What It's Like to Have a Miscarriage at 7 Weeks
I Had a Miscarriage at 7 Weeks, and It Was Devastating
I'd been warned about how common miscarriage is, but no one told me how to deal with the mental, emotional, and physical pain of that loss.
I always thought that once you're pregnant, you only need to get past 8 or 12 weeks, then you're in the safe zone. Being pregnant for the first time, I had a million thoughts and fears in my mind. "Am I ready to be a mother?" "Can I eat this?" "If I do this, will it affect the baby and its development?" My mind started forming into a mommy brain fast. I was mindful that I had a baby growing inside of me, and I was cautious of everything I did.
I'd been warned about how common miscarriage is, but no one told me how to deal with the mental, emotional, and physical pain of that loss.
But all that changed so quickly. They leave out the part of how to deal with the bleeding, the smell, the pads, cramps, lower back pain, the emotions, the sadness. No one warned me about how you can be carrying out your day, not thinking about miscarriage, and all of a sudden, you feel the blood leaving your body at work. How you stay frozen until it's finished coming out while maintaining a normal conversation with coworkers. Because not only was your pregnancy a secret, but now your miscarriage is a secret, too. So you suffer in silence. You try to get out of bed, put on your makeup to cover up the dark circles and puffiness from lack of sleep and crying. You hide in the bathroom stall to cry because you can't stop bleeding. You try to convince yourself you're on your period. You cry in your cubical in silence because you get triggered by a baby in a stroller, your prenatal vitamins, your Pinterest board of baby things, or the baby apps you haven't deleted that remind you how far along you would be. I wasn't warned about how you deal with the abrupt halt of planning your future with your partner. I imagined having a huge belly, feeling the kicking, looking at my partner with his hands feeling the kicks, holding my baby in my arms. I imagined sleepless nights and Sunday morning cuddles with my partner and baby in bed. It isn't happening now. I lost a life. I lost hope.
As I was struggling through this life-altering experience, I was shocked by how people reacted. I had some nurses act as though I had failed a driving exam. "Don't worry, you can try again in two months!" Meanwhile, some doctors sat me down and tried to comfort me by saying, "You know, miscarriage is very common. Don't worry!" It felt like no one saw it as devastating as I did. I was genuinely waiting for a few stereotypical brochures about miscarriages and conceiving again, but I didn't get anything. I managed to shake my head in agreement to these responses, but I was puzzled by how uncomfortable, insensitive, and robotic people could be. I was emotionally and physically destroyed, and some people treated it like no big deal. But my favourite comment came from the ER nurse. As she walked me out of the exam room, she said, "Don't worry, you are young and pretty. You'll try again and get pregnant soon!" What does me being pretty have anything to do with getting pregnant? What if we try again and I miscarry again?! I think I was more traumatized from these types of comments than from the actual miscarriage.
I tried hard not to blame myself, but I couldn't help but wonder if it was my fault.
In fact, my thoughts spiraled into a dark place during and after the miscarriage. There was a part of me that thought this pregnancy was way too good to be true. I conceived on my birthday and was due on Mother's Day. How many people can say that? It felt too perfect — and like I didn't deserve that kind of coincidence. I even questioned if I deserved a child; if I would make a great mother. Then, I questioned the ability of my body. I wanted to know what went wrong this time so I could prevent it from happening again. I didn't want to talk to the doctors or nurses because I didn't want to hear the same textbook answer. I tried hard not to blame myself, but I couldn't help but wonder if it was my fault.
I thought because this was an "unplanned" pregnancy that I wasn't allowed to be sad. I thought I needed to get over this and not be so upset because my partner and I weren't "trying" like other couples. I felt like an a*shole for being upset because there are other couples that have gone through multiple miscarriages, IVF cycles, and more, just trying to get pregnant, while I'm crying over my one miscarriage for a baby I wasn't trying for.
In that grief and confusion, I started questioning my faith in God and my spiritual beliefs. I thought that this was God or the universe punishing me for all the times during my teenage years and early 20s I asked not to get pregnant. It felt like karma, since now, I was dating someone I saw a future with marriage and children, and I wasn't afraid to get pregnant.
And while I tried hard not to think I was broken or damaged, sometimes the fears overpowered the love.
I also began to question my boyfriend and the possibility of him ending our relationship; thoughts that I'd never had before. I felt insecure and unsure about where we stood and worried that he would see me differently. Maybe he wouldn't want me now that I've miscarried his child. Maybe that meant I wasn't womanly or maternal enough. Maybe he was relieved that he wouldn't have to have a child with me. I started letting my mind wander to places of doubt, fear, and unworthiness. And while I tried hard not to think I was broken or damaged, sometimes the fears overpowered the love.
I'm still trying to make sense of it all. Even though I feel at fault and have tried to understand the reason why I had a miscarriage, I'm learning that sometimes it's out of my hands. I don't know if I'll ever stop grieving, but I do know that I'll eventually be able to heal myself. And I hope that talking about my pain helps me work through it — and helps any others who need it, too.
