*Part 1 of ‘My Miscarriage’ can be read here
That night, I went to the bathroom and noticed blood…and that’s when I knew it was happening.
I sprinted straight towards my mom’s room upstairs and told her about the blood, she tried to console me with her words by telling me that in most cases women do bleed during their pregnancies, and they just need bed rest. She also told me not to worry, and that the baby would be fine; she was so sure that the doctor would send me home and tell me to take it easy- but I knew otherwise.
I don’t remember much about how I got to the hospital that night and who drove me (I think it was my husband), but I do remember looking out the window in a blank stare with an uneasy feeling in my stomach- the drive seemed to take forever.
I finally arrived at the hospital, where the situation got worse. It was hard enough going through all of this, but to explain it over and over again broke me more and more each time. The first time I had to explain why I was at the hospital was at the front desk, then it was at the triage desk, then it was to the nurse, and then finally it was to the doctor.
Initially, the doctor did not think I was having a miscarriage, and I instantly thought back to my mom’s words- maybe she was right?! But then….but then, he took a look at my blood test results from the computer and told me I needed an ultrasound right away.
As I laid down on the examination table within the cold and tiny room, and as the ultrasound technician moved the device on my petite belly, I was silent. But this was a different kind of silent- I had never been THIS silent before. There was no feeling in my heart, nor in my soul, and my thoughts were empty- for the first time in my life, my body from from the exterior-in was numb and lifeless.
After a while, I dared myself to look over at the technician’s face, and was brave enough to do so- it was expressionless. You could tell she wanted to say something, but she just couldn’t. After a minute or so later, she looked at me and told me there was no heartbeat. The baby was 9 weeks. She didn’t show me the ultrasound screen, nor did I ask to see it.
As I waited for the doctor to come in and discuss the ultrasound results, I shook uncontrollably, but it wasn’t from being cold. Upon arrival of the doctor, my body continued to shake, but I tried to ignore this and focus on the doctor’s words instead, “So, the ultrasound report has determined that you have, in fact, miscarried. Now, we don’t know what the cause was, but it was most likely due to a mismatched chromosome, as this is usually the case. From here you have two options, you can wait it out until your body naturally disposes of the fetus, or you can have a D and C where the doctors will clean the fetus out. The nurses will go over these options with you further and then from there you can decide which route you would like to take.” And then he left. At this point, I kept thinking, ‘I just lost my baby! Does he not care?!’ The way that he spoke, it lacked empathy and felt so rude- I was upset to say the least, you would think this doctor would have more compassion! And to just leave like that, wow!
After going over my options with the nurse, I decided I couldn’t bare to go through the cramping and pain and the sight of my fetus; so I chose the D and C. I was scheduled for a D and C for the next morning. Needless to say, I didn’t get any sleep that night.
When I arrived at the hospital the next morning, I went straight up to the maternity ward. As I changed into the hospital gown, I kept thinking about the last time I was here- it was when I was pregnant with my daughter and just shortly after my water broke…
Changed and laying on the hospital bed, again I was silent- the kind of silent that I had been during this entire experience. I wasn’t scared, I wasn’t even nervous, I was just silenced. The nurses came into the room and had a good look at my arms, it was difficult to find the right vein for the IV to go into. One of the nurses tried one arm, I cried as she poked me- no doubt in the wrong place, she apologized over and over again for causing me so much pain. She sent in another nurse who poked me in the other arm, it also wasn’t the right vein, and again I cried. It was decided another nurse, with more experience, would come in- but even she couldn’t find the right spot. The nurses collectively decided that an anesthesiologist would be the one to inject me with the IV and then they left me to myself. As I laid there, with bandages on both of my arms, I just stared at the ceiling. Again, I started thinking about the last time I was here, the nurses put in the IV incorrectly that time as well, as it was painful to even move my arm and I could feel the medicine shooting up the veins in my arms. But during that time, the pain was bearable because there was a baby to hold at the end of it all, however, this time…things were drastically different.
I didn’t do much after coming home from the D and C, except lay in my bed in silence. I didn’t want to talk to anyone about it, I didn’t want to see people; I just wanted to remain still, surrounded by the stiff silence.
The second day of bed rest, I got called to work for the next day, and I didn’t take it so well. I mean, here I was still grieving and getting over the shock of what had just happened, and they wanted me to come into work?! Didn’t people understand what I was going through? Didn’t anyone care?
As time passed, my situation never really got any easier, but daily life got more bearable. It angered me when people told me that they also had a miscarriage, as if disregarding my feelings of hurt because it was common; it angered me every time I thought about how the doctor broke the news to me in the hospital room, and it still bothered me how I was called to work just days after the D and C, even though falling back into my regular routine was what was best for me. Just because everyone seemed to have a miscarriage or two, and just because the doctors deal with patients going through miscarriages all the time- just because of all of this, it did not mean that I was not allowed to grieve and that my pain was not valid.
It also angered me when people told me not to be upset because I already had a beautiful and healthy daughter; these individuals clearly failed to recognize that a loss is a loss, no matter what. Yes, I was grateful for my daughter, I love her, she is a blessing, but once you lose something you once had, and you know you will never get that back- it’s a different kind of hurt that no present being or object can replace.
The feelings of hurt and anger eventually slipped away at a slow pace…
but a part of me…
I hope you have a BOY
My (Un)Planned Pregnancy
I Lied To My Therapist…Postpartum Depression