A Miscarriage, In Real Time.

My cousin Nikki said it so well: “The grieving part of your heart hurts more each time you must reopen it.”

I hadn’t expected to reopen it after my sister died. Maybe someday in the far, far future when my parents were 100. But certainly not during one of the happiest times of our lives. But here I was, reliving that awful feeling. This time, in a much different way.

The first pregnancy? That was easy. Pick a date and have a baby! And she’ll be healthy and happy and perfect. That’s pretty much how it went. 

But this second one was harder to come by. My husband travels a lot, so the timing didn’t always work. Six months after starting to try, I got a positive test. The digital kind, so it said “Yes” very clearly. I saved it — it’s still sitting on my dresser. I’m not sure at what point you throw it out when this happens.

Anyway. I had cried earlier that day because I was so sure I was NOT pregnant. Again. So sure I’d get my period for the 6th time since trying, when it was the last thing I wanted to see. No sore boobs, no fatigue, it wasn’t like last time. But there it was. “Yes.” I was pregnant. 

I took the test and then left it in the bathroom before the result was ready. My husband and I watched TV on the couch. I was too nervous to look. I was fully prepared for it to say “no”, but I wanted to live in a world where it might still say “yes”. So finally about 30 minutes later, I went back in. And I saw it. 

I showed my husband the test, and we both looked at each other in shock. We were thrilled. I pulled out all of my apps and plugged in all of the dates. August 7th. Perfect due date for a school counselor! I could enjoy the last days of my pregnancy in peace, not schlepping to and from work at 40 weeks like I did with my first. I could take the first half of the year off and just enjoy our life together as a family of four. Of course I stressed about missing the fall with my students, but everyone would survive. And I would be with my baby. Things were looking wonderful. 

We told our families two days later. It was Thanksgiving week. I know, you’re supposed to wait. But we are both so, so close with our families, there is no way we could have hidden it. Nor did we want to. Anyway, if I wasn’t having a beer and drinking Champagne while doing karaoke with my sister in laws on Thanksgiving Eve, then I was definitely pregnant and everyone would know it. 

I always said that if something bad happened and we lost the baby, I would tell them that anyway — so what’s the harm in telling them now? Of course, now I feel differently that I’ve dragged my entire family into this sadness with me. I see now why people wait. 

…

December was wonderful. I was coming home from work absolutely exhausted and passing out on the couch for an hour. That was a relief — my hormones were working. But six weeks came and went, seven weeks came and went. No nausea, no sore boobs, I was less fatigued. Also, maternal instinct. I had this nagging feeling that something was wrong. I started to worry. I searched mom groups and texted my friends asking about their symptoms. With my first, I was SO sore and SO sick at this stage, why was this so different? But everyone reassured me that every pregnancy is different, and all was well. And they were right to say that at the time. There was nothing to suggest otherwise. Until there was. 

Christmas Eve came, and there was blood. The tiniest bit. I mean, tiny. Barely noticeable. I started crying and shaking immediately. No. No no no. I am not doing this. I’ve lost someone I love so much already, no. No. But the rest of the day went on, and no more blood. I chalked it up to implantation bleeding or hormones and went about the day. 

Christmas Day came and went, no bleeding. 

Thank God that passed without incident, I thought, but PHEW I don’t ever want to feel that way again. 

December 26th though. That’s the day it all came crashing down. More blood. Again, not a ton. But more. And it was red — the kind you don’t want to see during pregnancy. The kind that means something isn’t good. (What other kind of blood is there, you may be asking? More than you’d think, but I’ll let Google explain that to you.)

I called my midwife and she suggested I go to the ER, they can give me an ultrasound and just see what’s going on. Anyway, I was eight weeks and hadn’t had any bloodwork or ultrasounds yet, so it never hurts to check. 

So my dad came over to sit with my daughter and I drove to the ER. My husband was an hour away, so he met me there. We waited. And waited. And waited. It turns out the day after Christmas isn’t the most ideal time to go to the ER. But is there ever a good time? 

Four hours later we got called back. I was still bleeding, but very minimally and definitely not enough to warrant a miscarriage. So we waited some more. I got my ultrasound. Then we waited some more to hear the results. It was a back and forth of worrying, then convincing ourselves it was fine, then worrying some more. 

Close to 11:00, after over seven hours of being in the ER, the doctor came back in. Everything looks great! (That was the first false excitement we had.) I remember it so well. “You are definitely pregnant, measuring at five weeks and six days and — .” 

I didn’t hear the rest. Five weeks and six days? No. I’m eight weeks. I’m certain. 

“No, it looks here like the sac and embryo are both measuring right at six weeks almost. No heartbeat yet, but that’s normal for this age.” 

But again, I am eight weeks. And again, I am certain. No I didn’t ovulate late. I tracked my ovulation, and my husband was away after that. So trust me, I’m not six weeks. 

I pulled out my phone and looked at the dates. 

“So you’re telling me that I got pregnant on the 29th or so of November. But I got my positive test on the 26th,” I told him. This isn’t adding up. 

Oh! And one more thing. There’s two, he told us. There is another gestational sac inside, but with no obvious embryo because it’s still too small. At only six weeks, this could still develop into another baby. So two eggs were fertilized, both could potentially survive. Or, I told myself, both could not. So we packed up and drove home. Confused and worried and scared. 

The irony struck me right away. I have wanted twins my entire life. I joke about it with my husband and his sisters all the time. And here they were. My twins. And I knew at that moment, I was going to lose them. 

See the problem is, in the ER, you don’t get a baby doctor. You get an ER doctor. I’m sure he meant well, but the information he got from the radiologist was that I had a baby inside, measuring at five weeks and six days. No one indicated to him that something might be wrong. But I knew. This was the beginning of the end. 

…

Everyone had advice. It was exhausting. 

Oh because it’s twins they might be smaller! Maybe they implanted late! Maybe the ultrasound was wrong! 

But no one could account for the fact that I didn’t get pregnant anywhere near the 29th, and I knew that for a fact. And if I was eight weeks and the babies were just small, why was there no heartbeat? A trans-vaginal ultrasound can pick up a heartbeat around 5.5 weeks. And there wasn’t even one, let alone two. And where were my pregnancy symptoms? And why the blood? 

I had texted my midwife when I got in the car from the ER, and she was the only person who I felt was really honest with me. 

Either your dates are off, or the baby stopped growing, she told me (I’m paraphrasing). And if you are certain of your dates, it is reasonable to assume the baby stopped growing. The only way to know is to wait and get a follow up ultrasound to check for growth. 

Thank you. Thank you for believing my dates, I thought. Thank you for validating what my instincts were already telling me. So I said I would schedule my ultrasound for 11 days out, as suggested. The waiting sucks, she said, but that’s all we can do right now. 

…

It was a lonely 11 days. Very lonely. Everyone wants to stay positive. I am a positive person. It was against my instincts to be so negative. And this was the hardest part for me — I believe in energy (insert eye-roll). I do though. Really. I believe if the mother is sitting there thinking that something is wrong with her baby, it can affect the baby. And it can be damaging.

But my instinct, something deep inside  — that was telling me that something was wrong. Very wrong. And this wasn’t going to end well. I couldn’t resonate the two. 

Now, I also believe in science. I read scientific studies like it’s a second job. I LIVE on PubMed. I knew the science here as much as any layperson could. Babies stop growing. A baby growing two weeks behind with no discernible heartbeat is unlikely to survive. It didn’t take two weeks to implant because that’s not possible. I didn’t get pregnant the day after I got my positive test, because that’s also not possible. 

I knew all of this. So while part of me knew the science and the logic, and part of me knew my maternal instinct was saying one thing, I felt SO guilty for believing it. 

Because I felt like if there was any hope of the babies being okay, that I was crushing it by thinking they weren’t. That I was the one person who could still maybe save them and here I was, telling myself it was all over. 

Did I do this to them? Did I do this to us? I didn’t know. I still don’t. I don’t think so, but I’m not certain. 

I spent those next 11 days in a daze. A bad one. I slept in too long — my husband got up with the baby every day. I didn’t change out of my pajamas for days. I didn’t respond to texts, and I didn’t go places. 

Some days I tried to be more positive, but most days I didn’t. I felt like a bad mom to my one year old; and definitely a bad wife to my husband. Luckily it was winter break or I also would have been a bad school counselor. 

Although, all of this free time backfired. It was a LOT of time to sit and think. Even with a 1 year old running around and being wonderful. When she was in bed and my husband was at a show, I cried and talked aloud to whoever was listening. 

I begged God and my sister to let the babies stay. Even just one of them. I asked the babies to stay. I told them I loved them and I would protect them no matter what, and anything else that I thought would help. 

…

Eleven days came and we went back. This was the second false excitement we got. I was SO nervous going into this ultrasound, and so was Jason. Prepared for bad news, but still praying for good. 

The ultrasound woman was lovely. She started measuring and said, quickly, “Okay I’m getting nine weeks. Nine weeks and three days.” Oh my god! That’s EXACTLY where I should be! This is amazing. What’s the heartbeat?! What a wave of relief came over both of us. I smiled a genuine smile for the first time in 11 days. Whew. 

I didn’t get the heartbeat yet, she explained, because I’ll do that internally. Perfect. So we did the internal next. 

But then she got quiet. I knew that wasn’t good. 

Okay, she said, now I’m getting six weeks. 

My heart sank. Completely. I knew it. I KNEW it. The other sac wasn’t even visible. Is there a heartbeat? Yes, but it’s very faint. I didn’t know what “faint” meant. Like, faint as in too weak to hear it? Or faint as in too slow? We found out later that it was the second one. 

She finished up and just explained that she couldn’t make the call. “It’s not a call that I can make, so I have to run this over to my radiologist, and he’ll call your midwife and she’ll call you.” So we packed up and went home, confused and worried and scared. Again. 

What “call” was it that she couldn’t make? Because it sounded specific. The call that my babies were dying? That one? Because you could make the call that my gestational sac was measuring at nine weeks, so…why not this call? 

We paced around and around. Hours went by, it felt like days. I cried on and off. I snapped at my husband, I sat on the couch in sadness. So, similar to the 11 days prior to this. My midwife called that evening. She explained I was measuring at seven weeks, over two weeks behind, and the heartbeat was 55. My heart sank even further. I knew the science on this one, too. That in every study I’ve ever seen, babies with a gestational heartbeat below 80 never survive. Never. 

She said what I already knew: “I’m so sorry, but it is unlikely at this point that the pregnancy will be viable.” The second baby was already gone. The ultrasound tech couldn’t find it. I assume that one vanished. Literally, vanishing twin syndrome is a thing. 

But the first baby, the growing one, the one with a heartbeat — I thought he still had a chance. But now we knew he didn’t. 

I was so grateful for her honesty though. I was sick of the false hope, the optimism, the positivity that I knew was pointless. I cried. We talked about options. I already had a third ultrasound scheduled for the following week, so she suggested I keep it as a follow-up to see what the next step would be. And because, however faintly, the heart was still beating. 

This was the worst part. It was hanging on. It was in there, and it was trying. But it wasn’t going to work out, and I knew it. 

Walking around when you know your baby is still alive, but is dying, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. Yikes. That’s a feeling I don’t ever want to experience again. 

I went to work the next day, and the following. But I was in a fog. I was cranky, angry, forgetful. But also mindful that others around me were experiencing tough things too, and people were depending on me. I was biding my time until the following Tuesday. The day that would confirm what we all knew.

…

The waiting room at the antenatal testing unit is a pretty happy place. At least, it was last time I was there. All the women in there looked to be at least 20 weeks. Probably there for their anatomy scan, hopefully nothing bad. 

I felt like I was the only one in there who wouldn’t walk out with pictures of my new baby and an update on how amazingly he was growing. The ER matched how I felt — cold, lonely, quiet. But this was different. It didn’t match how we were feeling as we waited. We weren’t smiling and touching my baby belly like the other couples and women in there. I thought I was going to be strong because we already knew where it was going, but I was wrong. As soon as I sat down, I started to cry as innocuously as possible. 

Walking back into the room, you literally hear heartbeats in the background. I wanted to throw my phone at the damn speaker, or wherever it was coming from, just to shut it up. Why play a heartbeat for everyone to hear? Why do I have to listen to another baby’s heartbeat when I know mine is stopping? Damn you.

I told the tech what happened. Let her off the hook. “We aren’t expecting good news, so don’t worry when you have to tell us.” She looked. Baby was six weeks, still. But I was supposed to be 11. I cried. She apologized and said she would get the doctor to confirm, sending her condolences on the way out.

The doctor came in and did his ultrasound. “I’m sorry. There is no heartbeat.” At this place, unlike the others, they have the monitor facing you so you can watch. I loved this during my first pregnancy. Any peek at the little human in your belly is so exciting. But this hurt. I saw him, sitting in there. Of course he didn’t look like much, but I had enough apps showing me “your baby at 6 weeks” to know what to look for.

So there he was, and I saw him. Sitting in there waiting to grow , to become our baby— but he never did. “Are you sure?” Jason asked. “I am sure.” He showed us the two ways they check for the heartbeat, and showed us why both were showing negatively. That, plus the fact that the baby hadn’t grown in three weeks made this beyond conclusive. He covered up my stomach and said “I’m sorry,” before walking out and leaving us with our grief. That was it. After three long weeks of waiting and wondering. It was over, and the babies were in Heaven now.

We were devastated. I sobbed for several minutes, Jason tried his best not to. I heard laughter from the doctors and nurses on the other side of the door. I get it. I really do. I’ll have a parent on the phone telling them their kid is suicidal one minute, and then laughing with my coworkers the next. You have to. You can’t take it all to heart or you’ll never survive. But I hated their laughter while I sat behind the door, sobbing, grieving my babies.

…

I was a mess. 

My husband reminded me that I have handled my sister’s death with such grace and strength that I can certainly handle this. 

But the problem is, that grace I handle her death with — it’s exhausting. And it maxes me out, often. And I wasn’t planning on doing this again. So I didn’t feel that I could add this on and handle it as “gracefully” as I did before, because that just about drained me. And now grief wants me to give even more. 

Honestly, this might sound crazy, but it doesn’t feel that different. In fact, many of the feelings are exactly the same. Helplessly knowing something I love so much is slipping away and there’s nothing I can do. Wondering with anger and frustration — why did this happen? Why us and our babies? Not wanting to lose something, but also having no choice. Wondering what I didn’t do, could have done, should have done. It’s all there.

I started searching my Mom groups for the word “miscarriage” just to make sure that other people were as empty and depressed as I was. 

Good news — they were! I reached out to friends, including several very close friends, who went through the same thing. They helped a ton. But none of it makes it go away. 

None of it stops the babies from leaving. None of it prevents the due date, August 7th, from running through my brain. None of it returns the maternity clothes already hanging in the closet back to the store for later use. None of it makes the perfect age gap for my kids any closer. None of it makes me any less worried for future pregnancies. None of it makes you wonder any less what you could have done differently. And none of it makes the grief stop. 

…

I am NOT saying that experiencing a miscarriage with no previous grief is easier. I am just speaking from my personal perspective, as that’s all that I have. But it’s hard. And it hurts. And I am angry, and sad, and feel completely empty. Physically and emotionally. 

And I couldn’t even hold them and tell them it would be okay, and they would be safe in Heaven with Aunt Jaime, and that I loved them. I can only hope they felt it somehow. 

They were there, and now they’re not. They existed, and now they don’t. But the weirdest thing is, I almost feel like I’m making it up. 

Were they there? Do we know for sure? I have about 15 positive pregnancy tests, three ultrasounds, and some bloodwork saying they were. But I never met them, I never held them, I never knew them at all. 

So they were there. But some days it feels like this entire event is taking place in my head. Of course, the cramps and bleeding and hormones tell me otherwise.

I wonder if they were funny, or blonde, or outgoing. I feel certain that one, the bigger one, was a boy. I have no idea about the other. It’s the craziest feeling because with my daughter, who is almost two now, I didn’t have a strong feeling of what her sex would be. But with this one, I knew. 

I know they weren’t in there long. I know parents have faced FAR greater heartbreak than losing twins at 11 weeks, one of whom never really grew to begin with. I watched my best friend go through heartache and infertility and loss, and I know this situation could be so much worse. I know how amazingly blessed we are to even have one child who we love with every fiber in our bones, and in all likelihood we will have more soon. 

I know all of this, I *really* do. 

But they were my babies, too. And they lived inside me, however short that was. And I was supposed to protect them and meet them and name them and be their mom. And I am their mom. They were mine, and I loved them.