We miscarried, and I want to talk about it. Well, no – I do NOT want to talk about it, at all. It’s so painful, unnerving, and complex that I understand why so few openly share this experience until you open up and show yours.  I don’t want to open myself up to opinions, assumptions, or ideas. I am not over it – it’s been near 2 weeks and while emotionally we are mending and we have a plan to move forward, whenever I think back to the physical trauma of what my body endured, I am not over it.

But I want to share with you because it is also my own experience that the more I share my pain, the faster it is lessened, the more I am supported, the faster I can heal, and the wider the door remains open for others to benefit from my share. I think this needs to be aired, and the reason I published my story years ago is for the same reason: dispel a myth. Dispel a narrative that seems too big to open up about. Dispel the isolation too many of us carry. Because if I carry it, somebody else does too. At least that’s what my experience has shown me.

I was a mother. For 9 weeks. I was a mother. And I lost our baby. They came right out of me and are gone forever. I won’t ever know them, but I felt them. I did my best to take care of them. And it wasn’t enough. I don’t know why it wasn’t enough, but it wasn’t. Maybe one day I’ll get to know why, but not today.

I feel responsible. I feel defective. I feel broken. I feel ashamed. I feel embarrassed. I feel like I wrecked Jeremy and I’s hope, all on my own. I feel like I don’t deserve to be a mom, and my inability to have a healthy pregnancy proves that to be true. A lifelong dream I have buried because I didn’t think it would be true for me has to remain buried because see? I don’t get to.

This is the tape that plays in my head. This is the story my disease doesn’t want me to shake. I want to apologize every day to Jeremy. I want to apologize to my parents. I want to hide. I want to scream. I want to never try again because it hurts too much to recall the day after day acknowledgment that miscarriage is a situation you have absolutely no control over no matter how hard you pray, how much you want, or how well you take care of yourself.

Intellectually, I understand this narrative isn’t telling me the truth. Intellectually, I understand that my fitness and choice to move every day did not cause our baby to pass on. Intellectually, I understand I am a statistic and it is in place not because we are unworthy, but because God has other plans right now. The body does what the body does. The fetus wasn’t ready. Something was wrong. Something wasn’t working. And we are being protected.

But intellectually knowing doesn’t mean my heart isn’t broken. Intellectually knowing doesn’t mean the trauma of loss isn’t present. I cannot speak for my husband. His loss is his own. Together we lost and together we grieve. But as the woman who physically carries, creates, and nurtures, it is devastating. As the woman who goes to the bathroom every day and witnessed the blood, the cramps, the physical disconnect from being mom to not – it is overwhelming.

I knew I was pregnant before most, and I knew I wasn’t as soon as it started to go, too. It’s a blessing to be so close to my body, and a curse. For over 6 weeks we knew we had a baby, we saw their heartbeat, we got excited. For over 6 weeks I felt my body changing, honored my tiredness (in my own version that I can tell my disease to fuck itself telling me was not true), noticed the desire for fruit and salt and fresh, my boobs melting and swelling, my mood swings making fireworks on occasion, the sauna I felt I was in every morning. For over 6 weeks I trusted God, leaned into the fear of not knowing ANYTHING that was on its way but trusting so deeply that Matt would be so excited for us that it was worth the risk.

And then it was gone. The hope, the fear, the excitement. My body was back to normal immediately. The spiritual connection to feeling like mom was zapped. The trust – tarnished.

What hasn’t changed is my love for Jeremy, and my choosing our marriage over anything else no matter what. What hasn’t changed is my resolve to take care of myself. What hasn’t changed is my knowing that as awful as it is, I know better is coming. I know we are being protected. I know we are being guided. I know we don’t know because we’re not supposed to know. I know we are on the path and the path is just curving. We’ve been through fucking hell – together and apart – and I know this experience is only bringing us to where we are supposed to be: closer, stronger, tighter, and more radically compassionate and mature.

Never did I think we’d get pregnant (or want to), and never did I think I’d grieve again so fiercely after losing my little brother. I also never thought I’d meet Jeremy, absolutely commit without question my entire being to “we”, or be sober for 20.5 years at age 39. Never did I think I’d kick bulimia to the curb for near 7 years now, or move to New England and be HAPPIER. Never did I think I would get fired, to be found better. Freer. Clearer.

Because I don’t get to chart the course, I just get to ride along it, on it, and around it. And here we are: along for the ride.

Thank you in advance for your sensitivity, respect, and support. I have wanted to write about this but have also not at all for fear of opening myself and ourselves up to God knows what. I accept that risk to open the door and help repair my own loss, and maybe some of yours.

Talking about hard stuff shouldn’t be left for the dark. I want to shed light, because we all deserve the most grace, love, and sincerity there is. All of us.

Me, too.

2 thoughts on “Miscarriage”

  1. Alison,
    Grief is the price of love. Not my saying, but I don’t know a better, more concise description. Noting worthwhile comes without risk. If certain things weren’t so magnificent, it wouldn’t hurt so much when they are gone. There can be no gain without the risk of loss. Sadly, understanding the way of things only comes from being on both sides of the equation. But you always have our love. There’s no risk of losing that.

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