You were the size of my favorite seashell.
Flashback to the day those two lines appeared, I started imagining this beautiful reality with my first born and watching my husband become a dad. It seemed so perfect; I felt invincible, having once again beat my Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis. It felt like an incredible blessing to have the chance to bring a child into the world with the man I love the most. I was uncertain about the kind of mother I would be, but I hoped to be as half the mother as my Mom and Grandmothers and was determined to ensure that my child felt loved and safe. There's no better feeling than seeing everything fall into place.
Until it didn’t. It started with a gut feeling, and I scheduled an early ultrasound. I told my husband that I did not know how I would survive if I lost this pregnancy. Less than a day later, a routine trip to the bathroom marked the beginning of my loss. Tears streamed down my face as reality set in. My heart sank as I immediately called my doctor. A stat ultrasound was ordered for the next day. The tech said nothing during the ultrasound except "Your provider will follow up with you later today." I was left with no answers – about my body, if I was holding a viable child, or if I should be worried about the bleeding. Nothing. 4:50pm came around, my phone rang, and I knew I would be their last call of the day, but not a happy one. “I am so sorry, but this does look like a miscarriage. You did nothing wrong, but you should follow up with hCG tests every 48 hours until they go back to 0. If bleeding gets to be painful or fills 3 pads within the hour, I want you to go to the ER.”
Bleeding progressed. Despite numerous ER visits throughout my childhood, nothing could have prepared me for what I would endure in the next 8 hours. Sitting for hours, countless blood work, brought in and out of the waiting room like I was the next pawn on a chess board… until that final ultrasound that confirmed the worst. The silence filled the room once again, but part of me still decided to carry one ounce of hope that maybe I got my dating wrong (supposed to be 9 weeks), or that the first ultrasound was wrong. Two hours later, The ER OB and another doctor reiterated the sad news: both ultrasounds indicated a miscarriage. I was to continue monitoring my hCG levels until they returned to zero.
In that moment, I felt like I just had endured two miscarriages in a span of a couple hours. Thoughts of failing to protect my baby overwhelmed me.
The only part of me that felt alive that day was my heart beating, wishing I could’ve stopped mine to hear my child’s.
I walked out of that ER with my husband, with a dead baby inside me that I would decide to pass naturally in the next coming weeks. Despite living in a place where women’s health should be safeguarded, the care I received only added to the trauma, and this has forever changed my fertility journey.
This day was meant to be a joyful announcement of my firstborn, filled with the sounds of a heartbeat and celebratory calls to family and friends. Instead, it turned into telling those loved ones I had a miscarriage when they never knew I was even pregnant. That hurt me to my bone.
I share this because what I went through was real – I will forever grieve my baby that I never knew, only the symptoms that they had given me. I have days where I cannot get out of bed, but I also have great days knowing I carried such a precious gift, which is why I choose to not be silent about this experience.
This journey has fueled my desire to advocate for women's health and support those who have suffered losses. The path of someone going through a loss does not diminish our identity as mothers. Although we do not have the opportunity to hold our children in our arms, our role as mothers remains intact and genuine. From the moment of conception, our hearts expand with love and anticipation for our child. When we face loss, the bond doesn't dissolve; it transforms, shaping a unique form of motherhood defined by love, remembrance, and resilience.
This Mother’s Day, and every day, let us acknowledge and celebrate that even without a child by our side, we are still mothers, with hearts full of love and memories that last a lifetime. I will be the first one to say I am not perfect – I probably do not have the right words, and I am not going tell you it doesn’t suck, because I know it does. But I do want to a hold a space for you if you need it because we all deserve to be heard.
While I may not have made it this time, I will make it one day, and so will you.
From a mother of an angel baby to another
XO
My Miscarriage Story written by: KAC
header.all-comments