Letting Go

When something happens to you that shakes your understanding of the future and all the plans you had laid out, it takes a while to accept the new way things are.

I remember when I found out I was pregnant. I had been meaning to take a test for a few days, but kept forgetting, figuring it wasn't going to happen so soon after D was born. I remember being surprised, but so incredibly excited at the thought of having a second healthy baby, either boy or girl.

The very next day I went to a store and found the perfect shirt for D to wear. It said Big Brother in soft, velvety black letters on a soft grey background. I changed D into it as soon as I got home, and waited for just the right moment to ask H if he thought this shirt looked big on D. That was one of my favorite moments from this year.

We couldn't contain our excitement, and felt so much joy in immediately telling our families the good news. We started planning out which room the new baby would be in, how we would handle bedtime with not one, but two little beings to precariously get to sleep. We said that this was almost the perfect age difference, 17 months apart, that they would be thick as thieves once they were both walking and talking.

I wasn't even nervous going to my 8-week appointment. I was eager to know what the due date would be, eager to know how big the little surprise inside was. I had D with me, and was keeping him calm while the doctor poked around taking pictures of this and that. It seemed like a long time, but when D gets fussy every moment seems just a little longer.

I remember when she told me, I remember bracing myself before she even said it. The embryo looks a little small - are you sure of the ovulation date? Not really, I hadn't been tracking anything. All I had for proof was the stick that told me I was pregnant. And I don't see a heartbeat. That was the bomb. I didn't know how to respond. I'd like to see what your hCG levels are, and if they're high then this could just be too early to see the heart. That kept me calm until the doctor left the room to get papers for the usual prenatal workup. The door clicked shut behind her and I began crying.

I let myself feel that dark despair for a few moments, and then I decided I didn't want to walk out of there crying. For some insane reason, I wasn't going to be the woman that cried in public about this.  I got it together and made it all the way to the car before cracking under the weight of absolute not knowing and breaking down again. Telling H was the worst feeling. He pointed out that there was hope with the results of the blood work, and we'd just have to wait and see.

Five days later we received the results of the blood tests. I had strong hCG levels, nowhere near where they would be if I was on the decline of a pregnancy. I was still having pregnancy symptoms, most notably morning sickness in the form of nausea at random times of the day. It felt extremely close to how it was with D, so very close.

A week and half after my initial appointment, I had the follow up ultrasound. My mother-in-law was kind enough to watch D while I went by myself to the office. The sonographer was warm, and very quick, thankfully. She fetched the doctor when she was done, and I sat up to hear the words I knew were about to come out of her mouth.

I'm so sorry, we can't see a heartbeat. The embryo is still the same size it was at your previous appointment. I'm sorry I don't have better news ... 

The rest of the time in the office was spent talking about options. It's fairly boring unless it's happening to you, then you want to know every possible outcome and side effect and precaution to take to prevent anything even worse from happening. But for anyone else, it's just medical ifs and thens. There was no bravado this time about getting out of the office without crying.

I hated telling H. It broke something inside me to say it out loud, to the most important person in my life.

The rest of the day alternated between grief, sleeping, and attempting to figure out what to do now. It was hollowing, as if I was in a loop with no exit, no way of stopping. There was nothing I could do to change what had happened.

Today marks seven days after I found out, and I am no longer pregnant. I experienced what the doctor called a missed miscarriage, when the pregnancy ends for an undetermined reason. Usually the chromosomes aren't matched correctly, and the pregnancy isn't viable any longer. There wasn't anything I did that caused the miscarriage, and nothing I could have done to stop it.

I understand that it's better it happened now instead of later in the pregnancy, and I understand that the emotional and physical pain associated with that type of miscarriage would be crushing. That doesn't make the pain I'm experiencing any less painful. It doesn't mean I haven't asked why a thousand times either, or tried to reason out what this is supposed to change in my life, like it's a movie and I'm supposed to learn from it. I'd like to say I've grown from this and become a stronger person, but I haven't gained enough distance from it to say that yet.

Miscarriage happens in roughly 30% of all pregnancies, yet it's something we talk about even less than postpartum depression. That means the women who go through it do so in an isolated environment, possibly without support from friends or family because it's not something that you should share. It is so painful for me to tell someone what happened, but it becomes worth it when that person shoulders some of the grief and just lends their ear.

I don't want to hold onto this darkness forever, and I don't want it to hold onto me. So I'm setting it free.