questions, and googled like crazy. (PSA: Don’t fucking google anything in pregnancy. Ever. Just don’t.) All signs seemed to point to harmless bleeding. It’s something that isn’t normal, but it’s incredibly common. And lots of pregnant women who experience early bleeding go on to have normal pregnancies. So that’s what I tried to keep running through my head. It’s fine. It’s common. It will go away. I eventually got nervous enough to call my doctor. Her nurse told me to go get some labs drawn so they could check different levels that would indicate something normal or something concerning. So I did that. And I kept bleeding. It didn’t get much worse. Just enough to be the only thing on my mind every minute of the day. Friends and family tried to be reassuring, and I tried to believe them.

Fast forward to Tuesday. Bleeding is pretty much the same, so I call my doctor’s office that afternoon to see if my labs came back. The nurse said my levels looked pretty good. Good enough for me to come in so they could do an early ultrasound and double check everything. So Andy, the kids, and I went to the hospital so I could get scanned. I’m mostly excited at this point, because I know the ultrasound will be telling either way. It will either show something good or something bad. The tech takes me (and the whole crew) back into the room and starts the exam. I’ve had enough ultrasounds to at least somewhat know what I’m looking for. Above everything, I’m waiting to see that flicker. The heartbeat flicker. That’s what’s going to make all my fears (or at least most of them) disappear. There are 2 parts of this exam. For the first part, she scans my belly from the outside. During this part, she’s focusing mainly on my ovaries and taking different measurements. I’m pretty sure I can see the fetus at one point. But I don’t see a flicker. I try not to totally freak out as I’m getting ready to the second part of the scan – where I have to take my pants off so she can use a vaginal probe to get a closer look at everything. (This part is just as sexy as it sounds.) Luckily, my kids turn into zombies when an iPad is on, so they are completely oblivious to everything at this point. During the next scan, it becomes pretty obvious to me that something’s wrong. The fetus isn’t moving, and I don’t see a flicker. The sonographer tries to get a heartbeat measurement, and the only numbers she can get are in the 30’s and 70’s. (A normal fetal heart rate would be in the 110-160 range). So it’s very clear to me that this isn’t good.

When she leaves the room is when I break down. It’s the thing I was most afraid of, and it’s happening. We were able to go right upstairs after the scan and talk to my OB. I’m so incredibly appreciative that she made the time in her schedule to talk with me. It made me think about all the times when your doctor is late seeing you. Chances are, they are dealing with a patient who’s having a much shittier day than you are. And on Tuesday, I was that patient. My doctor chatted with me about options moving forward. The gist was: there was a slight heart rate detected, but things were not looking good. Chances were, I was starting to miscarry. So, now what? I basically had 3 options. 1. Wait and see. Let my body do its thing and manage any cramping or heaving bleeding along the way. 2. Use a medicine to stimulate cramping and bleeding (basically induce contractions). Try to move things along and manage symptoms at home. 3. Schedule a D&C (not DNC as I had previously thought it was called. It’s called dilation & curettage, not Democratic National Convention. DNC sounds like a lot more fun than D&C). A D&C is a surgical procedure that basically removes the tissue to clear your uterine lining. It’s quick and thorough.

Once she laid out these options, I turned to Andy for some guidance. And let me say, I’m so lucky to, first of all, have a partner with me throughout this whole process, and secondly, have a partner who respects my body and trusts me to make my own decisions about it. He said he’d support whatever I wanted. And what I wanted, aside from it not to be happening at all, was for it to be fucking done. If this pregnancy was not going to be a pregnancy anymore, then I wanted to be not pregnant as soon as possible. So we scheduled an ultrasound first thing Wednesday morning, to confirm no heartbeat, followed by a D&C surgery.

{Warning – this is one of those moments where I’m going to offer a perspective that may be very different from yours, so, proceed with caution… While we were making these decisions about what to do, I felt, more than ever, pro-choice. I’ve always been pro-choice, and maybe it’s strange to be miscarrying and still feel that way, but it was extremely clear that what was happening, was happening in MY body. I was cramping. I was bleeding. I had a fetus inside my body that was no longer viable and the thought of somebody else dictating what would be appropriate or not appropriate to do was/is infuriating. Now, I recognize that a miscarriage is different from an abortion, but this experience has reinforced to me that women should be trusted to make their own decisions. Until it’s you in the situation, you get to keep your mouth shut. So men get to go ahead and sit this one out. Please and thanks.}

Ok. We had made a plan. Luckily, my family is in town and always makes themselves available in tough situations. My parents offered to take my kids overnight, so Andy and I wouldn’t have to worry about having a babysitter for them when we had to leave for the hospital at 5:30am in the morning. We took the kids over to my parents, had dinner with my family, and went home. As you might imagine, it was nearly impossible to sleep. I was starting to have some more painful cramping. I was nervous about having to have a surgery and get put to sleep under anesthesia. I was scared that we would go in for the ultrasound and there would be a heart rate in the 20’s or 30’s and we’d just have to wait. The process would be even longer. And my anxiety would just spiral out of control. I probably got around 4 hours of sleep before it was time to get up on Wednesday (yesterday). I woke up and took a shower. (Fun fact: before surgery they ask you to shower with Dial anti-bacterial soap. And the only kind we have is a huge CostCo hand soap refill. Which is what I used. It was weird.) We got to the hospital. Checked in. Had the ultrasound. No heartbeat was found. Which did make me feel both relieved and incredibly sad. It just made everything seem completely real. And completely final. I was done being pregnant. It was over. Fucking shitty.

We made our way back up to surgery. Got all ready to go. Vitals taken. IV in. Questions asked. There was some mishap with my hospital bracelet that had pretty much the entire surgery floor in a tizzy. So that was pretty exciting. Andy kept trying to be supportive in any way he could. I’m not an outwardly emotional person and I don’t always like to be touched, so I think he felt fairly helpless. I would get waves of sadness at weird times. It was also very strange to be the patient that everyone feels sorry for. All the nurses and staff were very kind, trying to be as supportive as possible. Several people told me they’d had miscarriages themselves. And it made me wish that pregnancy loss, and women’s issues in general, was something we all felt more comfortable recognizing and talking about. (Which is maybe why I felt compelled to write this post.) Before it was time to head back to surgery, I said goodbye to Andy. Which really made me sad. I know he’s experiencing this loss, too, and it seemed like in that moment we were both saying goodbye to the pregnancy. To the potential for another baby. To all that hopeful planning and excitement. Which really bums me out. 

The 1 thing I was looking forward to before surgery was the Versed. I know about Versed because I had it before my gall bladder surgery a few years ago. I was on the verge of a panic attack and after Versed, I was all smiles and rainbows. Needless to say, before heading back to have a surgery that I wished more than anything I didn’t need to have, I was ready for that mothafuckin’ Versed. And it did not disappoint. I basically remember heading into the operating room, calm as can be, being told to breathe in deeply, and then waking up in the recovery room. 

When I woke up, I felt ok. Both physically and emotionally. I felt better to have the procedure done with. It was definitely the right decision for me. And it seemed like we could come to terms with the end of this pregnancy and start to heal and move forward. I spent most of yesterday just resting and being as lazy as I could possibly be. It was nice to have my kids home. We had told them that I was pregnant, so we tried to tell them in the most age-appropriate way possible that I wasn’t pregnant anymore. And I don’t know how much they really understand. Life hasn’t really changed that much for them, and that’s a good thing. 

I’ve slowly tried to tell the friends and family who knew I was pregnant that I miscarried. The risk you take when you tell people early is that you will be forced to tell them this kind of news also. And for me, I think it’s better that way. When you can feel support from people and get nice texts and phone calls, you feel less alone. It’s difficult to know the right level of sad to be. Like I said, I’m not an outwardly emotional person, so maybe the way I’m dealing with all of this seems too pragmatic or cold to some people. But I don’t think there is a right or wrong way to be in situations like this. I’m sure the grieving will continue and will happen at random times. I had a beer yesterday afternoon and started crying before opening it, wishing I was still pregnant and not able to drink. I got sad deleting the stupid pregnancy app I had downloaded on my phone. And erasing the 12 week OB appointment from my calendar, the appointment where you get to see and hear the heartbeat and breathe that sigh of relief because you made it through the riskiest time of pregnancy. 

So, ya. I feel sad. And mad. And disappointed. But also, (strangely) grateful. I have 3 healthy, amazing kids. I had 3 normal, successful pregnancies before this. I know there are so many women who are struggling to get pregnant and/or maintain a pregnancy. And while this loss really sucks, I feel reassured knowing that I am capable of getting pregnant and carrying a baby to term. I cannot imagine going through a miscarriage again, let alone several, so I’m very aware of how fortunate I am in that regard.

I will also say that this experience has highlighted just how privileged I am. And that isn’t anything new to me. It seems like every day I’m more acutely aware of my privilege. And these past few days are no exception. For example, when we were meeting with my doctor and trying to make decisions about what to do, you know what wasn’t on my mind? Money. We didn’t think once about how much this would cost. Because we knew we could do it. Andy has a great job and we have health insurance and we knew that we would be able to make this happen. But there are so many women who don’t have that security. Who would be forced to make a different decision about their body or their health, regardless of what they wanted or felt was best, just because they couldn’t afford it. When I had initially called the doctor’s office regarding my bleeding and concerns, they wanted me to go have my blood drawn and get an ultrasound as soon as possible. I’m able to be at home most of the time with my kids, so I have that flexibility. Andy has a job that allows him to take time off when he needs it. That is not the norm for everyone. When you have a surgery, you aren’t allowed to drive for 24 hours. Some women don’t have someone who can drive them. Or have the ability to take extended time off. Or have family in town to watch kids for free. So, yes. While I’m sure all miscarriages are shitty, mine could be a lot shittier. 

I know this probably hasn’t been the blog post you were hoping for. (I’m talking as if I have thousands of fans who anxiously await a new post from me, haha). But I felt like it was important to write. And if sharing it makes it a little easier for people to engage in a conversation about miscarriage, or infertility, or loss in general, then great. Or if this is just a way for me to process the past couple of days, that’s great, too. Either way, if you’re someone who has experienced pregnancy loss, I’m so incredibly sorry. It’s awful. The loss of control and helplessness can be overwhelming. I wish you support and hope. And whether you relate to my experience, or completely disagree with my perspective, my heart goes out to you.

Thanks to everyone who has already reached out. I really have the best friends and family. 

❤