Ouch. We’ve had a miscarriage. Our baby died. And even though I know that one in four pregnancies end in miscarriage, that doesn’t make this any easier. If you’re squeamish or don’t want to read the details of my experience, read no further. I’m about to share exactly what happened from my perspective.
I thought I was at the end of the first trimester, so when the nausea went away at 13 weeks, I just thought it was because I was transitioning into the second trimester. But then I had a tiny bit of spotting. At that point, I got worried.
That night I had one of the most vivid dreams of my life. In my dream, I went to the bathroom and a tiny dead baby came out. I held it in my left hand. It was in the fetal position, about two inches long and I stood, staring at it and thinking, “Oh my God, my baby is dead.” When I woke up, I was SO RELIEVED. “It was only a dream! Oh my goodness, everything’s OK, it was just a dream.”
Unfortunately for us, it wasn’t just a dream.
But we didn’t know that yet.
We decided that with so little bleeding we’d wait to get an ultrasound and just check for a heartbeat. But there wasn’t a heartbeat. Then again, it’s the first trimester and lots of people can’t hear a heartbeat with the doppler but still have a healthy baby. So we decided to try to hear the heartbeat again in a couple of days. But there was no heartbeat again.
At this point I was a bit more worried, but I knew that it didn’t make sense to freak out yet, since we didn’t have all the information. My midwife mentioned something about making sure the dates were right and in retrospect I think I was probably measuring small. I should have been 13 weeks pregnant. But last week I said to my mom, “I don’t think I’m growing.” As it turns out, I was right.
On a Friday morning my husband and I went in for the ultrasound. We were hopeful and in good spirits. He was joking around as usual and helping me release my tension through laughter. We saw the baby on the screen. But it wasn’t moving. Kevin said, “That looks like a baby!” And I said, “And it’s not moving. I wish it would move.”
The technician did a close up of the baby and I knew there should be a heartbeat visible, but I just kept hoping that I had missed something. And then the technician had to break the news to us. I felt so bad for her. She pointed to the baby’s heart and said, “See right here? This is where we should see a heart beating. But there’s no heartbeat.”
I immediately started crying.
I’m crying again writing this. It was a devastating moment. Our baby had died. The technician was clearly unsure how to help. She ran out of the room and called my midwife.
It turns out, they think our baby died at 10 weeks 3 days gestation. That’s just three days after we heard a healthy heartbeat and announced our pregnancy to the whole wide world. I purposely waited to tell everyone until I thought we were safe from miscarriage, but I guess we were the unlucky 2% of people who hear a healthy heartbeat and still lose the pregnancy.
My heart goes out to anyone who has lost a second or third trimester baby or a child. I cannot even imagine the pain of that. It’s really so much easier that we lost our baby so early. But it still totally and completely sucks.
When we got home from the ultrasound we had to tell my mother in law, who was shocked and our 2 ½ year old daughter who seemed bewildered by all of our tears.
Since I should have been at 13 weeks 3 days, my body was clearly not getting the message that the pregnancy was no longer viable. I called my OB to find out what to do next. She prescribed some medication and we sent Julia to her grandparent’s house for the day.
After about 6 hours the medication took effect. The first thing that came out was the entire amniotic sac, completely intact. It was the size of a small grapefruit. I put it into a bowl because I was horrified by the thought of flushing it down the toilet.
I had been warned not to look at my baby. You can never erase the images you’ve seen. But I felt I needed to see it. I wanted to know for sure that it was dead. I wanted to see how far it had developed. And besides, I had already had that incredibly vivid dream. I was pretty sure nothing would be more disturbing that what I had seen in my dream.
I cut open the amniotic sac and looked at the tiny baby inside. It was so small, just about an inch and a half long. It wasn’t moving. Its eyes weren’t completely developed. It’s little arms and legs were so tiny and it just had buds where the fingers and toes were starting to grow. It was less developed than the baby in my dream. It all became so very real in that moment.
I wrapped our baby in some cheesecloth, went outside and buried it in the back yard.
I’m sure it must be illegal, but my OB didn’t give me any instructions about how to dispose of the tissue. So I did what my heart told me to do. And I wondered what other women do and whether they were curious if they’d broken some law about proper disposal of human tissue. But the truth is, even if I’d known the proper legal procedure, I still would have done the same thing.
And then I sat on my daughter’s potty in the middle of the living room floor and watched movies with my husband until the worst of the bleeding was over.
Kevin told Julia that the baby had died and later when I asked her if she knew why we were feeling sad she replied, “The baby died. Now it can’t nurse.” She has mentioned the baby several times since and is asking questions about death and dying.
A couple of nights ago, just before she drifted off to sleep she whispered, “Mama, how did the baby die?” I was surprised by her question since lately she’s been asking, “why” a lot. I took a deep breath and answered her as honestly as I possibly could, “The baby’s heart stopped beating. When people die, their heart stops beating.”
She does seem a little bit concerned that she could die too, and the hard truth is, she could. We all could. Life is fragile. But I remind her that her heart is beating strong and she’s a healthy kid. Death is a difficult concept to understand at her age. And I’m sorry that it has hit so close to home already.
Even in the midst of my sorrow it’s difficult to stay sad for very long. Julia is such a vibrant and energetic little being. She is such an incredible gift and a blessing. I know how lucky I am to have her.
And the outpouring of love and support I’m experiencing is incredibly heart warming. I keep getting messages from dear friends who I haven’t talked to lately. And Facebook messages and little notes, cards, and emails. I was gifted with three bouquets of flowers. And yesterday a friend stopped by my office on her birthday just to give me a hug. I don’t mean to brag, I’m just saying that even as this difficult event is occurring in my life, I’m pretty sure that
I’m still the luckiest person I know.
In a way, I feel like I’ve been admitted entry into some sort of club, the “childbearing women who’ve experienced a loss” club. And there are lots of us. I definitely know that I’m not alone. And I know that I can handle this and I do feel connected to all the women who’ve gone through this before. And again, I know I’m one of the lucky ones.
I’m young enough and healthy enough to try to get pregnant again. I have a wonderful, loving, supportive husband who adores me and is the best dad ever. My daughter completely blows my mind on a daily basis. I have an incredible family and extended family support system and a freaking amazing group of friends.
So the only real bummer is that I’m not pregnant anymore and that I have to tell everyone. People don’t know what to do or say, and that’s OK. There’s really nothing anyone can do except offer love and support. I’m a little worried about going through the first trimester all over again (morning sickness was brutal this time), but who knows, maybe it’ll be easier next time. Our plans for a winter baby are dashed, at least for this winter.
Maybe I’ll go get that tattoo I’ve been thinking about. And I’ll stain my front porch. And hooray! Now I change the cat litter again 😉 We can turn the hot tub back up to 102. I can drink a beer. But somehow none of that is much consolation. I think I’ll just keep enjoying my husband, my daughter, and connecting with friends and family. For me, it’s the connections that make life wonderful.
Thanks for being here and listening to my story. Warm hugs, Shelly
