I've been pregnant four times. Four times!
I have two children.
I didn't terminate pregnancies (as my moron gynecologist recently asked me). I had two miscarriages.
Ooooh, she said the "m" word.
My first and third pregnancies ended in miscarriage. I was ten weeks along in both pregnancies. They were both devastating for different reasons.
My first pregnancy was, well, my first pregnancy. I was naive in thinking that a miscarriage would ever happen to me. After all, my mother had never miscarried. We were young, we were excited, we told everyone the moment I had peed on that stick and two lines popped up.
We came home from grocery shopping one day. Blood everywhere. Tears streaming. Heart broken. So confused.
It's just nature's way.
It just wasn't meant to be.
Everything happens for a reason.
Maybe the timing just wasn't right.
Shut up! Shut up!!! SHUT UP!!!! I didn't want to hear any of it. No one could say the right thing. No one could justify it. I wanted to curl up in my bed and just process the whole thing. The whys, the what ifs.
Thankfully, I had my beautiful daughter not long after.
I remember speaking to my best friend's mom one day, who shared her experiences with me of having a miscarriage. She said, "Had you not had that miscarriage, you would have never had Katherine." It was the most significant way to look at it. To find some purpose behind that first miscarriage. And it soothed my heart.
When we decided to add to our family, I was pregnant again within three months. It was wonderful to think that Katherine would have a little baby brother or sister. I heard its little heartbeat and proudly put up the ultrasound picture of our tiny baby on the fridge.
Maybe I was overworked. Maybe I overdid it. Maybe I didn't rest enough.
Bleeding. Panic. Doctors. Tests. Ultrasounds.
You've had a miscarriage.
Again. Good God, again. Why are you failing me, body? Why aren't you doing what you're supposed to do??? I had felt that my body had let me down. That it had failed me big time.
Finally, my fourth pregnancy. I began to bleed around the ninth week and I went straight to the doctor's office, with panic in my eyes. He attempted to find a heartbeat, but couldn't. I could see that he was starting to sweat, as he asked me to return the next day for an ultrasound.
I walked out of his office, walked through my front door, and fell into my husband's arms. He took me upstairs, where we both sat and cried.
I can't go through this again. Please God, I can't do this again. Maybe we weren't meant to have children. Maybe Katherine was a fluke. We should be so happy we were able to even have one child.
We dried our eyes, held each other, and agreed that if I miscarried again, we were done. I couldn't put myself through it again—the emotional and the physical were too much to bear.
By the grace of God, our baby—our little Jack—was fine. I was put on strict bed rest and given hormone supplements. He was born six months later.
Here's what I've learned:
Miscarriage happens more than we know.
It's still very hush-hush. As women, we don't talk about it. As if there's some sort of shame associated with having a miscarriage.
We need to be more vocal about it, because women—your girlfriends, your aunts, your sisters—are going through it and feel like they're alone.
Miscarriages ruin all your subsequent pregnancies. That you'll never rest. Let me just get to twelve weeks. Please, let me just get to twelve weeks.
Unless you've gone through a miscarriage yourself, no one can say the right things or comfort you or make it seem okay. The best phone call we got after our first miscarriage was the one from my husband's cousin, who simply said, "I just don't know what to say, except I'm thinking of you."
My body didn't fail me, but what was meant to be, would be.
And, most importantly, two healthy, happy children are all I need.
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