20 years after miscarriage: The trauma then and now

I had four beautiful kids. Girl, boy, girl, boy. As a family we were young, poor, and happy. It was perfect really. We could be done adding to our brood. Little did I know I was tempting fate by wanting another. I really wanted another girl. And of course, with my blessed track record, I knew it would happen.

We never had trouble getting pregnant. My husband Robert and I simply had to be in the same room. So, a few months before our youngest was 3 yrs old, we were expecting another.

I sailed through as usual with just a little morning sickness and exhaustion. Then at about 12 weeks I started spotting. I knew it was normal to bleed for some women. But it wasn’t normal for me. I called my doctor and we set up an ultrasound at the hospital.

What was found was a blighted ovum. Just a fancy term for an egg that was fertilized and never formed into a fetus. So, there was no baby. It’s was my time I thought. One in four pregnancies ends this way. Some earlier. Some later. It was my turn. I was due. I had run out of luck.

What came next was not fun. With my doctor, we decided on a D&C (dilation and curettage) procedure. This method removes all “tissue” and evacuates everything from the uterus. I was put under, feet in stirrups for all to see, and my “pregnancy” was extracted.

The tears came frequently for a couple of weeks afterward and then I felt like I came to terms with it. But I put on a brave face. I was fine. Everything was fine.

The hard part was telling the kids. We had already told them to expect a baby in October. They were between 3 and 8 yrs old and were pretty disappointed but took it in stride.

So that was it. I had my miscarriage and I could now go on and have that 5th baby, the hoped for girl. I had fulfilled my statistical obligation to the miscarriage Gods. They could move on to someone else.

We got pregnant again quickly. Probably too quickly. Embarrassingly quickly. The doctor was surprised. We were surprised. But I knew my fertile, life-giving uterus was back on track and we would have our year 2000 baby due on Dec. 30.

Of course, we told no one but some close friends. With an ultrasound at 6 weeks and 9 weeks, we saw and heard a heartbeat, and there were wiggling arms and legs. I was ecstatic.

On a Sunday afternoon, at about 13 weeks pregnant, the kids and I visited Robert who was working at the hospital. We happened to run into my OB and decided to let the kids hear the babies heartbeat. We found an empty room and my sweet doctor, with all the kids around, did an ultrasound with a small portable machine. We could see the baby, but no heart beat. I could feel the concern in the room grow. We decided to do a regular ultrasound in the morning.

Since Robert had to work that night, I went home alone with the kids and got little sleep. I met him at the hospital the next morning and got another ultrasound. Again, no heartbeat. The baby measured 13 weeks, but there was little amniotic fluid. My miracle baby had died.

I cried in my husband’s arms.

Why me? Was I too greedy? Was I not allowed to have more kids? Why was my body betraying me? Was I even allowed to feel sad when I already had four perfect kids? Plus, I felt like I was letting my husband and kids down by not being able to give them what we all wanted. I was devastated.

The next day I had another D&C. This one was 100% more difficult than the first. Knowing that little one inside me would be taken out of my body in such a dramatic way, was heartbreaking. Having the procedure would make it final. There was no “miracle” baby.

I rested for the week. Cried for a week. Then on the 4th of July I started bleeding and cramping. The next day I got an ultrasound. By now the tech and I were best friends. Apparently there was “tissue” remaining in my uterus that needed to be taken out. My doctor was in the hospital already and said, no time like the present. So there and then, I got put under anesthesia and had another invasive D&C. My body and my spirit were done.

The recovery was difficult.

I had friends who struggled with infertility. So me, with an already large family, really didn’t know if it was appropriate to grieve too much. This was 20 years ago. No social media. No normalization of sharing feelings or therapy. There was no Chrissy Teigen showing the world the grief of a mother. So I didn’t talk about it much. I felt it wasn’t my place when others had a much harder time adding to their family. What did I have to complain about?

By the end of that year I was still longing for my lost baby girl. Because yes, we found out it was a girl. I wish I had never known that. Because she has remained merely a dream.

But now, I wish I had cried harder, louder, longer. I wish I had grieved the way I felt like I needed to. I was still a mom to four kids that needed me every second of every day and I didn’t really have time to stop and cry for long. But their love also helped me heal. I journaled, I took The Pill to guarantee my body got a rest, and I prayed for comfort.

I am grateful for doors that are opened for women now to talk about miscarriages. To share their grief and their images of grief however they feel. Transparency in trauma removes the shame. Talking about shared experiences brings healing. Mourning with those that mourn is what women do best.

We did finish our family with two more boys. No little girls in sight. I do not know God’s purpose or intent in all things. What I do know, is our family is complete. But there will always be a place in my heart for my little dream girl.