Clinging: A Miscarriage Story

May 20, 2013

On Saturday, my husband and I went to the discount theater to see “Warm Bodies,” a zombie love story. If that sounds like an usual choice for date night, I suppose it is. But right now my body is in limbo, and I feel half-human, half-zombie myself.

I am pregnant. The child I carry inside me, however, is likely dead.

The zombie movie was my idea. I wanted to hunker down and be anonymous. Let the darkness of the theater wash over me. Give my mind a rest for two hours. Then, just as the movie started, a family sat down in the row directly behind us. They brought bags of fast food into the theater. They texted and talked. When the woman’s cell phone rang, she answered the call. And when her baby cried out, she didn’t leave the theater to soothe the infant.

My sadness at my own situation turned to rage and judgment inside that theater. If I had a baby, I wouldn’t bring him or her to a zombie movie. Why is that woman a mother and not me? What makes her more worthy of having a child? Why am I the barren one? Why me? Why me? Why me?

It was only a month ago that I found out I was expecting. I took an at-home pregnancy test on a whim, and I was shocked to see it was positive. I immediately drove to the drugstore and bought another box. I lined up the tests on the bathroom counter and took them, one by one. In response, one by one, I received positive blue lines.

 

My husband and I have been hoping to conceive for a while, so this was huge news. When he came home from work that night, I greeted him at the door with a kiss. “I made something for you,” I said. He looked over my shoulder to the kitchen counter, expecting a casserole. I shoved the pregnancy tests at him instead. He cried. I cried.

We recently attended an orientation for foster-to-adopt through the county, and now we marveled at how the universe works in strange ways. We were happy. He patted my tummy and kissed it with joy.

Almost immediately I felt pregnant and ripe. My breasts swelled. My pulse felt quicker and almost heavier. I could feel tugging inside, where my uterus was stretching to make room for baby. Each night I looked at my profile in the mirror to see if I was showing yet.

At age 36, I am old enough to receive the official medical diagnosis of “advanced maternal age.” I knew there could be complications with the pregnancy, but I felt pretty confident in my health. I make responsible lifestyle choices, I am active and I eat a ton of kale. Plus, my older sister and I are so much alike. She never had any miscarriages or other issues — not even morning sickness — and she gave birth to two healthy boys.

Still, every week that ticked by felt like an accomplishment. My husband and I began taking photos each week of me posing with a piece of fruit that represented the baby’s size. This was blueberry week. We couldn’t wait for watermelon.

 

Last Thursday was my first ultrasound. My husband got off work early, and we walked to the obstetrician’s office together. I reclined on a table topped with crinkly paper, and the doctor positioned my husband on my left side, where he could hold my hand and have a perfect view of the screen.

“You’re going to want to see the heartbeat, dad,” the doctor smiled.

This tiny bean appeared on the screen. Black and white. As beautiful as any silent movie star.

 

After a few minutes of expanding the view of the bean, probing around, expanding the view again, the doctor said, “Oh. Okay.” She sighed.

One long minute later she said, “You know what? I’m not seeing a heartbeat here.”

Those words seem so abrupt when I type them here. But in actuality, this doctor was perfect. She was the precise mix of everything I needed at the very moment I needed it: Straightforward medical talk, sensitivity about the situation, hope for the future. She said she didn’t want to sugarcoat anything, and the outlook was grim. She said the baby should be farther along than it is, but we would do another ultrasound in a few days to be certain. She also ordered blood work, to be completed on two different days, to look for fluctuations in my pregnancy hormones.

I pulled my feet from the stirrups and drew my knees close to my chest. I tugged at my paper gown as far as it would go, even though it never really covers anything.

The thing is, I think I already knew. Even before the ultrasound. Even before the doctor said anything.

Because all those beautiful signals I had that my body was changing? They all stopped about seven weeks into my pregnancy. My breasts didn’t ache anymore. I no longer felt the tugging of my uterus. Even my skin changed. I just didn’t feel it anymore.

Before the ultrasound, I thought I was being paranoid. So I turned to Google, because that’s what I do. I’m good at searching for and finding the answers I want. I found page after page of pregnancy forums and websites, in which dozens of women wrote, “My symptoms went away at week 7, and everything was fine.” Or “I didn’t have any symptoms and everything was fine.” Or “Stop worrying. You’ll cause a miscarriage.”

I meditated, and I prayed. I held one hand over my heart and put the other hand to my stomach, and I whispered out loud, “Hey there, little tomato. Hang in there. Your mama loves you. Please stay with me. Please.”

And even as I pleaded with this embryo, I knew.

The baby stopped growing.

They can’t tell me why. It’s a frustrating truth that modern medicine knows so much about keeping penises erect but so little about what causes miscarriage.

“It is nothing you did,” the doctor stressed. “It is nothing you ate or drank. It is not because you exercised too much or didn’t exercise enough. It is not because of something you wore or a product you used or anything at all. You did not do this.”

But I have to wonder. It’s hard not to wonder. Was it the day I took a walk when it was hot outside? Did I ride my bike down a road that was too bumpy? Was it the wine I drank before I knew I was pregnant? Were my grocery bags too heavy? Was I too anxious? Did I get enough rest? Did I get too much rest?

Even the word “miscarriage” has an accusing tone, as though I was the guilty party here. I mishandled the baby. Oops. My bad.

*****

I have been crying a lot. Whole body ugly cries with extra salty tears, the kind that make your eyes raw and skin sting and chest weary.

I have also been sleeping. Not well. Not for long stretches. But fitfully, unusually. Normally, my husband says I sleep like a corpse. But now it’s like I have been trying to outrun my nightmares, tossing my body all over the bed. When I wake, my fingers are clenched on the fitted sheet, as if I might fall off if I don’t hang on.

But mostly I am so sad. So sad. I’m actually surprised by the ferocity of my grief. I didn’t think something so tiny would have such a debilitating effect.

Rationally, I know this is a little mass of tissue and cells. But in my heart? I grieve for the entire lifetime that has just been taken from me. I had names. I had so many plans. I imagined a future. Birthday parties. Soccer games. A bookshelf that overflows with “Where the Wild Things Are” and “Oh, the Places You’ll Go!” Family vacations to far-off locales. And just like that, all of it is gone.

Except it is not gone. Not yet. This baby still has a place carved out inside of me, even though he or she will never use it. I have three options now, and none of them sound appealing: Wait for my body to realize the pregnancy is no longer viable and let it purge itself naturally; force the embryo out with medicine; have the tissue scraped away.

It is strange that my body still clings to this child. This body wants to keep it. But this body also rejected it. I did everything I could to ensure my child would find a place of comfort and safety within me, and for whatever reason it wasn’t enough.

Now when I am hit with a wave of nausea, I know it is not caused by the life of a blooming baby. It is the tremendous fear that I no longer know my body, that I have become less than human, that as much as I want to create life, I inadvertently destroy it too.

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13 Comments

  • Reply Bonnie Ruttan May 20, 2013 at 11:11 PM

    That took my breath away. Your ability to express yourself is astounding

  • Reply Jennifer L May 20, 2013 at 11:23 PM

    Oh Maggie, I’m so, so sorry. Listen. I had a miscarriage at age 34. Please feel free to contact me if you have any questions or just want to vent, rage, moan, etc.

  • Reply Eileen Stern May 20, 2013 at 11:39 PM

    I am so sorry to read this and wish I could take away your sadness. I love you and Jason and you will make amazing parents one day (if that helps at all) because one day a child will come into your life – of that I am sure. Call if I can hold your hand or do anything.

  • Reply Judith Salkin May 21, 2013 at 12:03 AM

    Maggie — I am so sorry for you and Jason and your loss. You and Jason have so much love to give a child and one day it will happen. My love to both of you, and I will keep you both in my thoughts. Love, Judi

  • Reply Kathleen Russell-Rader May 21, 2013 at 12:34 AM

    Oh, my dearest Maggie, my eyes are filled with tears and my heart is broken. Simple phrases such as I am sorry do not suffice and certainly do not comfort at times like these. Unfortunately, they are all I can offer.

    You were ringing my books at the mall the last time we met. I had recently been diagnosed and struggled to sign my name to the check, tripling the double letters of my lengthy name. You waited patiently, despite the exasperated customers lining up behind me.

    The image of you sitting in my classroom (second row near the door, last seat) is remarkably vivid. You were amazingly astute and mature for a young teen and reminded me a little of myself at that age. We shared a voracious love of reading and writing. That reflection is embedded in my thoughts, as are the touching memories of my days with you. That special place close to my heart will always be yours. I wish you well. I wish you happiness, and I wish you peace, Mags, peace of mind.

  • Reply AJR May 21, 2013 at 12:59 AM

    Maggie, I am so deeply sorry for your loss. The pain is UNREAL, yet numbing at the same time. I went through a miscarriage in December. I was 13 weeks. Went in for the ultrasound, couldn’t find a heartbeat. We were devastated. I went online and searched blogs and other stories of loss and miscarriage and it seemed to help, knowing I wasn’t alone. So even though you don’t know me, I hope you can take heart knowing YOU are not alone. I truly believe there’s a reason for everything and in time, your plan will work itself out! Keep the faith and hang in there. The next couple weeks are tough. Hell, the next few months will be tough. But you’ll get through it. Promise!

  • Reply Debbie May 21, 2013 at 2:23 AM

    Oh, Maggie, I am so sorry for your loss. Your eloquence has me in tears as I write this. I wish I could say something to “make it better,” but I know I cannot. My heart breaks for you.

  • Reply Ben May 21, 2013 at 3:02 PM

    Love you.

  • Reply jules May 21, 2013 at 3:49 PM

    sweet maggie, my arms around you with hugs, my heart and soul are in prayer for you during this time of grief. your poignant ability to express yourself, your humanity, your female-ness, your love, comforts others in the sharing. much love dear, ever, julia

  • Reply Pat Erickson May 23, 2013 at 2:55 PM

    Here are my arms, Maggie. Feel my love.

  • Reply Brian May 24, 2013 at 6:07 AM

    Wow. Your story had me in tears. I am so sorry for your loss, Maggie. In early 2008, my wife and I conceived our first child together. We were so overjoyed. I was going to be a father for the first time. We immediately started making plans, just like you wrote in your post. I imagined a handsome little man, and me teaching him how to hit a baseball. Or maybe a little girl in a pretty dress, and me sitting down and playing with her tea set. About 4 days after we found out, my wife had very very bad cramps, so we went to the emergency room. They did a blood test and confirmed that the baby did not survive.

    Now, I am not trying to say that we had the same trauma you did. I know you went through something worse, because you had 7 weeks to be so happy, and we only had 4 or 5 days. That’s not the point of my post. The point of my post is that we discovered that I had a fertility issue, and we decided to try in-vitro fertilization. On the first try, in October 2008, we got pregnant, and this time everything worked out fine. In July 2009 we had a beautiful baby boy, and 25 months later, we welcomed a baby girl.

    Our family is so happy, and while we think of the possibilities of who that first baby could have grown up to be, we know that everything was meant to work out the way it did. I know in my heart that everything will work out great for you and your husband, and I hope that your family grows in the near future.

  • Reply Monica May 25, 2013 at 11:40 AM

    When you said you posted about this, I wasn’t sure you should have. But you did and did you ever. Your writing is amazing. You know how I feel about everything. No need for me to say more. Your friends wrote replies to help you but I’m certain you also helped others who can’t express themselves. Love you!

  • Reply Susan May 30, 2013 at 3:41 AM

    Be sad, be angry, be every emotion you want and don’t let anyone tell you how long or what you can feel. Then let yourself heal knowing eventually you will move on. Your gift of observation will help you find your way through this. My condolences and prayers for you and your husband.

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