Mourning Sickness: Dealing with Miscarriage

A few years back I read a book on grief that had the nerve to rank the severity of losses one might experience. Death of a spouse ranked higher than death of a parent, but lower than death of a child. Loss of limb was worse than loss of job.  Miscarriage was sandwiched somewhere between a bad haircut and chronic nosebleeds. Obviously I’m exaggerating, but having only four of my eight pregnancies produce a live baby, I bristle at the flippant attitude towards miscarriage.  (And while I’m on one, can we stop attempting to rank suffering? As if because something worse might befall us, we have no right to the pain we currently experience.)  I’m not saying it’s the worst thing in the world. But don’t tell me it doesn’t suck to carry a life, make physical and emotional plans for that life, and then have it basically disappear, with nothing tangible to hang on to. No memories. No photos. Nothing.

Here is from my journal during pregnancy # 6:

18 February 2004

We lost the baby. Yesterday I had an ultrasound. No heartbeat. No growth. I was so in denial. Since waiting to pass the baby and then bleeding for days might put me over the edge, I’m getting the D&E (dilation and evacuation-sounds so awful). So today Dave and I spent the morning in a labor and delivery room.  I could hear babies crying down the hall. They put me under then suctioned out the contents of my uterus. No pain. No memory. I’m doing pretty well and I’m determined not to fall apart. But I am so so sad.

20 February 2004

I’ve done a lot of sleeping the past couple days. I’m surprised at how tired I am. Because I don’t remember the surgery, it seems as if it didn’t happen. Sleep is a great escape from the pain. I can’t figure out what to do with the maternity clothes I bought. Every time I think about them I start to cry for the lost baby. I think I could go to the Old Navy counter and hand over my pleated and paneled stuff, but what if they say, “Reason for return?”  Better just keep them.

21 February 2004

Perks of this miscarriage:
House full of flowers

Fridge full of food
Free “sorry your have a dead baby in you” valet parking at the hospital
Husband cancels business trip and does everything at home
Napping from 2-3pm, and then from 3:30-5
Easing of morning sickness
Extra hugs from my 7 year-old who gets that I am “more sad than sick”
No longer giving birth on or around the Exponent II Retreat.

24 February 2004

The hormones have kicked in. NPR did a piece on heroin use among teenagers. I sobbed. I watched Finding Nemo with Millie and bawled through it. At Target, a pregnant woman couldn’t decide between juice and soda, I cried. Not safe to be out in public.

For me, losing those babies filled me with many—often conflicting—emotions: confusion as to what happened; guilt—what could I have done differently; heartbreak that I will never know that child; anger at God, the universe, and anyone who says “you were ONLY X weeks along” or “you’re young—you can try again” as if children are interchangeable; amazed at how REAL that baby was for me already; gratitude that I have 3 miraculously healthy and beautiful children; greedy that I want more of the same; shame that I was falling apart; empty empty empty.  I wish I could have worn a t-shirt that said “Caution: Lost Baby–May Come Unglued.”  At least if someone dies you get a socially acceptable mourning period.  With a miscarriage, you are mourning someone you never saw, and often people didn’t even know you were pregnant.

In the Fall 2002 issue of Exponent II Kylie Nielson Turley wrote the following poem that beautifully captures the longing for an unknown child:

Encircling

Miscarried late one night when I was groggy
Perhaps a skinny, laughing girl,
With soft blond hair and green eyes
As I dreamed the night before.
My almost-baby was gone before I understood
The cramping pains that buckled my knees
And sent me whimpering to the bathroom.
I would have called out for help or comfort
If I weren’t embarrassed,
Unsure about this intimacy. So physical
This process. My body shared, then not.

In my mind, I call her Eden, a name
Without a mother or a child.
Still, I miss
Her head tucked into my neck, breathing softly,
Her warm-sleep body gathered in my arms–
Even after holding other children of my creation.
Like Eve, I suppose.

On a brisk December birthday
I would have swaddled
Her in a blanket or two to take her home.
Instead, an early birth-death: May,
So bright and shiny. Two days later
I sat in the sun by the pool–
Swimming suit taut over my empty stomach.

Every year now, there’s that circling;
The May, the December, the May.
She’s a thought–brief–
I find myself thinking another without realizing
But the return
Is a comfort, a marking, a naming
Of Eden,
Mother of my mothering.

Throughout life’s suffering, the comfort I find is that I am never alone. After I miscarried, so many women, young and old, quietly came forward and shared with me their stories of pain and loss. One even gave me a book that brought me a lot of comfort, Our Stories of Miscarriage: Healing With Words by Rachel Faldet. It brought me solace to know I was not alone in my “mourning sickness” as I have come to call it. And over the past few years I have been able to provide a shoulder for other women mourning children they will never hold. It’s not a club anyone wants to join, but it does have some amazingly loving members.

 

You may also like...

32 Responses

  1. Do I ever resonate with this pain. Thank you for sharing this beautiful post, Heather. Miscarriage is such an underdiscussed and invisible grief that many women (and men) feel it is somehow inappropriate to talk about. And when you realize that one in four pregnancies ends in miscarriage, this silence is bizarre and even appalling.

    Since you liked the “Our Stories of Miscarriage” book, might I recommend another? A couple of years ago I had the privilege to edit an amazing book called “What Was Lost: A Christian Journey through Miscarriage,” which won the 2010 Christianity Today award for best book in the Christian Living category. The author, Elise Erikson Barrett, writes beautifully about her three miscarriages and particularly about the theological questions attending this particular loss. I am so proud to have had a hand in bringing that book into being — its own kind of birth. If you’d like a taste of the book, she wrote a blog post for me about what not to say when someone has a miscarriage, including any sentence that begins with any form of “At least.” (“At least you have other healthy children. At least you know you can get pregnant. At least you won’t be saddled with a baby who would have deformities or delays.” [!]) The blog post can be found at
    http://blog.beliefnet.com/flunkingsainthood/2010/08/what-not-to-say-to-someone-who-has-just-had-a-miscarriage-guest-blogger-elise-erikson-barrett.html

  2. Lady says:

    I hate that we don’t talk about miscarriage more. It’s such a heavy burden that most women bare so silently. I wish we would open up about our grief so that others could help us bare it.

    I read this the other day (written by a friend) – http://www.agoodgrief.com/blog.php?id=688. I thought it might help someone.

  3. Whoa-man says:

    This is so heart breaking and enlightening at the same time. Thank you for sharing your story. I really think we don’t take the pain and grief of miscarriage seriously enough in our culture (American or Mormon). I’ve personally witnessed lives, marriages, and families torn apart by the vagaries of miscarriage. It is such a life changing occurrence and yet it is common enough that people don’t take it as seriously (i.e. doing the same things you would do or expect if you’d lost a child: get counseling, go through depression, resist going through that again, denial, anger, blame, etc). Thanks for your bravery and this post. I think it is so needed.

    Also, I love the term “mourning sickness” and all the women who encircled you with their stories and love. This reminds me of our baptismal covenant to: mourn with those who mourn and comfort those in need of comfort. What an inspiring way to fulfill that covenant.

  4. Corktree says:

    Beautiful post, and I love that poem.

    I only had one, between my second and third, but it was shocking in the effect it had on me and my view of life. For me, it was the loss of what could have been since I’m such a planner. I don’t think I ever fully allowed myself to deal with the loss of an individual – which made me react strangely to inquiries and feel guilty. I had been pretty open about the pregnancy, so when people asked about it, I was very loudly blunt about miscarrying, almost uncontrollably upbeat, which always caused confusion and worried looks, followed by a hasty exit from me. It was a weird time and I was pregnant again within a year, so I didn’t really deal with it in the best way. And returning maternity clothes? I couldn’t do it either, despite my strange emotions, so I made my husband do it.

  5. Alisa says:

    I was very moved by this post. I hope to be more sensitive to the needs of women around me when miscarriage happens. This post gives amazing insight into what that experience can be like for some. It’s a very appropriate time to mourn with those that mourn.

  6. Oy. It’s like when people bear their testimony that “that talk at general conference was just for them,” this post seems all too relevant right now. We had one miscarriage two years ago and I guess this pregnancy is a “threatened miscarriage” because I’ve been bleeding and spotting the entire time. Having experienced miscarriage before, I know the baby is still in there. But I’m worried it died on me. I’ve tried to come up with explanations for the bleeding that don’t involve another miscarriage, but I’m still scared. We were going to tell our families this week, and now I feel like we would be setting them up for disappointment.

    Anyway, thank you for this post. I would like to add that we need to remember the loss of the father as well. I think my poor husband was more devastated about the first miscarriage than I was. It’s his baby too.

    Miscarriage and infertility are the number one reasons that you should never ever comment on when someone else is going to have kids, how many, whether they’re planning on it. It’s like a landmine. Just don’t do it!

  7. Esther says:

    I, like you, have experienced equal numbers of miscarriages and live births.
    I would not choose to go through the experience of miscarriage again, but I do value what I know and understand from having gone through it.

    I appreciate the kindness of sisters and husband that entered my life to help me to carry on, and the grace from God that helped me become wiser and more gentle and more grateful for things I previously took for granted.

  8. Macha says:

    Not too long ago I read a post about what to say to a woman who has miscarried. Reading the heartless things people say, basically telling you that you don’t have any reason to mourn, makes me so angry. The only things to say after a miscarriage are the same things you say to someone who has lost a loved one who has been born: I’m sorry for your loss, do you need anything, I’m here if you need to talk.

    So, first, I’m very sorry for your loss.

    Second, thank you so much for posting about this. I feel it is tragic that this experience which is practically universal is almost never talked about. So many people feel like they’re alone, they’re the only ones who mourn. Thank you for opening yourself up and sharing your experience.

  9. anonymous says:

    Thanks for your heartfelt post. However, I have a really big problem with listing off the perks of miscarrying. I know that you were probably just trying to look on the bright side, but I feel very uncomfortable with this. Miscarriage is losing a child however you want to interpret that and no one would ever list the perks of losing a child: “well it is so hard, but at least I have one less kid to feed, etc.”

    I don’t been to be critical or offensive, just honest.

    • Corktree says:

      I think this reaction is more than just “looking on the bright side”. It’s a coping mechanism that some people use (and Heather was brave to share it) and just because it seems callous to an outsider, doesn’t mean that the person thinking these things didn’t care about losing a child in the way you think they should. But I think it’s a very real moment in the process of grieving; one that is no less important to talk about and share just because it seems harsh or not universal to other’s experience.

    • Amelia says:

      anonymous, while I agree that it would be callous to go about cheerily listing the benefits of miscarrying, I think you’ve really missed the tone of Heather’s journal entry in which she did list the perks. For instance, when she says “free ‘sorry you have a dead baby in you’ valet parking,” her words very clearly communicate via their sarcastic tone that this is intensely painful for her. When she mentions napping from 2 to 3 and then again from 3:30 to 5, what I read is not even something like a coping mechanism of looking on the bright side, but an implicit statement of how emotionally draining this experience was and an indication of the depression that came with it (sleeping too much is one common sign of depression). So while the list does have the coping mechanism of looking on the bright side (how lovely that Heather could find some comfort in her child hugging her because that child understands that her mommy is sad), it’s also very revelatory of how deeply painful this experience was. And don’t forget that this journal entry with the list of perks is couched between two other journal entries in which Heather illustrates how painful and tragic losing her baby was.

      I think it’s really important that we as readers not fixate on one little thing that seems wrong to us in the abstract, but instead read a whole post. In the context of this whole post, it’s clear that Heather’s list of “perks” is ironic and a means of coping with something that was deeply painful, not some lighthearted and thoughtless looking on the bright side while refusing to recognize that this is a very real loss. I don’t think it’s possible to read Heather’s piece without recognizing that she very much understands just how painful and real this loss is.

    • Heather says:

      Anonymous, I should probably learn to use less sarcasm (at least publicly) when dealing with pain. I think I really offended a woman in the greeting card aisle at CVS right after my dad died when I mused out loud that his passing sure did make Father’s Day less expensive for me. I’ve learned that inappropriate laughter can help get me through things until I’m ready to deal with the pain. Even then I tend to use gallows humor to keep on going. But I recognize that this is not universal!!!!

  10. cchrissyy says:

    In being sensitive to miscarriages and pain, please also remember that not everybody deals with miscarriage the same way, including that it might NOT be hard or painful.

    I’ve had 3 losses and 3 live births and honestly, I don’t relate at all when I hear women talk about the sadness or loss. I “get” that it’s real for them but I can’t relate.

    • Amelia says:

      Thanks for sharing your experience, cchrissyy. I think the important point to take away from such different experiences with miscarriage is the same point we’ve been trying to make on the two threads about funerals this week: these situations are deeply personal and they need to be treated as such. For some people, the traditional Mormon funeral works. For some it does not. Some people feel a miscarriage as deeply as they might feel the loss of an actual child, as anonymous indicated in her comment. Others do not. The point is not that one reaction is right while another is wrong, but that we as members of communities need to be aware of how those around us experience these things and relate to them accordingly. It would be very wrong for us to be so insistent that a miscarriage is as deeply traumatic as losing a child that we ended up making women who don’t feel the loss in that fashion feel guilty or flawed for their own very real, very personal reactions.

      I do think that more often than not in our culture (Mormon but also our broader American culture), we err on the side of assuming that a miscarriage is not that big a loss than on the side of assuming that it is felt as a tragic loss. Which is why I really appreciate Heather’s willingness to share her own experience here. Ultimately the goal should be to remember that, as with most things, each individual’s response to something like a miscarriage will fall somewhere on a wide spectrum of possible responses and we should remember that rather than try to treat them in a one-size-fits-all fashion.

    • kmillecam says:

      Thanks for this cchrissyy. I thought I would experience my miscarriage the way you describe it here. When I thought of “what if I miscarry”, I didn’t think it would matter much to me. But it just was what it was.

  11. spunky says:

    Thanks for sharing this, Heather. It is such an important topic, and very under-addressed in Mormon culture. I know it isn’t exactly the same, but sounds quite similar to going through failed IVF… you can’t help but start envisioning your anticipated child (I have heard of some women even naming their embryos before transfer), and the couple and friends buy tiny clothes and toys for the anticipated baby that instantly into cruel and acidic reminders of failure. Like you said, no memories, no photos, nothing.

    I had a friend who miscarried and was quite devastated about it- it may have been a second miscarriage in a row. As she sat with another woman who had recently miscarried at church, a man (probably meaning to encourage them), came over and said, “Com’on girls! When are you gonna get going and just have some babies!” (like pregnancy is a sport or something) She said she felt like dying right there and then- and had to take a break from church as a result.

    Because the inability to carry a life to term effects people differently, it is hard to know what to say as support to those going through it. To some, the promise to raise these children in the next life is consolation- to others, it is a slap in the face. I’d be interested to know what people said that helped or hurt when they miscarried, just to see if there is a way to really be of emotional support and service in the situation.

  12. Jessawhy says:

    Like cchrissy, and 1 in 4 women, I have also miscarried. It was my second of four pregnancies and while I remember it being difficult at the time, I don’t have any emotions associated with those memories.
    Probably it’s because I am happy with the number of children I have. If I couldn’t have any children, or if I wanted more and miscarried several times, I’m sure there would be pain in my memories of those miscarriages.

    I am really grateful for the people who supported me through that time and glad that this topic can be discussed openly and we can support each other.

    • kmillecam says:

      It also just might be the way it is for you. It’s such a personal process. I’m happy with the number of children I have, but I still feel affected by that miscarriage. We are all so different, and I love to hear how it is for you and for all these other women commenting here today.

      In fact, even though I know I don’t want to be pregnant ever again, I am still sometimes nostalgic for a baby girl I never had. And not in the way that I tend to hear where “I wish I had a girl” because I only have boys. It’s more like I have a name picked out, and I want to see myself in a little girl of my own, and see her carry my DNA on to the next generation of women in my line.

  13. kmillecam says:

    My miscarriage happened only two months before I became pregnant with my second child. He was born with physical issues, and so when I found those out during an ultrasound I was faced with making peace with that and also wondering back to my miscarriage and what it meant. I was fairly upset at the time when I miscarried, but I relived it months later as I dealt with E’s cleft lip and other differences. Did I do something wrong? Was it a miracle when a baby came out withOUT any scary problems? Was I safe?

    I was alone when I went to that appointment when they didn’t see the heartbeat. I was at 8 weeks, so it was the “normal” time to miscarry. I oscillated between crying and feeling like it was no big deal. I opted for a D&E, and recovered well physically. But my hormones were very high, high enough that my OB/GYN commented on them. And so began my 3-year battle with hormone problems, only coming to normal after a radical change in my diet for the last year and a half.

    Miscarriage, pregnancy, choice, menstruation. They all seem to cycle together like breathing in and out. I find those experiences evidence that I am real and tangible. They give my life meaning.

  14. anony says:

    I had a miscarriage a few months ago– my only pregnancy. I did IVF and it failed, I adopted my 2 kids and never looked back and was completely happy with my family. Them surprise of all surprises, in my 40’s I found I accidentally got pregnant. My first thought: oh, no, I do not want more kids. No no no no no. Then I got used to it and even a little excited. Then no heartbeat. Yep, it sucked. I didn’t ask for a pregnancy, yet it happened and thought it was a miracle from God– only to have God take it away. I had a D&C and, honestly, it wasn’t nearly as awful as a failed IVF cycle– countless shots, hormones, and a ton of $$$$, and nothing. So a miscarriage with my one and only pregnancy SUCKED but I can’t say it was the most devastating thing that can happen. My girlfriend dying of cancer at 38 and leaving 4 kids orphans is by far so much worse. I can’t even compare that kind of grief and tradgedy.

    • spunky says:

      anony- thanks for sharing this. You are very lucky that you were able to adopt- you sound like you deserve the beautiful family that you have. I can tell that you are a wonderful mother. 🙂

  15. Sijbrich says:

    I also had a miscarriage with my first pregnancy and was devastated. I felt very blessed to have a close friend that had had one a few years before so I went and talked to her a few days afterward. There’s something so comforting about talking to someone that knows what you’re feeling and experiencing. My husband and I continued trying to get pregnant for an entire year after that without success, and I’d have to say that it was one of the hardest years of my life so far. I swear it seemed like every other woman I came in contact with was pregnant or had a newborn. There were many times when I felt like I was starting to move on and focus on other worthwhile things in my life at the time, when a baby would be blessed at church or I saw a girl that had been in Young Womens when I was a leader who was then pregnant (she’s probably 8 years younger than me, so that was hard), or I’d get a baby shower invite. It was hard to mourn since so few people knew I was ever pregnant. I probably went home from church a half dozen times or more just bawling. Looking back, it was just an emotionally difficult time, but I also wonder how much of it was hormonal imbalance. We finally got pregnant with fertility drugs and now i think the whole experience has just made me more grateful for my daughter, even when she’s crying or being difficult. I guess I just see parenthood as a privilege now and not something to be taken for granted.
    Thank you for writing about this.

  16. Kelly Ann says:

    Heather, thank you so much for sharing your experience and opening this discussion. I’ve read it a couple times and find it truly moving. As one who hasn’t really known what to say to those I knew who have miscarried, it helps me better understand what they might (or might not) be feeling. I was actually recently talking with a coworker about birthing stories and how you never know what to expect. She told me the story of a friend who miscarried at 38 weeks, who then delivered the dead baby who had died of a bacterial infection, and how it had absolutely devasted her. I was reminded of a friend of my sister who miscarried at 6 or 7 months who told how hearing the other babies in the hospital was painful but that the hardest thing for her was when her milk came in adding insult to injury. She sad she sobbed every time she had to physically bind herself. In cases like these, I have been left speechless. I don’t know what to say. And to hear all the stories here, I feel the same. Im left with the overwhelming impression that life is sometimes so complicated. I’m also in awe of the power of hormones. As kmillecam said, it makes life feel more real and tangible.

  17. Ellen Mary says:

    I just want to get it out there that Induction AND Expectant Management are both under advertised viable options. Expectant management was much better for me emotionally & I got to see & hold a body & have a gradual reduction in HCG. I think it is misleading to say a D&E is always easier yet the majority of women are told this by their doctors. Tgey are also not told about the risk of Asherman’s syndrome (uterine scarring from D&E). Just want to get that out there, I believe it is an area of women’s health that needs improvement.

    • Corktree says:

      Thank you for mentioning this Ellen. I chose to let things progress naturally, and I think it was better for me looking back, but at the time, once it started, I panicked that it wouldn’t be over fast enough and doubted my choice. It would be nice to have this discussed more openly among women so that there isn’t only the conversation with a doctor when making the decision. And I’m certain that having options is a blessing as clearly every woman deals with this differently.

  18. Jessica says:

    Thank you for this article.
    I had a “missed miscarriage” last month and was surprised at the reaction (or lack of it) from people around me – who just obviously did not know what to say.
    I found the poem heartbreaking but also healing and wanted to share my own incase it can help others similarly.

    Farewell to my baby

    “It is not good news I’m afraid,
    There is no movement,
    No heart beat.”
    No
    Heart
    Beat
    And our hearts break
    Snap, like ella’s crocodile.

    11 weeks and 2 days
    Just over 4cm
    But with eyelids, hair and fingernails.
    It is amazing how attached you get to someone you’ve never met.
    Someone you only dreamed.
    No
    Heart
    Beat

    We will never hold you
    Never see you smile
    Never stroke your hair or
    Sing you to sleep.
    Not this time.
    No
    Heart
    Beat

    And even though we know
    You chose to go to another safe place to wait for another time: your time
    We grieve because that safe place is not with us.
    No
    Heart
    Beat.

    We have a picture of the shadow you.
    The real you left 3 weeks and 2 days ago.
    The night when ella screamed for hours and we didn’t know why.
    She knew her little brother was gone.
    No
    Heart
    Beat.

    And now we wait for my body to give up yours, your earthy shell,
    Which is still tucked within me.
    Where it has been for such a long short time.
    It is hard to let you go.
    No
    Heart
    Beat.

    I watch your sister and I see the way we will heal and accept that your too short stay was for good reason. I promise.

    Goodbye my darling.

    Mama

  19. Regina says:

    Thank you for sharing your experience. I lost my son at 39 weeks. I remember so vividly the way my arms felt so empty afterwards. I still feel like someone is missing from my family 8 yrs later, and find myself counting the kids, even though they are all girls. It is so strange to miss someone so much that you never really even met.

  20. Kathy says:

    Thank you for this post and all it’s comments. It has brought back many memories, both heart wrenching and uplifting. I miscarried between child 1 and 2. I was only 13 weeks but I knew he was a boy. I knew his name. My husband was away at basic training and I was by myself. Bleeding, and no heartbeat. I was devastated. I did both. I had the miscarriage naturally but then had to have a D & E later because some remained. I purposely held that 4 cm child in my hand, morbidly, some might say, but to me it was proof that he was there and that he was mine. My William, is my guardian angel. I hear him sometimes and he guards and protects me and my other children when my husband is away. For me, this was God’s way of eternally attaching him to us, so he could help us. It didn’t make the pain and suffering any easier at the time, but it has richly blessed my life in other ways since. I guess my message to those reading is one of hope and happiness, but don’t forget the tears that are streaming down my face as I write this.

  21. Kylie Barocio says:

    This was such a heart wrenching story, it resonated with me so deeply. My husband and I were expecting this coming May. It would have been my third child, and his first. We got a positive hpt on September 2nd. 2013. We were so excited about the life we had created together, and could not wait to meet “him or her.” I told my Mom and my whole family, they were so excited for us. My husband wanted to wait until I was further along before he told his family.

    September 04, 2013
    I went to the hospital for sharp pains that would not subside, and severe vomiting. The doctors did an ultrasound to see if the baby was ok…thats when we learned that our baby had no heartbeat, and appeared not to be developing. The doctor said it closely resembled a non viable pregnancy. I was diagnosed with a threatened miscariage, and was told to expect to miscarry antime. In my discharge paper work it said for me to follow up with an obgyn within 48 hours. My husband I returned home with devestation, and horror in our hearts; we were afraid for our baby, and prayed the doctor was wrong. The next day I called the obgyn and they did not want to see me until the next day. I was tormented by my thoughts, all I could do was pray for my baby.

    September 06, 2013
    I went to the obgyn…as I sat in the waiting room I could’t help but notice all of the pregnant woman who’s bellys you could see they were obviously pregnant. Then I looked down at my own and hugged my belly tight, afraid that I would never see it grow. The doctor did yet another ultrasound, and said “you are still very early, this looks like a normal 4 wk pregnancy. He thought that maybe my dates were off, and wanted to give the baby more time to grow. As a precaution, they wanted to check my hormone levels and schedule another appointment two weeks from then. I was sent home with little hope, but still no certainties. The next two weeks were agonizing, I started spotting brown, and I co. uld feel my hormones subsiding. No more swollen tender breasts, no more nausea, and no more flutter inside my belly. I still held out hope that my baby was alive, but deep down I knew. My bloodwork results were in….the nurse that called me said “your test results came back you are definitely pregnant!” I told her that we already knew that! What were my levels? Did they increase!?! The nurse then finally said your levels are definitely decreasing. I lost it! I started screaming and beating my fists against the wall. The nurse said the doctor wanted me to schedule another appointment to talk options. I cried myself to sleep everyday until that appointment. I felt like tomb, instead of growing and giving life, I was feeling it slip out of me. I cradled death in my womb, and it broke my heart everyday. My body had failed me. My husband and I both agreed that the passing of our baby from my body was taking too long. I feared it happening everyday to the point of that was all I could think about. I couldn’t even begin to heal, I was going off the deep end. We decided a d&e was the best option for us.

    September 18,2013
    It is the day of procedure, at last there was finally a definite day it would all be over. I was put completely under, I have no memory at all except for when I woke up in the recovery room. I asked the nurse am I still pregnant? The nurse looked at me sadly and said ” no sweetie” I began to weep uncontrollably as she wiped the tears from my face as she held my hand.

    January 11, 2014
    I still mourn my unborn baby, and my four year old daughter still asks where her baby sister is; she was so sure the baby was a girl.
    RIP BABY BAROCIO Mommy and Daddy love you

  1. May 8, 2012

    […] young son Zenaida talks about getting along with her believing family when she no longer believes Heather blogs about the pain of miscarriage Caroline talks about “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly” when it comes to celebrating […]

Leave a Reply