Four dates remain etched in my brain: July 24, 2015; July 17, 2017; June 27, 2018; and Sept. 3, 2019. The first date is my son’s birthday. The others are the days I miscarried my babies.
I took my second ever positive pregnancy test in 2017. It was a new kind of excitement compared to my first. I couldn’t take enough tests to validate that excitement. I wasn’t nervous. I wanted it to be real. I was set on the name “Oliver.” I was already wondering if we needed a bassinet or baby swing. Or both?! I envisioned my son, Eli, running around with his little brother. We’d have a “pack” of two boys and two dogs. I was already planning everything.
I had two separate dreams of losing this second baby. I had never experienced a miscarriage before, so I don’t know why I obsessively Googled “legit pregnancy symptoms” and prayed for morning sickness. My pregnancy with my son was almost perfect (minus horrible nausea), so I had no reason to believe I would have an unsuccessful pregnancy. I cried during the ultrasound that confirmed my body naturally miscarried my baby. I got over it, because, “we’d just try again!”
May 24, 2018: After almost a year of trying and hoping and scrolling through Instagram for cute baby outfits and family-of-four photos, I was pregnant again. I carried three positive pregnancy tests around in my purse for weeks. We took a home gender test. We bought maternity clothes. We told all of our family. I chose the name “Ava.” My husband ordered cute pregnancy announcement shirts for my son and me that read “pregosaurus” and “big brother” because my son loves dinosaurs. I looked at letter boards. This was it! This was the baby that was meant to be! Eli would have a little sister.
June 27, 2018: I woke up sick as usual on ultrasound day. For once, I didn’t throw up while brushing my teeth. My husband stayed home with my son so I could get there early. I was ready to see those images and tell the rest of our friends and family the news. I arrived with a sucker in my mouth to curb my nausea, which was my only concern in that moment. I’ll never forget the pause and tone of her voice when the sonographer said, “We can’t find a heartbeat.” I could barely even respond with words, only tears.
I had a D and C procedure the morning after the Fourth of July. If you don’t know what this is, it is surgery to remove the fetus if your body doesn’t miscarry naturally. I healed, took my pain meds, drank plenty of water, got enough rest. My toddler kept me busy. I went for tons of walks by myself. I read tons of health blogs. I had days where I simply loved not feeling sick and I drank all the coffee and ate all the heartburn-inducing foods I wanted without throwing up and I felt great. Other days I quietly cried in the shower thinking, “Why am I broken? What did I do wrong?”
Some days I deactivated my Facebook account so I wouldn’t see another pregnancy announcement. I was happy for others but painfully jealous because of my grief. I was thankful for my one healthy boy on Earth. I wasn’t any less of a mom, I told myself.
A year later, on my son’s fourth birthday, I randomly started crying at the Big Biscuit. Obviously, mothers get a little emotional on their kid’s birthday, but this was a different kind of emotional. It was a deep level of sadness that I just couldn’t shake. It was also an all-too-familiar feeling, so I took a pregnancy test the next day.
My fourth pregnancy was a blur of excitement and anxiety. I was determined it was meant to be but knew what might happen. I tried to appreciate every moment no matter how sick I felt. I threw up every morning before taking my son to preschool but told myself it was worth it. This was the first time since being pregnant with my son that I got to see a heartbeat and take home ultrasound photos. I wanted to allow myself to feel complete happiness and relief.
Any feeling of relief quickly shattered when a heartbeat could not be detected at my next appointment. I couldn’t muster any tears this time. In fact, I scheduled a D and C procedure immediately. It would take place two days later. I was ready to feel like myself again. I was done playing this game. I wanted off of this roller coaster. The idea of pregnancy was no longer fun. It was the worst feeling in the world.
The burst of energy I had after my last loss was nice for a while. I could enjoy taking my son to preschool on time because I no longer threw up my breakfast. But then a sense of emptiness started to kick in. If you know grief, you know the sudden heaviness in your chest. And how your body’s defense mechanism that tried to protect you from trauma starts to weaken. Now, I had to face my feelings and my emptiness head-on, and I had no way to deflect it.
I sympathize with every woman who has to experience this quiet, torturous kind of loss. It’s not fair. It is a void that cannot be filled, an emptiness and ache for something you cannot replace. It’s a jealousy you’re ashamed of when you learn of countless friends’ full-term pregnancies and wish you had the same ability. It’s a grief we don’t talk about. I wish I could say something to make every devastated mother feel better, especially those who never got a “rainbow baby.” I wish I had hopeful, positive words for women still yearning to be mothers, women enduring fertility treatments, those who have lost even more than I have.
Know that your story matters and your babies mattered, even on days you can’t talk about them. Be patient with yourself while in the process of healing. Your body won’t snap right back to normal. Take care of yourself. Talk to a therapist. Blog. Start a journal. Try a yoga class. Meditate for a few minutes every morning. Surround yourself with everything you love. Don’t be afraid to share your feelings, even the negative ones, because they are valid.
Emily Morrison is a freelance writer, former copy editor and full-time mommy and Disney fanatic who lives in Independence with her husband, 4-year-old son and two dogs.
As always, please consult your health care provider with any questions or concerns.