What I Knew And What I Know

I've heard women say so many times, "I knew...I just knew!"...and I remember thinking, "How do you just know?" Well, one day in mid-September I finally understood what they meant: I just knew I was pregnant.

After a week of feeling all of the feelings—excitement, anxiety, fear, hope—I finally took a test... "PREGNANT". Those same feelings instantly amplified and washed over me like a terrifyingly glorious wave. This was real...this was happening...I was actually going to be a mom! It was a high I was sure I would never come down from, nor did I ever want to. But what I didn't know is just how quickly that high would end...

A few days (and several more positive tests) later, I started experiencing some minor pain. I had read that was normal and tried to focus on how I was going to surprise Alex with the news. Our six year wedding anniversary would be that Saturday, and I thought what better way to celebrate than with this incredible news! But a few days before, the pain started to intensify, as well as the bleeding, and it became almost unbearable. I called my doctor and made an appointment to have some blood work done, but I knew...I just knew...

I have experienced the loss of loved ones and dear relationships...I have suffered heartbreak and tragedy...but nothing—none of it—could have prepared me for the level of pain I felt in that moment. I cried til my eyes were swollen shut...I screamed til my throat was raw...I cursed and threw things and prayed and laid in the fetal position in the floor of my bathroom. I was gutted. I was angry. I was devastated.

“It's an odd dichotomy…feeling as though you—or your body—has failed, while also feeling like something has been stolen from you.”

See, what many people don't know about me is that since I was a young teenager, I have always held this (seemingly irrational) fear that I would never be able to have children. No doctor had told me such—it was just some dark notion that has lingered in the back of my mind for nearly 20 years. And for a little while, those dark dreams had been dashed, and I had proven my anxiety to be wrong. So when it was confirmed that I had in fact miscarried, those dark dreams had now turned into my worst—and very real—nightmare.

I still have a hard time even saying the word: "miscarriage." If you look it up in the dictionary, one of the first synonyms you will find is "failure," and that really resonates with me. It's an odd dichotomy...feeling as though you—or your body—has failed, while also feeling like something has been stolen from you. I feel guilty, yet victimized. I feel self-reproach, yet self-pity. I feel "why not me?", yet "why me?!"

“It's a club that no one wants to join, yet there are so, so many members.”

The first few weeks I went through (what I dubbed) the Triple D Cycle: 1) Depression; 2) Denial; 3) Distraction. Repeat. I've tried my best to keep busy and put on a brave face, but I've also allowed myself to have moments where I feel those hard feelings fully and deeply. The goal is to not suppress those emotions, but also to not become consumed by them. And a month later, I'm still struggling with finding that balance.

One out of every four pregnancies ends in a miscarriage. That is a truly devastating statistic. I have dear friends who have suffered miscarriages and fertility issues, and my heart broke for them. And now being on this side of it, the heaviness somehow feels even heavier. Because you're not just grieving this lost embryo…you're mourning the nursery you had already decorated in your head, the joy on your parents' faces after telling them they're going to be grandparents, the life that will never be. It's a club that no one wants to join, yet there are so, so many members. But I am fortunate in the sense that my friends have been very open with me about their pain and struggles, which has allowed me to be more open and honest about my own experience—and therapy...thank god for therapy.

But keeping with that honesty, I initially didn't want to tell anyone (with the exception of my husband, of course). I mean...how do you casually bring that up in conversation? Why tell people who care about you something that will just make them sad and pity you? Why burden others with your sadness or pain if you don't have to? But then I felt that sadness begin to turn into anger... You see, the world doesn't just stop, even if it feels like it's crashing down on you. I still had projects to complete...laundry to do...relationships to maintain...emails to respond to...meetings to attend... There were days where I sat at my computer and literally screamed at the (obviously unknowing) person on the other side, "Do you have any idea what I'm going through right now?!" And of course, the answer was no.

“...I understand that your gain does not equal my loss...”

That's when I knew I had to write about it. Not for sympathy or pity or to make excuses for being emotionally/physically checked out—but for understanding. I also wanted to write about it, because as an advocate for removing the stigma surrounding mental health and related topics, to not share my personal experience would be hypocritical in my eyes and only perpetuate the stigma. And as I said, I am so lucky to have friends who have shared their experiences with me, as well as an amazing therapist...and I understand everyone is not as fortunate to have both or either of those things. So if my story can help one person out there feel less alone, then it's worth the temporary pain and vulnerability that comes with writing this blog.

To all my mama friends out there—please do not feel like you have to tiptoe around me or handle me with kit gloves. Keep sharing your funny stories and cute pictures of your kiddos. To all my pregnant gal pals—please do not feel like you have to avoid me. Keep posting those baby announcements, ultrasound pictures, bump updates, etc. Will they make me a little sad? Honestly, they most likely will. BUT...please know that I understand that your gain does not equal my loss and that I am genuinely and sincerely happy for you. And to all my ladies who have experienced or are currently experiencing the loss of a pregnancy—please do not feel like you have to bear this burden on your own. Let your family, friends, loved ones help you carry some of the weight. Lean on them, talk to them, confide in them. And if you feel like you can't, then please come lean on me. I will sit with you, cry with you, scream with you, or just quietly hold your hand. Your feelings—whatever they may be—are yours and yours alone, and you are justified in all of them...just don't feel like you have to feel them alone.

I've learned by now that you can't put a time limit, or any parameters, on grief—it ebbs and flows like the tide, with some days giving you space and the appearance of "normal" while others leave you feeling like a tsunami is crashing over you. I still have good days and bad days...moments of complete peace and moments of absolute meltdowns. But along with support, my friends' stories have also given me hope, as many of them now have beautiful, precious rainbow babies that I, too, have the privilege to love on. So it may not be today...tomorrow...or even months from now, but I am confident that I will get through this...that I will be okay...and that one day I will be granted the blessing of being a mother.

I know it...I just know it.