After a lifetime of athletic activities-club, varsity, collegiate-I believe I’ve had more than a fair share of bodily injuries. I’ve been elbowed in the face, slide tackled, tripped, poked in the eye, and was even hip-checked during a vigorous dance off in the basement of a frat in college. Stitches, broken bones, torn ligaments, a few concussions. Some intentional; some accidental. I survived.
But the sucker punch? The one that comes out of nowhere? The one that blindsides you when you’re already down, or you least expect it? THE sucker punch, further worsened by words, videos, commercials, or an insensitive statement? It takes my breath away, and blinds me with tears. I never thought I’d feel this raw type of pain, emotionally or mentally.
In April, I called my mom on her birthday. She was out of town, which was lucky, as I had procrastinated buying her birthday present. Fortunately, I had just about the best news and present a daughter could give: I was pregnant. My mom was going to become a grandmother, again! Mom adores my son, and the idea of another grandchild was pretty much the best damn present she could imagine.
A few weeks later of nausea and food aversions, we celebrated Mother’s Day and my son’s second birthday, and told the family another little one would be on its way. I looked at my sweet toddler, and imagined him cradling a teeny, tiny baby.
At seven weeks, I went in for my first ultrasound. I laughed with the tech about the cold gel applied to the trans-vaginal probe; it is not pleasant. After a few minutes of silence, my heart began to race.
“How far along did you say you are? Could your dates be wrong?” I was seven weeks. No doubt about it. I tracked my ovulation with testing kits and temping.
“Hmmm… you are not measuring that far along. And it looks like the sac is collapsing. This will not be a viable pregnancy.”
SUCKER PUNCH.
I floated out of the office. Somehow drove home, called my husband, and had my mom pick up our toddler at his day school. That night the cramping started; the bleeding, the next day.
I am young, I am healthy. I already have a vigorous, gorgeous child. How could it happen to me, I asked? What did I do wrong? I was told the statistics: that one in four or one in five pregnancies end in a miscarriage. 20 to 25 percent of pregnancies? How could that be, and how come I was not better prepared? If all these women experienced something similar, how come I was so ashamed that it happened to me?
The scientist in me tried to rationalize that this happened for “a good reason.” That is what everyone said; “it has to bring you some comfort that biologically there was a reason why this happened.” Of course it does bring some comfort, but….still. The SUCKER PUNCH. I would nod my head, give a little smile, not letting my face show the pain. Have faith, they said. You will get pregnant again, they said.
And I did.
We waited the appropriate amount of time to try again; physically, my doctor said to wait one cycle. Emotionally, who the hell knows when is appropriate. But I craved to be pregnant; I wanted to feel complete again, like somehow that would heal me. Someway, we found out we were expecting again in July, exactly two months after my miscarriage. I thought the fear would go away once I saw that “YES” on the stick. But no, immediately I feared that sucker punch right in my gut. What if it happens again? One miscarriage, yes that happens to a lot of women. But two, in a row, within a few months of one another? There is no way that could happen to me.
But it did.
Same story, a few months later. This time I scheduled my ultrasound at eight weeks, at the same time as my first prenatal appointment. After 45 minutes of chatting with the doctor, I had the scan. I told the [different] ultrasound tech how glad I was to have her, instead of the tech from last time. Bad juju, I even said. And then there was the silence, again. The sucker punch.
“Are you sure you’re eight weeks along?” Yes, AND my positive pregnancy test was six weeks ago. I immediately burst into tears. “Not again, not again.” I was ushered into the doctor’s office, and told not to lose hope. My levels looked great, I was just measuring earlier. A follow-up ultrasound the next week showed a flicker of a heartbeat, but the baby was still smaller than it should have been. We waited one more week to see, while I continued to feel pregnant. I even had a cute little bump (re: bloat). We were cautiously optimistic.
The night before our next follow up ultrasound, the bleeding started. I fell to the ground. The scan the next day confirmed my second miscarriage in four months.
I experienced two natural miscarriages. The sucker punches started rolling in immediately. In the beginning, you dread going to the bathroom, because every time is just a slap in the face, a punch in the gut. The blood, so much blood, lasting more than a week. The contractions and cramps: a constant remind that you were no longer blissfully expecting. I walked to my son’s two-year old class, doubled over with contractions that felt exactly like my early labor with him. I had to smile while I picked him up, and drove home in tears. I still felt nauseous for a week, although I now assumed it was due to a drop in hormones. My face broke out like a prepubescent adolescent. From my May miscarriage, to the one in September, I bounced around between four different clothing and bra sizes.
At the same time, social media is completely inundated with pregnancy announcements, new babies, and gender reveals. Of course it should be! Those are the happiest moments in people’s lives, yet they are constant reminders of the little bean who was no longer warm in my tummy. The sucker punches keep coming in after the physical ailments end. I had to tell my close circle I was no longer pregnant, again. I ignored well-meaning phone calls from friends. I told people, “I will be okay,” when they asked how I was doing. The most inconsequential questions, comments, or things blinded me with grief. I felt I had to hide my pain.
…. “When is the next one coming along?”
…“Could it be stress? Do you have a lot of stress in your life?”
…“The right baby will come along.”
…“At least you have your son.”
…A “congratulations!” from the Dollar Tree cashier while I was buying cheap pregnancy tests to watch my pregnancy hormones go down.
…The cute gender-reveal viral video my cousin posted.
…Well-meaning family members asking what testing I will get done.
…Friends offering their reproductive endocrinologists ‘ numbers.
…Bellies grew, while mine shrank.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t/can’t/won’t blame anyone from asking questions and trying to console me. There is just no right thing to say at the time. Everyone has the best intentions to help, and I appreciated all the outpourings of love. I broke down in front of some of my great mommy friends, who showered me with love. And I adore the Facebook announcements, and am genuinely happy for all my friends. I can’t be jealous or upset at their stories, just because mine had a different ending.
But it is hard for others to understand, or know what to say. Until you’ve been there…when you’ve been sucker punched so much you are completely raw on the inside, beaten to a pulp. It is grief over a loss. I lost two babies, two potential futures, two “what ifs,” two nurseries to design.
Two siblings for my little boy.
My story is not unique. One in four. I am speaking of the pain so many women have felt before me, that so many are experiencing right now. After my first miscarriage, friends and family members came out of the woodwork. Their ache was tangible, years later. A friend hugged me after I told her, and said “it is a f****** sucker punch, ain’t it? It never stops hurting.”
And the worst part? I never knew so many experienced this loss, until it happened to me. Until I was sucker punched, I was blind to the silent pain countless around me have suffered. My miscarriage is not unique. My story, my loss, is devastatingly real, but not unique. Even so, I felt there was never a safe place for me to grieve, that it wasn’t acceptable for me to feel THIS awful, or to show my pain to complete strangers.
October was declared National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month by President Regan in 1988. He stated: “When a child loses his parent, they are called an orphan. When a spouse loses her or his partner, they are called a widow or widower. When parents lose their child, there isn’t a word to describe them.”
We need to talk about the hard things. Pregnancy is a highly personal and intimate experience. People share in the joy: they want to touch pregnant bellies, talk about baby names, and guess if it is a boy or a girl. But pregnancy loss is a lonely, isolating, and unspoken experience. We can be more than our loss. We can talk about the darkness, about the hurt we feel. I should have told my son’s teachers what was happening when I picked him up that day. I should have told the cashier at Dollar Tree that I was buying the tests to watch my pregnancy hormones go down. Not that I’d want her to change how she’d react to someone buying pregnancy tests, but maybe it’ll help increase her awareness of miscarriages, and it’ll help her or someone she knows someday. Because those little, daily conversations will help reduce the stigma. We shouldn’t be ashamed.
We can talk about the sucker punches, even though it can make others uncomfortable. We can help those who do not know how to respond. We can tell people if they do say something insensitive, and next time maybe they can say the right thing. I couldn’t get through this alone, and wouldn’t want anyone I know and love to. Maybe just knowing someone else went through the sucker punches, and came out okay, it’ll help another woman fight off the darkness. Maybe by sharing my experience, this hugely un-unique, yet personal and devastating experience, it will help the next new mom pick up the pieces.
Some Helpful Resources
This post was originally posted to Samantha’s site, Sam the OT Mom
This post is part of Common Grief, a Healthy Living editorial initiative. Grief is an inevitable part of life, but that doesn’t make navigating it any easier. The deep sorrow that accompanies the death of a loved one, the end of a marriage or even moving far away from home, is real. But while grief is universal, we all grievedifferently. So we started Common Grief to help learn from each other. Let’s talk about living with loss. If you have a story you’d like to share, email us at strongertogether@huffingtonpost.com.
Related
Before You Go
