Ten years later, I still grieve my miscarriage
via Unsplash
When I lost my baby, I knew it was a day I’d never forget. And then I did.
Content warning: Discussion of pregnancy loss ahead.
I was cleaning my kitchen, pop music blaring from a speaker, when I glanced at the digital calendar on my counter. That’s when I saw it—the butterfly emoji that flutters every August 21 to memorialize the day I lost my pregnancy.
I was gutted. But this time it wasn’t because of the miscarriage. It was because I forgot. For the first time in 10 years, the date my baby’s heart stopped beating had slipped my mind.
It’s not hard for me to bring myself back to that day. At my 12-week appointment, the doctor ran a fetal doppler across my belly, searching for a heartbeat she would never find. I watched the crease between her eyebrows deepen as she moved the wand around. She tried to reassure me there could be a reason she couldn’t find the heartbeat. Still, it made sense to get an ultrasound.
I headed off to a new location. I didn’t call anyone, doing my best to will “it’s fine” into existence. I sat nervously in the waiting room, tapping my leg up and down as I listened for my name.
When it was my turn, I laid back on the table, prepped for the squeeze of cool jelly on my stomach, then watched a screen on the wall as the ultrasound tech poked around to find my baby.
And there it was. The makings of my second born lit up on the screen. Those images are always a bit tough to discern, but I could clearly see a head, a body, and four limbs. But those limbs weren’t moving, and the tech stayed quiet. She pressed buttons, took snapshots, and kept her gaze trained squarely on her computer screen. When she finished, she said, “The doctor will be in to talk to you,” then scurried out the door.
Seconds later someone else popped in and asked me to follow them to another room. I now realize I was taking up precious space near the ultrasound equipment. They’d need it for their next appointment, and the news I was about to hear might stun me in place for some time.
The moment is crystal clear in my memory even ten years later. I remember the hard plastic chair I sat in. I remember looking around the room and realizing that half of it was used for storage. There were boxes of papers and remnants of mailers alongside random supplies waiting for their real homes. Next to me, a box of tissues sat on a small table.
When the doctor walked in, he introduced himself. I don’t remember his name, but I’ll never forget his somber look when he said, “It’s not good news.” The floor falling out from beneath me. I called my husband in tears, barely able to say, “There’s no heartbeat,” then made a desperate call to my mom to share the same news.
I don’t remember how I got back to my grandmother’s house, where she was watching my 2-year-old son. I know I drove there, but the memory is hazy, overlaid with the sadness, terror and anxiety that were coursing through me.
When I arrived, I collapsed into my grandmother’s arms. “They couldn’t find a heartbeat,” I said, fighting back tears as my son watched us intently. She tightened her grip on me and let me dissolve.
I suffered a missed miscarriage—my body didn’t recognize that the baby growing inside had died. But based on its size and development, doctors were able to tell me that the heart likely stopped beating at 10.5 weeks. That’s how I came to mark August 21 as the day my baby died.
In the years that followed, I anxiously awaited both that date and my due date as they crept closer. I knew they would be hard. Over the first couple of years, I’d plan for unproductive days, knowing I’d fall back into my grief. I’d spend the morning each August 21 remembering the day I found out, going over every detail as I let the tears rain down. I’d search for signs of butterflies, which became a hopeful symbol to me in the wake of my miscarriage.
But ten years later, I was caught up in the details of a very busy life. I’m a working mom with two school-aged kids who spends much of my time chauffeuring them between playdates and sports practices.
It’s likely a good sign that August 21 no longer looms over me like a dark cloud. In those early years of letting the grief wash over me in full force, I gave my mind, body and heart the space to release its tension and ache. But forgetting the date brought its own type of grief. It was a reminder of how far I’ve come, and how far my baby never did.
Ten years later, I still grieve my miscarriage, but that grief has evolved. I will always wonder what that little life would have become, and why they weren’t given the chance. I will always take a moment to pause and remember the hope, joy and love I felt in the early weeks of that pregnancy, even if I need the calendar to remind me to do so.
And most importantly, I will always talk about it. With time, grief has lessened its stranglehold on my heart and emotions. What remains of my grief is more like a tool. It appears when I need to be a supporter. It boosts my voice so I can help others in the throes of their own despair.
One in 4 women will experience pregnancy or infant loss in their lifetime. I’m a 1-in-4, and I hope sharing my story helps someone else feel less alone in their pain, no matter where she is on her grieving journey.
October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. If you or someone you know is struggling with a postpartum mental health challenge after a pregnancy or infant loss, call the National Maternal Mental Health Hotline at 1-833-9-HELP4MOMS (1-800-943-5746). This free, confidential service provides access to trained counselors and resources 24 hours a day, 7 days a week in English, Spanish, and more than 60 other languages. They can offer support and information related to before, during, and after pregnancy.
Related articles
