Those words replay through my mind all day, every day.
Those words can dampen even the brightest of days with intense sorrow.
I woke up Monday the 16th, excited to discuss the pregnancy plan and maybe get help for the anxiety I was feeling.
I went about my normal morning routine, shower, pee, brush teeth, dress baby. I also checked my toilet paper like a crazy person to ensure, as usual, that there was no blood. I saw none, and continued about my morning.
10 minutes after I got dressed and ready, I had a noticeable amount of cramping around my back area. I say noticeable because it wasn’t really even painful, just noticeable. I also *TMI* felt the need to go to the bathroom again, so went.
What I saw this time when I wiped would forever change me.
Instantly when I wiped I saw bright red blood, both in the toilet and on the toilet paper.
Rob was in the bathroom and immediately told me to calm down. I was crying, but calmly- surprisingly. I knew. I just knew it was over. I told Rob the baby was gone and I was miscarrying. He tried to calm me down, and told me it may not be that and I need to just stay calm. But I knew.
Weirdly enough, looking back I was way calmer than what my anxiety had told me I would be if this were to ever happen. I expected to be hysterical. I expected to scream and cry and loose my voice from crying. I expected so much more.
Maybe subconsciously I knew something was wrong and that’s why I was calm? Who knows. All I know is everyone grieves differently and sometimes our reactions to things are different than what we assume they will be.
Back to the story though, I grabbed my keys and told Rob I needed to know for sure and was going to the hospital and would update him.
On my short 7 minute drive to the hospital a million thoughts crossed my mind. What if it isn’t a miscarriage? Or what if I had twins and just lost one? What will happen at the hospital? Will I see my dead baby? How will I get through this? How will I ever be calm about getting pregnant now that this happened?
My brain was firing in so many different directions I felt nauseous.
I arrived at the hospital and thankfully no one was in the waiting room. I calmly said to the reception nurse “I think I am having a miscarriage”, as a single tear dropped down my cheek. Just hearing myself say those words stung.
The nurse took me back right away and I was put into a room right away.
Everyone who tended to me was so kind, yet so sad. Like they knew before even running tests that this was the end.
A doctor came in and explained what he would need to do to check viability. I’d seen him before. My thoughts raced from I can feel the blood coming out of me, to where have I seen this man before. My mind was a mess.
The doctor started the belly ultrasound and said in a hopeful tone “we cant see anything but it’s probably because your so early”. I knew that was false. I knew he was trying to protect my delicate feelings in my moment of sadness. Ultrasounds at 6 weeks you SHOULD be able to see at least something. So he did an internal exam. It was uncomfortable, emotionally, and physically. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him pull out what appeared to be fetal matter and several clots. That confirmed things for me. As he handed it to the nurse, he looked at her in this almost scared way. Like what do we say next to this poor woman who just lost her precious baby?
He then said that he believed the pregnancy wasn’t viable and that what he pulled out was part of the fetus. I knew that, I told him. It’s ok, I know the baby is gone. He told me I would need another ultrasound, just to triple check.
So off I was carted to ultrasound. Again they couldn’t see anything by normal ultrasound, so they opted for internal. I briefly recall the tech saying to me “once I find the heartbeat I will turn the screen for you to see”. I replied, casually (which really surprised me) “you wont find one, the baby is gone”. Just like that. I felt like I was cold, uncaring, and unnaturally calm. Later, I would realize this was me being in shock.
After I went back into my room, the doctor, whom I was still trying to rack my brain about where I saw him before (maybe as a distraction?) came in and said they saw a yolk sac and major hemorrhaging around it. He then told me something that still, 4 days later, haunts me daily, “there’s no heartbeat. I am sorry, the baby is gone.” By this time my mother was with me in my room. I, once again casually, replied “I know the baby is gone, I knew I miscarried before I was even seen”.
I don’t know why I felt the need to consistently tell the doctors and nurses what they and I already knew. Maybe it was my way to cope, or maybe I was just still in shock. Who knows.
All I know is I left the hospital a different person. I left a stronger person, whether I felt it or not.
On my drive home I kept thinking about why I didn’t have the pain people say you get with miscarriage, and how my numbers looked great just last week. I kept thinking about the doctor going over my “options”; I could do this naturally, medically, or surgically. I opted for naturally, which looking back is actually one of the hardest things emotionally I could have ever had to deal with.
I got to my house with the intent to get some work done (again as a distraction) and go to my parents and relax.
I couldn’t even go in. I literally sat in my driveway on my laptop, and in-between work emails cried.
I cried because I would never meet this unborn child. I cried because the blood and “products of conception” as they are so coldly called, were and would become a daily reminder of what was lost. I cried because I didn’t understand why I felt so calm when I was so much anxious before I even lost the baby. I cried that my husband lost his son or daughter and my son lost a sibling. I cried because, how could this happen? My insulin was under control, I took my vitamins, I ate well. I cried to cried. I cried to grieve. And after an hour of crying and work and work and crying-consecutively, I went to my parents were I met with Rob and my family. I needed the support; the hugs, the it’s ok, the it’ll be ok. I needed understanding, not necessarily with words but actions and interactions. I needed to grieve, and though I never have had this happen so had no idea how to react, I did what felt right and natural. I cried, I smiled at my silly son, I laughed at jokes, I cried some more, and I hugged. This is how I cope. And how I would continue to cope for days and probably weeks to come after losing my baby.