I preface this post with a bit of a warning.
This is a detailed account of a miscarriage. It's messy.
It's honest and real.
I posted a blog a few years ago about our first miscarriage.
I later deleted it.
I'm not certain why.
Maybe because it was painful to read. Painful to know it was out there.
Painful to acknowledge, I guess. It was hard not to get stuck there.
Stuck in despair and hopelessness.
We recently experienced our second miscarriage.
Both babies died around 7 weeks, yet the way things happened was very different.
With our first loss, I began to bleed early on, at about 5 weeks. We saw the baby's heartbeat twice before we went in for a 10 week check to see the baby had died.
Four days later, the baby passed from my body. After the bleeding became very heavy, I started to have terrible cramps that lasted an hour or two. A large, round gray mass came out of my body as I sat on the toilet. I scooped it up quickly half screaming, half crying. I slumped down on the bathroom floor sitting in a large, bright red puddle of blood continuing to scream as Eric ran into the bathroom.
I had no idea it would happen like this.
I didn't want to let go. I wanted to see my baby. I wanted to open up the sac, but we didn't. What if I ripped up part of the baby's body when I did so? How much more guilt would that cause?
We didn't know what to do. We lived in an apartment. We had nowhere to bury the baby.
We took the baby to the doctor.
They acted nonchalant when we dropped off the body of our precious child.
We later read, they incinerate "tissue" like that.
Really?
A few years later, we had a beautiful, healthy baby girl that we thank God for every day.
A couple of months ago, we found out we were pregnant again. We were very excited. We always knew we wanted more children. The thought of another miscarriage was always present, but not so much since our last pregnancy was so textbook.
Everything seemed fine. No bleeding. I was nauseous and exhausted as expected. I even started developing a baby bump.
Then, at 9 weeks, the spotting began. I was somewhat worried, but thought maybe it was nothing.
I called the doctor, and the nurse stated it could be from picking up my 1 year old so much but to come in for an ultrasound.
I knew.
I knew as soon as I was alone in the bathroom "emptying my bladder" getting ready for the ultrasound. This isn't right.
The tech's silence confirmed my fears. Especially when she asked if I was sure I was 9 weeks along.
Then, we saw him. We saw the body of our little angel.
Still. Motionless.
You could see his little arms and legs. His little head.
Sleeping.
The tech didn't say anything except to get dressed and wait to talk to the doctor.
Great.
I started crying. I knew what all of this meant. I'd been through it before.
Before we left the ultrasound room, I stole the picture from the machine that had printed of his little body in my womb. Guess she didn't think I'd want a picture of a dead baby.
This was the only picture I would ever have of the child I carried for two months.
It was confirmed when we talked to the doctor. She asked if the tech told us.
Nope. You get that honor.
I don't remember much of what she said except talking about how cute our daughter was.
We opted to have the baby at home like the first.
No D&C. No medication unless it was necessary.
We walked out into a waiting room of pregnant women.
I held a piece of paper in my hand confirming the baby I was carrying was dead. I had a death grip on my purse that held his picture.
That was it.
That was a Monday.
It was Thursday before the contractions got really bad. They'll call them cramps, but I have been through labor. They were contractions. They began earlier in the week, but got increasingly worse that day. I almost opted for the medicine inserted to speed up the miscarriage it was getting so drawn out and painful.
I didn't, though. I wanted the baby to come out in one piece if possible.
It was as painful as when I was dilated 7 or 8 centimeters with Sarah.
I knew the baby was coming when I started bleeding so heavily blood came out on the pillow I was sitting on. I just stayed in the bathroom from that point on.
The contractions got closer and closer together. Bright red blood flowed out of me like a faucet.
Then, after an hour or so of this, the large clots started coming out.
I started pushing when I would feel a contraction just like I did with Sarah. All of this on some Tylenol, which didn't do anything for the pain.
I realized what felt like the baby was coming through my cervix.
It was stuck. I kept pushing with each contraction until the gray tissue came out in one big piece.
I had my baby.
I very carefully put him in some Tupperware, and Eric put him in the refrigerator. We knew better this time than to take him to the doctor's office. We were going to bury him in the mountains where we had a memorial spot for our other miscarried baby.
I tried to clean up. Exhausted. Empty. Still bleeding.
These are things they don't tell you at the doctor's office. How painful physically and emotionally the ordeal is. Yet, for me, it provides closure and the visual reality of the life I carried. That's why I choose to have my babies this way.
We buried our sweet one the next day. We stood there with Sarah over two graves with large stones encircling them and a flower planted on top. We stood there with our three children.
We had a beautiful service at our church to honor our child. It provided so much closure for us. It was a validation of his life. God created this baby, and we had the opportunity to share in his brief life.
The second loss was different in many ways.
I realized that this was labor. I was in my bathroom alone pushing this baby out.
Knowing what to expect didn't make it easier.
I also had to go back for more than the one post ultrasound since I started bleeding again. If all of the tissue doesn't pass, sometimes a D&C is necessary. Thankfully, it wasn't in my case, but just the thought of it caused some serious anxiety.
I have to go back weekly to the same office with all of the pregnant people to get my levels checked since I still have the pregnancy hormone in my system. It's like getting stabbed in the heart again and again to find out I have to go back yet another week. It's an additional fun fact about miscarriage.
So, why am I writing all of this? Why not keep it to myself?
I am more open about talking about the subject, because if I don't, more women will continue to feel alone in their grief. Maybe this post can provide some clarity. I know I searched the Internet for hours trying to find other stories that would help me cope and know what I could expect.
If I write about it, maybe it will help someone. I had no idea with my first miscarriage what would really happen and how painful and shocking it would be. They don't tell you that. In my case at least, it was really minimized what it would be like both times.
Miscarriage. Really. Sucks.
But, I believe there is hope. There is so much a loss like this can create in one's heart.
Compassion.
Understanding.
Love.
Patience.
Humility.
The list could go on.
Yes. I get mad about it. My heart feels like someone is branding it sometimes it hurts so much.
But, I'm not going to get stuck in a place full of bitterness.
I am so thankful to have the privilege to carry three human beings created by God. One I get to kiss and cuddle with every day, and the other two I will hold soon.
I have to thank my husband before I end this. He most certainly provides the support and strength to help me even though he grieves, too. With our most recent loss, he took several days off of work to help me and watch our daughter. He is a father to 3, as I am a mother to 3, and he is awesome at his job as Daddy.
We know that one day, we will see our family altogether in heaven.
No more pain or sadness.
Just light and life.
For all eternity.
This is a detailed account of a miscarriage. It's messy.
It's honest and real.
I posted a blog a few years ago about our first miscarriage.
I later deleted it.
I'm not certain why.
Maybe because it was painful to read. Painful to know it was out there.
Painful to acknowledge, I guess. It was hard not to get stuck there.
Stuck in despair and hopelessness.
We recently experienced our second miscarriage.
Both babies died around 7 weeks, yet the way things happened was very different.
With our first loss, I began to bleed early on, at about 5 weeks. We saw the baby's heartbeat twice before we went in for a 10 week check to see the baby had died.
Four days later, the baby passed from my body. After the bleeding became very heavy, I started to have terrible cramps that lasted an hour or two. A large, round gray mass came out of my body as I sat on the toilet. I scooped it up quickly half screaming, half crying. I slumped down on the bathroom floor sitting in a large, bright red puddle of blood continuing to scream as Eric ran into the bathroom.
I had no idea it would happen like this.
I didn't want to let go. I wanted to see my baby. I wanted to open up the sac, but we didn't. What if I ripped up part of the baby's body when I did so? How much more guilt would that cause?
We didn't know what to do. We lived in an apartment. We had nowhere to bury the baby.
We took the baby to the doctor.
They acted nonchalant when we dropped off the body of our precious child.
We later read, they incinerate "tissue" like that.
Really?
A few years later, we had a beautiful, healthy baby girl that we thank God for every day.
A couple of months ago, we found out we were pregnant again. We were very excited. We always knew we wanted more children. The thought of another miscarriage was always present, but not so much since our last pregnancy was so textbook.
Everything seemed fine. No bleeding. I was nauseous and exhausted as expected. I even started developing a baby bump.
Then, at 9 weeks, the spotting began. I was somewhat worried, but thought maybe it was nothing.
I called the doctor, and the nurse stated it could be from picking up my 1 year old so much but to come in for an ultrasound.
I knew.
I knew as soon as I was alone in the bathroom "emptying my bladder" getting ready for the ultrasound. This isn't right.
The tech's silence confirmed my fears. Especially when she asked if I was sure I was 9 weeks along.
Then, we saw him. We saw the body of our little angel.
Still. Motionless.
You could see his little arms and legs. His little head.
Sleeping.
The tech didn't say anything except to get dressed and wait to talk to the doctor.
Great.
I started crying. I knew what all of this meant. I'd been through it before.
Before we left the ultrasound room, I stole the picture from the machine that had printed of his little body in my womb. Guess she didn't think I'd want a picture of a dead baby.
This was the only picture I would ever have of the child I carried for two months.
It was confirmed when we talked to the doctor. She asked if the tech told us.
Nope. You get that honor.
I don't remember much of what she said except talking about how cute our daughter was.
We opted to have the baby at home like the first.
No D&C. No medication unless it was necessary.
We walked out into a waiting room of pregnant women.
I held a piece of paper in my hand confirming the baby I was carrying was dead. I had a death grip on my purse that held his picture.
That was it.
That was a Monday.
It was Thursday before the contractions got really bad. They'll call them cramps, but I have been through labor. They were contractions. They began earlier in the week, but got increasingly worse that day. I almost opted for the medicine inserted to speed up the miscarriage it was getting so drawn out and painful.
I didn't, though. I wanted the baby to come out in one piece if possible.
It was as painful as when I was dilated 7 or 8 centimeters with Sarah.
I knew the baby was coming when I started bleeding so heavily blood came out on the pillow I was sitting on. I just stayed in the bathroom from that point on.
The contractions got closer and closer together. Bright red blood flowed out of me like a faucet.
Then, after an hour or so of this, the large clots started coming out.
I started pushing when I would feel a contraction just like I did with Sarah. All of this on some Tylenol, which didn't do anything for the pain.
I realized what felt like the baby was coming through my cervix.
It was stuck. I kept pushing with each contraction until the gray tissue came out in one big piece.
I had my baby.
I very carefully put him in some Tupperware, and Eric put him in the refrigerator. We knew better this time than to take him to the doctor's office. We were going to bury him in the mountains where we had a memorial spot for our other miscarried baby.
I tried to clean up. Exhausted. Empty. Still bleeding.
These are things they don't tell you at the doctor's office. How painful physically and emotionally the ordeal is. Yet, for me, it provides closure and the visual reality of the life I carried. That's why I choose to have my babies this way.
We buried our sweet one the next day. We stood there with Sarah over two graves with large stones encircling them and a flower planted on top. We stood there with our three children.We had a beautiful service at our church to honor our child. It provided so much closure for us. It was a validation of his life. God created this baby, and we had the opportunity to share in his brief life.
The second loss was different in many ways.
I realized that this was labor. I was in my bathroom alone pushing this baby out.
Knowing what to expect didn't make it easier.
I also had to go back for more than the one post ultrasound since I started bleeding again. If all of the tissue doesn't pass, sometimes a D&C is necessary. Thankfully, it wasn't in my case, but just the thought of it caused some serious anxiety.
I have to go back weekly to the same office with all of the pregnant people to get my levels checked since I still have the pregnancy hormone in my system. It's like getting stabbed in the heart again and again to find out I have to go back yet another week. It's an additional fun fact about miscarriage.
So, why am I writing all of this? Why not keep it to myself?
I am more open about talking about the subject, because if I don't, more women will continue to feel alone in their grief. Maybe this post can provide some clarity. I know I searched the Internet for hours trying to find other stories that would help me cope and know what I could expect.
If I write about it, maybe it will help someone. I had no idea with my first miscarriage what would really happen and how painful and shocking it would be. They don't tell you that. In my case at least, it was really minimized what it would be like both times.
Miscarriage. Really. Sucks.
But, I believe there is hope. There is so much a loss like this can create in one's heart.
Compassion.
Understanding.
Love.
Patience.
Humility.
The list could go on.
Yes. I get mad about it. My heart feels like someone is branding it sometimes it hurts so much.
But, I'm not going to get stuck in a place full of bitterness.
I am so thankful to have the privilege to carry three human beings created by God. One I get to kiss and cuddle with every day, and the other two I will hold soon.
I have to thank my husband before I end this. He most certainly provides the support and strength to help me even though he grieves, too. With our most recent loss, he took several days off of work to help me and watch our daughter. He is a father to 3, as I am a mother to 3, and he is awesome at his job as Daddy.
We know that one day, we will see our family altogether in heaven.
No more pain or sadness.
Just light and life.
For all eternity.
