I remember the night the pregnancy ended. It was a Friday in August 2015.
My husband was at work, I was alone in our apartment. I laid down in bed, meditated and allowed my body to do what it needed to do.We had started trying for our first child and within 3 months and far too much money on pregnancy tests later, I finally got my positive test.I was excited. This is what we had wanted. Even though so many other things in our life didn’t feel sorted out and the natural nervousness existed, we were ready for this stage of our life to begin.
I was newly pregnant and happy for 2 weeks before things started to go wrong. I started to spot blood and then it quickly turned darker—it was bright and never seemed to let up.I went to the hospital and they checked my levels and did an internal ultrasound. Everything was fine—business as usual I suppose. But they sent me home with the warning that if I indeed was miscarrying this pregnancy there was nothing anyone could do about it.The process of bleeding- hospital visits, family doctor appointments.. so many blood draws went on for nearly 3 weeks.I didn’t have many cramping episodes and generally felt fine. I was just bleeding. It became a part of my life- every time I wiped I would check.. Yep, still bleeding. After a while among all of my sadness and frustration it became sort of like a game. I would pee on pregnancy tests once or twice a day- Yep, still pregnant. This baby was really holding on.But eventually it wasn’t a game anymore. I felt like a prisoner. I was isolated- no one understood what I was going through. I didn’t want to talk about it yet at the same time it was all I wanted to talk about. Everyone around me was planning for fun end of summer weekends away and I had an upcoming back yard party to welcome my husband to the country (he had just immigrated 4 months prior).I started being mindful- I told this little baby every day that it didn’t need to hold on. It was okay to go. I was thankful for the lessons it taught me and I would be okay if it was just too hard to stick around. I wanted to move on, I didn’t want to be a prisoner anymore.The fateful Friday night it happened… my never to be baby finally let go. I went to the hospital with my mom on the Sunday morning and was told the news that I indeed had miscarried. On the way home my doctor called me to tell my HcG’s were too low based on a test done on Friday. I let her know that it had happened and thanked her for her call.I cried for a while, told my husband and he comforted me as best he could. I laid in bed for the day and for the following weeks to come one side of my life went on like it had never happened and the other side was a terrible, mess. I was angry at my friends for talking about it among themselves but not actually addressing me with kind words or recognition of my difficulties. I was angry at myself for allowing this to happen, even though I knew deep down it was out of my control and I was generally just angry at the world. Everyone around me had successful pregnancies and beautiful children—and I couldn’t make it past the 7 week mark. In my head I was a failure. I had effed it all up. The thing was I didn’t want to go back to the time of not being pregnant and of not thinking of myself as a mother – I remember telling my girlfriend that it seemed so foreign to me. I wanted to plan and be excited and move forward with this stage of my life. And the truth is people don’t know what to say—I always got the typical “Well atleast you weren’t farther along..” or the typical “these things happen..” Really? I didn’t know anyone it had happened to. And yes, I wasn’t farther along—how horrible that would be for a woman who had carried longer and never got to successfully deliver. But frankly that sentiment enraged me and only further confirmed that people just didn’t understand. Some of the closest people to me just didn’t understand. I was angry for months to come. As I look back in retrospect now I realize how traumatized I was, how frozen I was with grief. For the next year, even while moving through a successful pregnancy I always expect to see blood when I go to the bathroom. I didn’t go to the doctors for 9 weeks after I found I was pregnant again with our son. I remembered what the hospital said- if I was going to miscarry there was nothing anyone could do. I decided to do everyone, and myself, the favour by just waiting it out. I wanted to know I could get past the point I never made it to before. A few nights ago I laid in bed watching my now one year old son sleep. Thinking about writing this, very unsure what I had to say about the whole experience. Sure, I could talk about how this experience brought me to my beautiful son and without it he wouldn’t be here. I can’t imagine my life without him- he brings so much joy to everyone he touches. And while the above statement is true, frankly the whole experience still makes me very sad. I will always remember those weeks leading up to that fateful Friday night. When I was pregnant with my son I always dreamed of a little girl. I was told that is the next baby in queue—I prefer to think that she was the one who never made it.