My First Trimester Miscarriage: A Story of Loss and Grief

Well, you’ve read the title. You know what this one is about.

Hi friends—thanks for stopping by. Welcome back to my regular readers. If you’re finding my blog for the first time, I’m assuming it’s probable that you’ve either had a miscarriage, are afraid you might be experiencing one right now, or know someone who has had one. I am deeply saddened for you. My heart goes out to you and I am so very sorry.

I went back and forth about whether to share this or not. So many women suffer this loss, but it is still very rarely shared openly. Since my miscarriage began (it’s still ongoing as I write this), I have been researching like a maniac. I’ve searched for not only medical opinions but also comfort from others who have experienced the same thing. Every miscarriage story is different. I hope that reading mine lets anyone who has suffered a miscarriage know that you are not alone. Also, please know that this is MY story of loss and grief. There are numerous ways your body can miscarry, but this is the story of MY loss. There is no wrong way to grieve, and your process will be your own, but this story describes MY journey (so far) with grief.

I believe we live in a fallen world. We will have troubles in this world. This miscarriage is one of mine. I also believe that we have troubles so that we can help others when they walk through similar troubles.

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. (2 Corinthians 1:3-4).

Before I begin, I want to tell you what to expect, so you can determine whether you want to read on. As I am writing this, I am in the thick of it. There is no happy ending to this story (yet). If, one day, there is a happy (or happier) ending, I will write a new post and link it here: https://graceupmama.wixsite.com/website/home/my-rainbow-after-rain. However, I can tell you that this story contains a sliver of hope.

I’ve thought long and hard about writing and sharing my miscarriage story. As I am sitting here beginning to write this story, I am unsure if I will ever finish it or actually post it. But, I feel as though it has been put on my heart to share this story, so I am bravely typing away. I have to start somewhere.

So, what can you expect to read next? I am going to start at the beginning. I am going to tell my story in chronological order. I am going to give a raw and honest description of the physical, mental, and emotional storm that my body, mind, and soul is experiencing. That means I am going to give actual details of what happened to me physically during my miscarriage. I am going to courageously and openly share my thoughts, feelings, and emotions as I walk this journey of Ioss and grief. This won’t be a short post, I can tell you that.

Before I get to it, please know that my body is physically worn and ragged, my soul is emotionally distraught, and my mind is mentally exhausted. I hope this goes without saying, but, please, be kind. If you’re unsure of what to say, a simple and sincere “I’m so sorry” is perfect. *DEEP BREATH* Alright, here we go…

Let me start from the beginning. My first, easy, healthy pregnancy.

It was September 2016. My husband, Nathan, and I decided to start trying to have a baby. Two weeks later, I found out I was pregnant. I gave birth to Roman in June 2017, a beautiful, healthy, baby boy.

I had some complications with delivery. Roman was breech, which I found out for the first time at my 40-week appointment. I had to have a C-section. He was 10 pounds 4 oz and 22.5 inches long. Despite the 10-inch cut across my abdomen, I tore. I have thick, raised scar tissue surrounding my scar. I went on to struggle with my post-partum body for over a year after his birth. I have a “C-section shelf,” which is raised scar tissue above my C-section scar. It sticks out. It will not lie flat no matter how much weight I lose. Some people have it after a C-section and some people don’t. It’s pure luck. The C-section shelf is created as you heal. It can be fixed only with more surgery.

You might be wondering why I’m telling you this—trust me, it’s relevant to my emotional state. I’ll get to it later. But I also wanted to tell you that this is not a story of infertility and miscarriage. I am very blessed to have one beautiful little boy, who is my biological child, that I was given by God quickly and (mostly) easily. This miscarriage makes me even more grateful for his sweet life.

Trying for a second baby.

Fast forward to December 2018. Nathan and I decided to start trying for a second child. We wanted to try to give Roman a sibling that was about 2-2.5(ish) years apart. We would be in Disney with my family for Christmas at the time when we would find out if we were pregnant. I was hopeful it would happen as easily as the first. But it didn’t. My period arrived right on time a few days into our Disney vacation. It was disappointing.

I am one of those people that goes from 0 to 100 in about a second. After just one failed attempt, my mind began to spiral down the awful path of body self-doubt and dislike that I had fought so hard to overcome for over a year after Roman was born. I immediately thought that my C-section shelf—the scar tissue—had something to do with it. I ran to Google and found what I was searching for. Stories of women who had C-sections and, in particular, significant scarring from their C-sections, and had trouble getting pregnant again. I began to fret and worry. I allowed myself to be consumed by this for one month, then, I dug myself out of this hole. I was proud I got out of it so quickly. It is normal for couples to try for a few months to one year without conceiving. I reassured myself that I was freaking out for nothing. I stopped stressing about it. I knew added stress wouldn’t help with fertility.

I was tracking my cycle and recording my symptoms, which I always started doing before we started trying to have a baby. Nathan and I tried for a total of 4 cycles. In March 2019, I took a pregnancy test that I quite honestly expected to be negative. I had a lot of stress that month at work. I remember coming home from work one day that month and exclaiming to Nathan “how in the world am I ever going to get pregnant when I have this much stress on me?” I thought I had stressed myself out to the point of making myself sick. I felt nauseated and exhausted. I decided to take a pregnancy test to rule out that I was pregnant.

Pregnant (again)!

I was home alone when I took it. It was a Tuesday. I was surprised and overwhelmed with joy when I saw a very faint second pink line show up on the test. I ugly cried and prayed my thankfulness to God. I was so relieved that I was able to get pregnant again. I took several more pregnancy tests over the next few days. Every one of them was positive. I wanted to be sure before telling Nathan. I went and purchased a shirt that said “Big Bro” on it. I wanted to tell Nathan in a special way.

That Saturday morning (yes, I kept it a secret for 4 days), I got up and got to Roman first before Nathan got out of bed. I told Nathan that I would get Roman ready for the day while he got ready for work. Nothing out of the ordinary for us. I dressed Roman in his “Big Bro” shirt that I had purchased and sneakily hidden. After he was ready, I walked Roman into our bedroom. Roman may have been crying at the time (because he wanted to go downstairs and eat), but Nathan saw the shirt. He looked at me and said “What does his shirt say? Big Bro? Ali?” I responded with a simple smile and an “I’m pregnant!” We hugged and rejoiced. We told our families by putting Roman in the same shirt I had used to tell Nathan. We all began dreaming and planning, excited for what was to come.

I went to the doctor at a little over 4 weeks pregnant for my confirmation appointment. This was the same doctor’s office that took care of me when I was pregnant with Roman. After peeing in a cup, the doctor confirmed with a smile that I was indeed pregnant. I left the doctor’s office elated and with a thick packet of everything I needed to know about pregnancy.

The beginning of the end—miscarriage warning signs.

Fast forward to two weeks later. It was a Wednesday. I was in court most of the day. When I went home, I noticed some dark brown spotting on my underwear. It was more spotting than I had had with Roman (yes, I had very minimal, light pink spotting when I was a few weeks pregnant with Roman). It gave me some concern, but I knew some spotting was normal, and, after all, it was brown—old blood. I called the doctor. They told me to lie down on my side and rest and that it was probably nothing to worry about.

Thursday morning, April 4, 2019. I woke up with hope in my heart. I had hoped that the bleeding had stopped overnight. It hadn’t. But it wasn’t any worse. It was still just very minimal dark brown spotting. I grabbed a couple of panty liners and got dressed for work and went about my day as usual. I was working in the office that day. It was my co-worker’s birthday. I was on a teleconference. As soon as I got off the phone, we were going to do cake and presents. It was lunch time.

Bright red blood.

As I was getting off the phone, I felt like I passed some blood. Nothing that felt too concerning yet, but I wanted to go to the bathroom before we had cake and sang happy birthday to check it out, ease my mind (and I had to pee). When I went to the bathroom, I saw a larger amount of dark brown blood on my panty liner. Not a huge amount though, but I definitely wanted to call the doctor as soon as I could get away from the office. Then, I wiped. My heart fell out of my chest. Bright red blood. I wiped again. More bright red blood. I looked in the toilet—the water was stained red. I was frantically wiping. More and more bright red blood. Blood stained the side of the porcelain white toilet. Another co-worker yelled “Ali, are you coming?” I replied with a shaky “Yes!” I cleaned myself up and flushed.

Mentally, I wouldn’t allow myself to think right now. I made my mind blank. I went into the room with all of my co-workers, only one of whom knew I was pregnant, and sang along with them. I made small talk. I laughed and smiled. But inside, I was panicking…but actively fighting my racing mind. I couldn’t break down right now. I ate a few bites of cake then left the room on the pretense to get some water. I threw the rest of the cake away. I couldn’t eat.

When the birthday festivities subsided maybe 15 minutes later (although it felt like an eternity), I started packing up my work things to go home. As soon as I put my computer away, I realized that before I left, I absolutely had to get two things done. I spent the next thirty minutes or so doing those two things. I was shaking. I was not allowing myself to think. I was just on auto-pilot. As soon as I got those two things done, I packed up my things again.

I went to tell the partners that I was leaving for the day. They were (thankfully) in the same room together and they were the only ones in there at the time. I went in, with all my bags packed, ready to go, and closed the door. We almost always have all of our office doors open, but I needed some privacy. As soon as I closed the door, one of the partners (and the one co-worker that at that point knew I was pregnant) looked at me and said “What’s wrong?” Up to that point, I had tried to be brave.

I broke. I said “I’m going home. I think I’m having a miscarriage.” Her immediate response was this: “I’ll drive you. (I said “no, I’m okay”). I’ll follow you home (“no, it’s fine, really”). Let me carry your bags to your car (“no really, I can carry them”).” Immediate concern from both of the partners. An Immediate, “Get out of here. Go. Don’t worry about a thing. No, you’re not going to court tomorrow, we can have someone else go. Call us later. Go to the doctor. Let us know what the doctor says.” I am so thankful to work with such amazing, kind-hearted, caring women.

I left the office and began my hour drive home. I called the doctor. I left a message with the woman that picked up. "I was 6+ weeks pregnant. I was having bright red blood. I had dark brown blood yesterday. I was beginning to have mild cramps." She asked me if I was passing clots. "I didn’t know what clots were. I didn’t think I was passing any clots at that time." …After 20 or so minutes without a return call from a triage nurse, I called again. I had also called earlier that morning on my drive in to the office, but had not received a call back yet. I was starting to get frustrated. Why was no one calling me back quickly!? Wasn’t this urgent!? Was I not important? What about my baby!?

I called Nathan and told him that the blood had turned from brown to red, that I was having a lot of bleeding, and that I was now cramping. I told him that I needed him to get off work and come home immediately. He asked me what he should tell his boss—I said, “Tell him the truth. He will understand.” And he did.

I didn’t listen to music at all on the drive. I was on the phone most of the time and my thoughts consumed me. It’s probably a miracle I made it home safely. The radio was on, but I had the volume turned down. At one point during my drive, I glanced at the radio. A song called “Rainbow” was playing. I glanced at the radio only one other time and a song called “Prayed for You” was playing. I felt these were nudges from God. I was heading straight into a storm, but He was saying, it’s going to be okay, I am with you.

Yet those who wait for the Lord will gain new strength; they will mount up with wings like eagles, they will run and not get tired, they will walk and not become weary. (Isaiah 40:31).

When I finally connected on the phone with a triage nurse, they wanted to see me. They got me in as soon as they could, around 2:30 pm. I went home and met up with Nathan so we could drive to the doctor together. I could tell that Nathan was still hopeful at this point from what he was saying to me. He was trying to reassure me. But he hadn’t seen the amount of blood yet.

I was 6 weeks and 2 days pregnant.

We got to the doctor and the nurse told me to undress waist down because the doctor wanted to examine me. I said apologetically while holding back tears, “Okay, but it is going to be a big mess.” The nurse said “It’s okay, the doctor still wants to do an examination,” then left to give me some privacy. As I began to undress in the doctor’s office in front of Nathan, a quarter sized lump of blood and black tissue fell out onto the floor immediately after I pulled down my pants. I was horrified. I looked at Nathan’s face…and I could tell. The hope he had been holding onto had left him. I later asked him when he realized that I was having a miscarriage and he said it was this moment.

I sat on a puppy pee pad on the examination bed and waited. The doctor came in and had me lie back. She took a look and said she didn’t even want to put anything up there. There was a lot of bleeding. We talked about the bleeding briefly. I asked some questions—one of which was whether, in her professional opinion, she thought this was a miscarriage. She confirmed that she believed it was a miscarriage. It wasn’t a long conversation. After she left and I got dressed, I thought to ask if I could use tampons. Surely this would be less terrible if I didn’t have to see all of the blood. I had to hunt the doctor down to ask her that question because I had thought of it after she left. The doctor told me that I should not use tampons because of the risk of infection. She told me just to use a pad.

I left without even a pamphlet or a single piece of paper on miscarriage. I didn’t have any written information to take with me and read later, when more questions came up. That was in stark contrast to the large pamphlet I was given on pregnancy after my confirmation appointment just two weeks earlier. In a state of trauma and complete distress, I was expected to ask intelligent questions and learn all I needed to know about miscarriage in a 15-minute doctor’s visit.

So much blood.

FULL DISCLOSURE AND WARNING: THIS NEXT BIT IS DESCRIPTIVE AND GRAPHIC.

I was supposed to have an ultrasound done about 45 minutes after my appointment ended with the doctor. The doctor stated that she wasn’t sure if they’d be able to see much when they did the ultrasound because of all of the blood, but that I could have one if I wanted one (I had demanded one over the phone earlier). Because we had time to kill, I left the doctor’s office with Nathan to go get a snack (I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and it was almost 4 pm). Nathan ran into Harris Teeter to get me crackers while I sat in the car. Then the cramps got worse. And worse. And lasted longer and longer. I was hot and sweaty and I just needed to lie down. I was miserable. Really, I was in labor. Not full-term birth labor, but it was labor, all the same. I told Nathan I was going to cancel the ultrasound. It sounded like it wouldn’t be a good time to do it anyway if there was so much blood that they couldn’t see much, as the doctor had said. I just wanted to go home, get in the air conditioning, and lie down. So, we went home.

And my world fell apart.

I wanted to lie down, but instead I sat on the toilet for long periods of time. Bright red blood poured out of me in ridiculously large amounts. Dark red and black clots were mixed in. I had cramps, but nothing as bad as what I had in my car. There was just SO MUCH BLOOD. I cried every time I looked at it. My body was broken. My heart, broken.

I called my mom. She just happened to be in the states on an unplanned, impromptu visit. She offered to start driving my way (she was in Hilton Head about 4 hours away at the time). I told her not to come that night—it was late, there was nothing she could do. But I accepted her offer to come the next morning. I am glad I did. I was completely and utterly worthless for the next few days.

Nathan took care of Roman that night as I sat in our bonus room with the door closed. I couldn’t be a mom to Roman that night. I couldn’t function at all. I put on a movie to distract myself. It was a Netflix movie I had never seen before called “Dumplin’.” The main character loved Dolly Parton, and one of Dolly’s quotes was highlighted in the movie storyline: “If you want the rainbow, you have to deal with the rain.” Again, I felt another nudge from God—I am with you in this storm, it is okay.

Over the next few days, I continued to pass ridiculous amounts of blood. I slept (laid and hardly slept) on old, dark blue towels for fear of staining our white sheets blood red. I passed enormous multiple black and dark red clots. These clots contain “fetal tissue” mixed with blood. “Fetal tissue”…sure, Science, let’s call it that to make the reality of it less horrible. I was really passing my baby and parts of tissue that my body had already developed to sustain and grow my baby.

I could feel the clots passing. I was afraid that at any moment I would pass the sac holding my baby. A real and valid fear. It happened on day two or three of my miscarriage. It was evening. I felt something giant work its way out of me and slide onto my enormous, extra heavy flow maxi pad. I went to the bathroom alone. I saw a dark red sac, about the size of a ping pong ball, but a bit larger, sitting, completely intact, on the pad. I started sobbing. I was too horrified to look away. I had to know. Against my own warning thoughts, I looked closer and saw what appeared to be a tiny tadpole inside. It was hard to see because of the dark color, but I could just make it out (or my mind was playing horrible tricks on me). I called out to Nathan and he came running. I showed him the clot, but couldn’t form words to describe what I thought it was at the time. But I think he knew. I put the pad containing what I thought to be the sac holding my dead baby in a Target grocery bag, which, later that evening, I took downstairs and put in our trashcan. I didn’t know what else to do with it.

Now, I am no medical professional, and I didn't have a professional look at this. I am not medically sure that this sac held my baby, however, my mind thinks it did, which is a part of my story.

The heavy bleeding continued for days. In seven days, I had used an entire nine pack of jumbo rolls of toilet paper. I had also used almost an entire large package of extra heavy flow pads.

I got off Facebook. I got off Instagram. My fingers had been too used to going to those pages absentmindedly. I got on Instagram accidentally without thinking and immediately saw several friend’s baby-related posts. A lump in my throat formed. I wasn’t ready to look at that yet. I couldn’t risk absentmindedly doing it again. …That weekend, I missed a close friend’s baptism and baby’s baptism. I wasn’t ready.

The emotional storm of self-doubt and blame.

My mind reeled. I thought of every reason why it was my fault. Here are just a few of the reasons my mind came up with: I ate cooked sushi. I had two half cups of coffee. I had worked out too hard on Sunday and my heart rate got too high, depriving my baby of oxygen. I had breathed second hand smoke from a nearby car at a red light. I had to get an x-ray on my tooth (another story—I learned I needed a root canal when I was about 4 weeks pregnant, but I had a lead cover put all around me for protection when the x-ray was taken). Most prevalent of all in my mind: the scar tissue from my C-section caused this miscarriage. My uterus is scarred and a baby can’t properly implant and grow in such a wrecked environment. I started down that horrible path again…My body has betrayed me. My body is ruined. I hate my body.

To be blatantly honest, I’m still of that mindset, unfortunately. I am mad at my body. I’ve been mad at it since right before I gave birth to Roman. My body tricked at least two doctors into believing that Roman was head down in the last four weeks of my pregnancy, when he was actually breech. Because of that, my body had to have a C-section. Because of my C-section, I now have ugly raised scar tissue—my “C-section shelf”—that won’t go away unless I get further surgery. I experienced at a minimum, “baby blues,” but I certainly lied on my post-partum depression evaluation (because I knew if I had told the truth, I would have gotten a positive screening, and I was embarrassed to be thinking the things I was thinking, let alone admit out loud that I was thinking them—story for another day). My body overproduced milk…and then underproduced milk. I had to fight my body every step of the way that first month of breastfeeding. Then my body refused to lose weight. I had lost thirty pounds almost instantly when I came home from the hospital, but, no matter what I did—changing my diet, exercising, eating smaller portions—my body wouldn’t lose any more weight…until Roman started eating solid foods fairly consistently. I worked really hard to lose the remaining weight, but those last ten pounds remained stubborn, despite the fact that I was back in most of my pre-pregnancy clothes. Then it took longer to get pregnant (I know, not long, just longer, which was unexpected for me, someone who got pregnant right away the first time). Then my body miscarried. And now, as I’m writing this, my body can’t even miscarry correctly (I’ll get to that in a bit). This body has betrayed me over and over again in the past two years.

I told you—I am an emotional, physical, and mental mess. My body has been dealing with the physical reality of miscarriage for 22 days now. In addition, I am grieving the loss of my second child. I’ve had to try to act normal through it all. I am likely depressed to some extent. Or maybe it’s just normal grief. Who knows. My hormones are all over the place, which doesn’t help my situation.

I also mentioned at the beginning of this story that Nathan and I had planned on having another baby that would be 2-2.5(ish) years apart from Roman. How naïve I was. I have no control over when I have babies. It was all an illusion. And I know that if I am blessed with another baby, the timing will be perfect. But, as far as I’m concerned right now, the timing isn’t “my perfect.” We can’t have another child in the time frame I desired. It is now impossible. Maybe we will get close, who knows. I hope for that, but I know it is not in my control. Part of my emotional turmoil has been mourning the loss of what I always thought my family would look like. I know my family will be perfect no matter how it ends up, but, for now, I am sad that it isn’t going to be what I wanted.

We can make our plans, but the Lord determines our steps. (Proverbs 16:9).

Trying to pick up my shattered mind, body, and soul...and carry on.

I started spotting on Wednesday, began heavy bright red bleeding on Thursday, stayed home from work on Friday, had the weekend, and went back to work on Monday. I wasn’t ready. My whole world had ended and it was like it hadn’t happened. I texted Nathan that I wanted to quit. I couldn’t do it. But I carried on. I went back to work the next day. It was a bit better. I continued to bleed heavy and took a giant stack of pads with me to work. The bleeding started to subside after about seven days. It turned brown. It then turned to spotting. I thought it was coming to an end.

We had planned to go home for Easter. We drove to Tennessee on Good Friday. I was still spotting. Not a day yet had gone by where I didn’t need a pad or panty liner. No one in Nathan’s family except his mom, dad, and sister knew I had been pregnant. I didn’t have to talk about it yet with anyone except his immediate family members—and they allowed me to talk about it as little or as much as I needed. That was good.

I caught a cold and was sick all Easter weekend. But, I carried on with the festivities the best that I could. I continued spotting. I found out, indirectly, that we know a couple that is expecting a baby in November. I am truly happy for them, but at the same time, sad for myself. They didn’t know about our miscarriage. Nathan and I have been in that couple’s position. I’ve now been on both sides of that coin, and let me tell you, both positions are hard. But, I can have joy for them while at the same time being sad for myself. In the same fashion, you can feel joy for yourself for being blessed with a baby (because a baby is truly a miracle), but be sad for someone else who is suffering infertility or the loss of a baby (or really any other difficulty)—at the same time. Everyone is in their own little bubble and we can feel joy, compassion, and sadness, for ourselves and others, all at once.

On Easter morning, we went to church. I smiled and nodded at people I hadn’t seen in a long time. I carried on. I held it together. At the end of the service, we sang a song, a song I knew very well, and on a regular occasion, could sometimes move me to teary eyes. We got to the part—the part about Jesus rising from the grave and overcoming death to save us all.

And I lost it. Not just a little bit. But a lot. More than I had ever cried in church before. And this was a church that doesn’t dim the lights. A traditional church. A small, hometown feel. I was vulnerable for all to see, but none, except those few immediately around me, knew why.

I leaned into Nathan. In that moment, I was overcome with a spectrum of emotions. I was terribly sad to have lost our baby, never getting the chance to know this baby on this Earth and in this lifetime. But I was also overwhelmed with joy and thankfulness for a risen Lord and Savior. Because of what Jesus did, we all have the chance to live again, eternally, with Him in Heaven. I believe my baby is up in Heaven right now, and, one day, I will meet him or her.

I dried my eyes. I said goodbye to the people around us. People came up to see Roman. I smiled and made small talk. We went and took pictures in front of the beautiful flower cross outside the church. I carried on.

Blood (again). My incomplete miscarriage and an ovarian cyst.

I wish I could end my miscarriage story here, but unfortunately, the nightmare continues. We left Tennessee and drove back home on Sunday evening. That evening, I noticed a change in my spotting. It had gotten thicker and blacker. I thought, maybe this is the end. I went to sleep and got ready for work the next day.

On Monday, April 22, I went to work. I was still having that black thick spotting, so I called the doctor’s office again on my drive in. When I got to the office, I went to the bathroom. The blood had turned red again. There was a lot of it. Again. I started to panic. In the time I was in the bathroom, I missed my call back from the doctor. I called again, and waited. I started to shake again. With the help of a co-worker, I started looking on the bright side of things. Maybe this was my period returning. I tried to convince myself of this, even though my gut told me it wasn’t…I had never stopped bleeding and everything I read said that you should stop bleeding for a number of days before you would get what would be counted as your first period after your miscarriage.

I connected with the doctor and they wanted me to come in. I left the office around lunch. I was going to meet Nathan there. I had some time to spare on my drive home, so I went into Target. I bought a pregnancy test. If this really were my period, based on everything I had read and researched, this test should be negative. How ironic, I was hoping for a negative pregnancy test. I went to the Target bathroom and anxiously awaited the result. It came back positive. That second little line showed up almost immediately. That’s how I knew something was wrong. This wasn’t my period.

I got to the doctor and they first did an ultrasound. It wasn’t the happy experience you have when you check on your baby. The ultrasound tech hardly spoke to me. The one thing she did ask was if I had had a lot of pain with my miscarriage. I told her no, not really…but then Nathan interrupted. He reminded me that I had complained of sharp right ovary pain on at least two occasions. He also reminded me that just on Good Friday I had stopped mid-walk, doubled over in pain as I walked into a bathroom during one of our rest stops on our drive to Tennessee. I’m not one to over-exaggerate or over-dramatize, so I had just brushed that pain off as normal miscarriage pain. It was important to mention though. The ultrasound tech took in this information without another word. At the end, she said that the doctor would meet with me to discuss the results.

The doctor came in. I had met with this doctor quite a lot when I had Roman. She seemed to remember me. She was kind and gave her sincere condolences. She examined me. She discovered that I had a piece of fetal tissue that was partially blocking my cervix. She removed it and said she wanted to send it off for a pathology. Then she got to work delivering the bad news. I had a cyst on my right ovary. This could be related to the pregnancy, or it could be something else. She wasn’t sure what was going on with me. She needed to do some testing and bloodwork. The cyst was 5 cm—about 2 cm larger than the normal ovarian cyst, but not so large yet to cause definite concern. It could go away on its own, or it might not. It could be nothing or it could be something more sinister. We’d have to do a follow up ultrasound on the cyst in about three to four weeks to learn more.

I was diagnosed that day with an incomplete miscarriage. She remembered that I was Rh negative and asked if I had had a RhoGam shot. I told her no, I hadn’t. She said I should have had that when I came in on April 4th. She ordered that I get the shot immediately. I had my bloodwork drawn and then was given the RhoGam shot. I went home.

That night I had heavier red bleeding. Out fell more “clots,” “fetal tissue.” I was horrified all over again. The red blood and the clotting is physically the worst part for me. It brings me to tears every time I see it. I thought the worst was over. I thought any day now, I would be done. But it started all over again.

I couldn’t believe that I was losing this much more blood. Why was it bright red? Surely by now it should all be brown? I don’t know why it is red, but I’ve come up with my own explanation to help myself process it. I am not a doctor and have no idea if I am medically correct, this is just a guess. I think the reason the blood is red again is because my body had not successfully miscarried yet. There was “fetal tissue” stuck inside me. My HCG levels hadn’t dropped down to below 5 yet (they were at 90 per the blood work that was done). My body thought it was still pregnant, so it was still sending fresh blood to my uterus.

I hit a wall.

The next day was Tuesday. I stumbled through. On Wednesday, I hit a wall. My body was exhausted. I began to get dizzy and light-headed upon standing. I was supposed to be working from home, but I couldn’t do anything. I called one of the partners and explained what was happening. She told me to just take it easy. I am so thankful for the amazing people I work with. I laid down on the couch and didn’t move a muscle for hours. My body felt heavy. I told Nathan he’d have to get Roman that night, I couldn’t do anything. I told him I needed an Iron supplement. I called the doctor again. I researched what could happen because I didn’t get the RhoGam shot on April 4th. Long story short—it could be really bad and affect my ability to have a baby again, however, my antibody screen on Monday, April 22ndwas negative, so I think I will be okay (yes, I asked the doctor about this). It was a horrible day. I could not “carry on” that day.

The bleeding continues.

Each day, I hope that the red blood turns brown, or stops entirely. One day, hopefully soon, it will stop. I go back to the doctor in a few days for another blood test. In mid-May, I will go back to the doctor to check on the cyst on my right ovary.

My journey continues. Each day, I will carry on. I will heal. Happiness will come again, I know.

Sweet baby Rain.

We named the baby Rain. This is our rain that we are going through. That we must go through, if we want the rainbow. I don’t know if the rainbow is another baby, something else, or just the promise of meeting this baby one day in Heaven. What I do know is that I will forever love this baby that I carried for such a short time.

The grief is indescribable. It doesn’t logically make sense. How could I be so sad over someone I didn’t even meet? Research shows the loss of a baby through miscarriage, even early miscarriage, can equal the grief you feel when you lose a close family member. I couldn’t understand it…until now, when I’m going through it.

Nathan and I talked about a memorial service. We purchased a teether in the shape of a cloud, with raindrops hanging off of it. We’ve decided to bury that teether in our backyard, next to my dog, Pepper. I have yet to work up the courage to actually go through the burial service, but I will have the courage, one day, and hopefully soon. I think it will help with my grief to bury a memory item for baby Rain.

A miscarriage resource—"loved baby”.

In dealing with my grief, I have found support from a beautiful book called “loved baby” by Sarah Philpott, PhD. I have found so much comfort from this book. In my darkest of moments, the stories in this book breathe beautiful encouragement into my weary soul. If you know someone who has had a miscarriage or experienced the loss of a baby, this would make a nice gift.

A secret now shared and a special thanks to those of you who already knew.

As I write this and think about sharing it with the worldwide web, only my family, Nathan’s family, two of my co-workers, and a close-knit circle of friends know about my miscarriage. As I have walked this journey so far, I have had loving support from these friends and family. I’d like to take the time to sincerely thank them.

I got groceries from my friends. They just showed up at my door. My friends have texted me multiple times, out of the blue, just to let me know they are thinking of me and praying for me. They’ve checked in on me randomly and listened and responded to my sad updates. They’ve been there for me when I can’t be happy. When I am not my normal self. They’ve offered to come over and sit with me and cry.

My mom basically wasn’t going to take no for an answer when she asked if I wanted her to come help. In my mind, I was thinking, well my baby is gone, there is nothing you can do. But, she came anyway, and she stayed until I told her it was okay to leave. She took care of Roman when I couldn’t. She gave Nathan and I time to grieve alone together. She got us food. She gave a listening ear. She is a pro at listening. She said ALL THE RIGHT THINGS.

My sister has called and checked in on me so very often. Most importantly, she has prayed for me and with me. She has prayed out loud at times when I could not form the right words to take to God. She asked me specifically what I needed her to pray. I was able to tell her my prayer needs and allow her to calmly take those needs to God when I was too afraid to speak those needs out loud to God myself. She has been my strong prayer warrior.

My mother-in-law sent more than one thoughtful card with encouraging words on grief. She shared with me the very same Bible verse as I first shared with you in this post. My sister-in-law gave me a hug in church after I broke. She has texted me kind words and condolences.

As I wrap up, let me mention some of the “wrong things” to say, and why they hurt.

As I begin to wrap up, I think it important to mention and explain about some of the “wrong things” to say to someone who has suffered a miscarriage. Now, I know people say these things with good intentions and that they are well-meaning. So, instead of just providing a list of “what not to say,” I think it might be helpful to explain why these things are hurtful to hear.

For example, I hate to hear that miscarriage is common, that it happens in “1 of 4 pregnancies.” That statistic may be true, but a woman experiencing a miscarriage never expected to find herself as one of those in the 25% group. I certainly thought I had better chances of not experiencing a miscarriage—I thought I’d be in the 75% group. The odds were in my favor. That response makes me feel like my miscarriage is common medical occurrence, and thus, my suffering and grief response unfounded. It makes me think—this happens all the time…you don’t need to feel so sad. But something happening approximately 25% of the time does not mean that it does not hurt when it does happen. Because it does hurt, and terribly so.

I also don’t like to hear that I had a miscarriage most likely due to a chromosomal abnormality. Stats are that chromosomal abnormalities cause about 50% of miscarriages. My baby could have been perfect, or my baby may have had a chromosomal abnormality that he or she could not survive with on this Earth. When I hear this comment, I hear that, as a mother, there was nothing I could do to save my child. Think about it this way, if someone tells you that your child is dying of incurable cancer and there is nothing that you can do to save him or her, is that going to make you feel any better? No. As a parent, you’d give your life to save your child. This comment makes me feel worse.

Finally, please don’t say “it is God’s will” or “God has a plan, you just don’t know it yet.” I know these things. In the thick of my grief though, it is hard to hear this because I don’t think God planned to have me suffer the loss of my baby. I think we live in a fallen world and will experience troubles here. I know God loves me and wants good things for me. He is with me, through the good and the bad. I have felt his nudges. His ever-present reminder of the Rainbow.

Please know that if you have said any or all of these things to me (or to anyone else that has had a miscarriage), that I do not hold anything against you. I know that you just wanted to make me feel better—you wanted to take away my pain. And although it may not have been the best thing to say to me, I am fine…and I very much appreciate the time you took to say something at all. Because in my opinion, the absolute worse thing that you can do is not say anything at all. Silence makes it seem like my grief is non-existent, not important.

Quite honestly, it is difficult to know the right words to say. I’ve been in your shoes—I’ve had to try to comfort someone who has experienced a miscarriage. So, again, if you don’t know what to say, the best thing is just a simple and sincere “I’m so sorry.”

I am not the only one who has suffered a loss.

To my wonderful readers who have made it this far, many people who read this blog know me well “in real life.” By posting this today, I am announcing to many friends and family members that I was pregnant and had a miscarriage. I ask you to please, remember my family. My husband Nathan lost a child too. My son Roman, who doesn’t understand now, but will understand some day, lost a sibling. My parents lost their fourth grandchild. My sister and brother-in-law lost their second niece or nephew, their children lost a cousin. My mother-in-law and father-in-law lost their second grandchild. My sister-in-law lost her second niece or nephew. We are all sad. When a baby is born, whether on Earth or in Heaven, the whole family is involved. We will each rejoice and grieve in our own ways. I don’t know what each of them needs right now, but please, keep them in your thoughts and prayers too.

I know many women will read this and come forth for the first time, whether revealing it to me or to others, that they too had a miscarriage. I’ve already discovered a few women who had miscarriages that I did not know about before. It is something that we don’t parade around announcing. It is deeply sad and extremely personal. To those of you who have already shared your experience with me—from the bottom of my heart, thank you. To those of you who, in the future, plan to share your miscarriage or baby loss story with me or with others, thank you for your bravery and encouragement. My heart goes out to all of you.

I know many of you who have walked this path before me are now in a better place and are able to provide reassurance and love to myself and to others. A special thanks to all of you. I am still very sad, but I know that I too, someday, will be where you are. I have hope when I see and hear your stories and see that you are happy and well.

To those of you that come after me, I hope that my miscarriage story will provide love and knowledge that you are not alone. I hope you find support and peace. I hope your body, mind, and soul heals quickly. I am so sorry that you are here on this journey of grief.

I will end with this, a sweet prayer from the book “loved baby” by Sarah Philpott, PhD:

Lord, I know I can find you in the quiet. My soul aches for this storm to end, to have never even started. But I know this is where you have set my anchor. I don’t know why, but you—in your infinite wisdom—do. I will be still and know. Amen.