Miscarriage: Our story of perinatal loss
Unfortunately 20% of people on reproductive journeys will experience pregnancy loss (miscarriage, still birth, infant death and abortion).
After experiencing loss myself, I learned that the percentage is probably higher than 20%. Some pregnancies are lost even before people know they’re pregnant.
I’m sharing my story as a way to process my grief. But I also hope it will help others who are navigating their own loss.
Grief and loss are complicated. It’s personal. It’s tough, relentless and unpredictable.
There is no timeline, and unfortunately the loss will always be with you.
We learn how to live with the loss and hopefully find a healthy outlet to process the grief.
Loss doesn’t define us, but it does become part of us. Here is our story.
Deciding to have another child.
We had our first child at the start of the 2020 pandemic. We didn’t know any better since it was our first child, but looking back, it was a struggle.
The parental transition is tough on it’s own. But throw in isolation and fear about an unknown virus, I considered not having any more children. I didn’t know how I could feasibly do it both mentally and physically.
But as restrictions loosened and vaccines became available, my outlook on the future began to turn around.
My partner and I value family so much. So stopping at one child never felt right for us. I felt by not trying for another child we were going against our values…
We decided to try for another baby just after our first child turned one. Subconsciously, I think we thought we would let ‘fate’ decide how many children we would have. We wouldn’t try to prevent pregnancy, but I wouldn’t be obsessing about ovulation. We had no troubles conceiving our first child, so naively we believed we would have no difficulties when trying for our second.
I was right. Until I miscarried.
Getting pregnant for the second time.
When we decided we were ready to start family planning, I still had lactation amenorrhea (the loss of your period due to lactation). So I knew I needed to start weaning until my cycle came back. I wasn’t ready to wean completely, only one feed at a time until my cycle returned.
My period came back when I went down to nursing once a day, but it wasn’t regular. It was all over the place.
I know from my certification training that hormones GREATLY affect the menstrual cycle, so I was giving my body some grace as it was trying to regulate itself. There is a huge shift in hormones while weaning. So I weaned at a pace that suited both my son and my body, at a pace that was manageable and sustainable.
When I felt I had some sense of ovulation and predictability to my cycle, we started trying. Not to my surprise, we were pregnant within a month.
The test was positive, but I didn’t ‘feel’ pregnant.
I peed on the stick about a week after I thought I ovulated. And sure enough, two faint lines.
As excited as I was, I was also terrified.
I had no idea how to manage raising two kids. Respectful parenting was proving to be so rewarding, but so intense at times. I didn’t know how I would be able to continue being present while dealing with morning sickness and fatigue. Manage nursing on demand with a VERY demanding toddler seemed unfathomable.
But I did know we had 9 months to figure it out.
Our toddler would be older, able to communicate more freely, and assert more autonomy.
Hopefully a sense of normalcy pre-2020 would also return by then.
So in a sense I was cautiously optimistic. And the next week I called my doctor.
My first round of pregnancy bloodwork and tests came back normal. My thyroid levels were low (normal, considering I have hypothyroidism, and was treated during my first pregnancy with medication), and I had UTI, treated with antibiotics.
This pregnancy was starting to feel different though.
I didn’t have any inclinations to worry, as I know from my certification training all pregnancies can be different.
The food aversions I had with my first pregnancy were non existent, my raging pregnancy acne was nowhere to be found, and my second round of thyroid level tests came back….normal. I thought this was odd, as I needed thyroid medication with my first pregnancy, but again, I kept reminding my self not to worry.
Cautious optimism.
As a new fiancé actively planning a wedding, chasing after a 15 month old, working part-time, and planning a baby shower for a close family member, to say my plate was full would be an understatement.
I didn’t notice much of the pregnancy other than the increase in my water retention, appetite, and the inability to lift my son into his crib anymore. To say I hadn’t fully connected with this pregnancy would be an accurate statement.
But on the eve of my cousin’s baby shower, I suddenly realized, I would never get that connection.
The bleeding started at 10:00pm on Friday, August 13th (yes, you read that right, Friday the 13th). I was standing at the counter in the kitchen making pasta salad for my cousin’s baby shower the next day.
It was like I had started my period. Bright red blood, nothing heavy, but noticeable.
The bleeding would last for 10 days. Through the baby shower, into the next week while I researched everything I could about early trimester bleeding. Even my midwife assured me that it may not be a miscarriage. Bleeding in early pregnancy can be caused by many things. I would have to wait to see if it stopped.
It didn’t stop.
A visit to the Early Pregnancy Assessment Clinic, three days into my bleeding, would give me hope, finding a sac with no embryo, but not being able to confirm a miscarriage – they gave our baby a 5% chance.
I held onto that 5% until 4:30pm on August 23rd, when I went into labour.
When what I knew in my gut became reality.
I knew it was labour because the cramping was so intense, and my back was on fire.
Standing in the kitchen (again) I couldn’t continue cooking dinner.
I took Tylenol to ease the discomfort but by 5:00pm I knew something was wrong.
Every 20 minutes I was soaking through a heavy pad.
I called out to my fiancé telling him he’d need to take over dinner and look after our son. There were phone calls I had to make.
I called my midwife who confirmed I needed to head to the emergency room.
My mom was next, and I told her to pack an overnight bag and head to our house immediately.
By the time she got to our house, my shoes were on, my health card and facemask in hand, and told her she was taking me to the ER.
I kissed my son goodbye and told him mommy loved him, hoping this wasn’t the last time I would see him.
There were no tears of sadness yet.
I somehow knew this was coming.
And I was scared.
I knew about the complications of pregnancy and birth, so I knew what could go wrong. Trying not to think about the possibility of not coming home was hard. Some complication with my bleeding could leave my son motherless, and my partner without a fiancé.
At this point I think I went numb to what was happening. It was my body’s way of helping me survive. Turn off my emotions and endure what was coming.
When we got to the ER there were still no tears.
As I was triaged in soaked underwear and shorts, unable to sit down, the nurse asked me ‘Miss, what brings you into the ER today?’. To which I responded, ‘I’m having a miscarriage.’
I wasn’t prepared to have a miscarriage.
I was admitted immediately to the hospital and seen by nurses and doctors within the next 10 minutes. Within the hour I was having a pelvic exam to see where the uncontrolled bleeding was coming from.
This kind of exam is uncomfortable on the best of days, and one was now being done to me by a first year ER resident (aka a doctor in training).
To say it was traumatic would be also an understatement.
I endured it alone (thanks to the pandemic).
It was painful and somehow humiliating.
I opted for no pain medication because I knew I wanted to remember everything. I also had to be an advocate for myself since I wasn’t able to have anyone with me in the procedure room. So I felt every poke and prod in one of the most intimate places of your body.
Ya. It sucked.
My miscarriage was confirmed by an ER Doctor, around 8:30pm on Monday, August 23rd.
For 10 days I hoped my pregnancy was viable, but somewhere in my heart and in my body, I knew that it wasn’t.
In the absence of being able to have visitors, I sent my mom home to get me clean clothes and some comfort items. She came back just as the pelvic exam was over. I heard her voice outside my room and cried out to her immediately – the tears were overwhelming.
Then came the emotional release. I sobbed, for what had just happened to me, and for what I would still have to endure.
I was still bleeding.
And I had no idea what was going to happen next.
Miscarriage is, technically, birth.
The ER doctors finally called for a consult from a gynecologist. My mom also left so my fiancé could join me as soon as he could.
It wasn’t lost on me that I lay in soaked dirty clothes, on a hospital bed with wet soaked sheets and blankets as I waited for the consult.
When the medical student and resident obstetrician arrived, it was time for another pelvic exam. Again I was alone, and it was uncomfortable, but it was like they were meant to be working that night so that they could be my saving grace.
The gynecologist had a surgical-like approach to the procedure, and spoke with confidence. She put me at ease with her calming bedside manner, talking about my son, my journey to be a Doula, and my refusal of any pain medication.
After what seemed like an hour (though time seemed to stand still), she had successfully stopped the bleeding.
A trained ER doctor couldn’t stop my bleeding, but an obstetrician, someone educated in reproductive organs and birth could.
This was telling. I should have been seen by an obstetrician from the moment I was admitted. I wasn’t just bleeding, I was also losing a baby.
Bloodwork and an ultrasound confirmed my bleeding had stopped, but some tissue from the pregnancy remained.
My fiancé finally joined me in time to hear the recommendations from the obstetrician.
She said our options were to let my body pass the remaining tissue on its own, take medication to induce cramping (no thanks), or a Dilation & Curettage (known as a D&C) performed under anesthesia (again, alone, again, no thanks), to remove the last of the tissue. She said it was a personal choice, any option was a good option.
We chose to let my body do its thing.
The aftermath of a miscarriage.
I was discharged shortly after midnight on August 24th with a set of instructions and a phone number to call if I had any questions or concerns.
Walking (hobbling…) to the car, I felt different. My abdomen felt different. I felt nothing of the pelvic exams, nothing really of the pregnancy (like after you give birth), or anything of the last 8 hours.
When we got home, I didn’t even shower, I just crashed into bed. What just happened?
Turns out my body was just numb. I had lost almost one third of my blood volume.
The next morning I woke with a headache so bad I couldn’t see. I couldn’t eat. Getting through the day was my only motivation. I could feel my pulse in my ears, and could barely take my son on a walk to the park.
Although my brain hadn’t registered the loss yet, my body sure did.
The headache lasted a long three days.
My mom never left our house, and she helped with our son every day that week. Close family brought nourishing food.
But what had once been a path to the future, all of a sudden became a dead end – or what felt like one. We stopped wedding planning, we stopped planning bedroom shuffles for a new baby.
I just stopped.
Seeking out help.
When my crying became a spontaneous any time of day type of occurrence, I knew it was time to call my therapist. She explained the feeling of not knowing what we have lost, and not knowing what we have gained, is called grief.
I was experiencing grief – both physically and mentally.
As I write this, I’m still not sure where I am on my journey of loss. I’ve become a statistic, but one that is unfortunately too common.
I’m grieving the loss of a child, the loss of a certain future, the loss of what could have been.
Becoming the 20% feels like I failed. And I’m processing how I want to take forward this experience in my personal and professional life.
I’m also figuring out how I’ll discuss this experience with my fiancé, our son, our family, and our friends.
I’m still grieving and processing, and I’m not sure when I’ll be done.
What’s important is that I don’t grieve alone. And that I surround myself with support for both myself, my partner and our son.
Loss is complicated.
I’m sharing my story to help others understand that loss is complicated.
Loss can be messy. It can be traumatic. And it can be silent.
Grief is complex. But it’s a necessary part of life. It can also be extremely lonely.
Loss and grief know no timeline.
It’s important to seek loving support from people you trust. Focusing on your health and wellbeing should be your top priority.
Loss changes you, but it doesn’t define you. You are not alone.
If you need someone to talk to I can be reached via direct email here. I commit to a 24 hour response time to any loss support inquiry.
I’d like to thank Danielle M., my ER nurse, who had my back and kept me smiling. Turns out we go way back, so somehow the Universe was looking out for me. I may have lost a baby that night, but I somehow gained some much needed hope.
I’d also like to thank my mom for always being there no matter what, my fiancé for navigating life with me through both the good and the bad, and my son, who’s innocence & gusto for life bring me such joy and hope for our future.
