Yet Another Miscarriage Story

Two decades, and three incredibly wonderful, grown-up, children later; it now seems so clear that there is life after miscarriage - and lots of it. When miscarriage first happens, however, it can seem as if one's mind is on nothing but the loss of life of a little person we never got to know.

Looking back on the day, in the 20th week of my first pregnancy, when no heartbeat was detected; to this day I can re-experience that "gray, hollow, emptiness" that seemed to descend around me. I had had no reason to think I'd have trouble having babies, but, of course, that was because I hadn't yet tried to have one. It happens that I have an adopted son, who was three years old at the time, but his adoption had nothing to do with any fertility problems.

After the doctor (whose face showed clearly how disturbing he found the lack of heartbeat) confirmed what I could hear for myself, I went numb and had nothing to say. He kept saying to me, "You still have your little boy. You still have your little boy." I knew that and was, of course, extremely appreciative to have my first son; but he was not THIS baby. THIS baby was a different child, and THIS baby would not get to be a beautiful, golden-haired, three-year-old like its brother. THIS baby had gone - in one day - from being "my baby" to "the fetal remains".

I was told to stop at the nurses' desk and make arrangements for some testing, which would be done before I was admitted to the hospital. The nurse came out from behind the desk and was staring, with a "spooked" look, in her eyes. I know I, too, had my own blank stare, although I was going through the motions of talking and setting up appointments. She said, "You have a little boy, don't you? You have him."

After taking care of what I needed to there, I left the office, numb. I remained numb through the few days to follow, as I called family and work to let everyone know the development.

After the additional test results came back, I still needed more information; so I pushed to have a few more tests done. I was, I suppose, dragging my feet because I just didn't want to go and have the pregnancy "cleared out". For those few days, even though I was numb, I hung on just a little longer to the thought that some mistake had been made. If I cried, I don't recall it. The numbness and the emptiness are what I recall.

After the results of the final test came back the doctor began asking about setting up my admission to the hospital, and when I suggested a date that was apparently too far off he said, "You can't just keep going on like this. It's dangerous." I agreed on the date he suggested, which was the following day. That night, as I lay thinking about what would happen the following day, for the first time I actually thought about my own health. I was suddenly afraid that I would die in my sleep from "poison", so by the time I signed into the hospital I was more than ready to have the D&E.

After spending a day or two at that far end of the obstetrics floor, always aware that the newborn nursery was somewhere down the hall, I went home and prepared to go back to work the following day. After all, I had nothing else to do but return to work. I was no longer an expectant mother. I was "just me" again. "Besides", I thought, "I'm not the emotional type. I'm the type who operates on reason. I didn't know that baby, so there is only so much missing it I should be doing. You can't love or miss someone/something you never got to know." Much to the surprise of my boss and co-workers, I was at work the next day - complete with mascara on the eyes that still felt, to me, as if they were staring.

The doctor recommended some additional testing in order to determine whether I could have another pregnancy. The tests involved the injection of radio-opaque dye, and I didn't like the idea having "chemicals" so close to any "egg supply". Besides, I just didn't feel as if I could go through anything else. I decided that having a baby was the only way I'd know if I could, and the only way to do that was to try to have another pregnancy and see how it went.

My ever-so-proper boss of several years didn't seem quite comfortable when I met him in the hall, but he said he was sorry to hear about what had happened. His wife had gone through three miscarriages, and I do think he really did understand. The first week or so did seem to bring a lot of similar condolences from co-workers. I was experiencing some "left-over" physical problems, and there was one day when I did feel as if I was going to faint. It passed.

Life at home was very much like it had always been, and having my little son meant not being able to spend a lot of time "wallowing in self-pity". As I said, I knew I am the type who is not "emotional". I kept thinking about how I reason out feelings, and how I process feelings in an orderly way. For some reason, I kept reminding myself of how I had everything in proper perspective. Life had returned to normal with one exception: I knew that I could not listen to music, because I knew if I did I would cry; and I somehow thought that if I cried I may not be able to stop.

About two months after I had been in the hospital, my husband and I were watching the movie, "The End", starring Burt Reynolds. Whether or not it was truly all that funny, I don't know; but it just struck the two of us as funny. We were laughing hysterically (and hadn't laughed, I don't think, for quite some time). My laughing suddenly turned into crying - and it was the kind of crying that made me think it may not stop. I wished I had known that a comedy could result in crying, as well as music; but I hadn't, and the crying went on for a long time. It did, however, stop.

As with all grief, the numbness and emptiness did go away slowly. As with no other grief, this grief just seemed so much "mine, alone" (even though I knew others shared it in their own way). It was always in the back of my mind that until I had a normal pregnancy I would never know, for sure, whether I would have more children. As with all grieving situations, I did a whole lot of asking "why" , trying to figure out "God's reasoning", and doubting that God existed at all. For a while I wondered if, "in all His mercy and wisdom" (as some say), God had sent me my little son because He knew I would never have children myself.

As no "other baby" was showing up, I became quite close with a friend who was experiencing serious fertility problems. She and I would commiserate and confide in each other. Although the numbness had faded away over the year that followed, I had that sometimes overwhelming sense of having "unfinished business". As the months wore on without a new pregnancy, I began to become more and more frightened that the "unfinished business" would remain unfinished, and that my one and only experience with having a baby would be the one that had left me so empty and so longing for a healthy, alive, baby.

My first son was five years old when his baby brother was born. Throughout my second pregnancy the baby barely moved, and there were times when I so doubted that "it" was still alive I was not able to tell a soul about my fears. I suppose I had slipped back into that isolated, lonely, empty, state of knowing that I was "supposed to be expecting a baby" but suspecting all was not well (and yet not wanting to face it).

As the nurse was wheeling me to the labor area the day I went to have my son she asked, "Is this your first baby?" I wryly joked that it was my second child, second pregnancy, but first delivery. Inside, I was thinking, "Whether or not I end up with a live baby remains to be seen." Even as I was headed up to have this baby, I somehow needed to make sure I mentioned the one I never got to have. That's the thing about babies (whether adopted, delivered, or miscarried) - each one is a separate little individual unlike any other.

My tiny, feisty, screaming, baby son was born at 34 weeks. His little "u-shaped" face and head looked so much smaller than other newborns, but he was screaming and screaming and clearly so, so, alive. The doctor announced that I could hold my baby for "a minute" but that was all. He said that I would be leaving the hospital on the Thursday but the baby would be staying. As I held my wrapped up and oh-so-tiny and beautiful baby boy, he simply stopped screaming. I, on the other hand, was crying so hard I wondered if and when I would ever stop. The doctor said, "I hope those are tears of joy." I said that they were; but the truth is, even though I was, of course, joyful; it was more as if it was somehow finally really safe to cry. It was over. The whole, long, process of having a bad pregnancy, living through the loss, and having this one, real live, baby (finally) was over. When I returned home that Thursday my arms were still empty, and even though I'd have my beautiful baby I was still feeling that sense of loneliness and yearning for the kind of things that so many other mothers just get to take for granted.

With my baby in the special care nursery, losing weight with every half ounce he drank, I spent another two weeks fearing that he would drop down below the 3 lb mark and just "wither away". He was one ounce away from going below the 4 lb mark when he began to gain weight, and I finally got to bring him home. All the flowers I had when I had him had died, and the balloons had become deflated. An interesting thing is that I never once experienced any post-partum blues. Then again, in a way, my baby was born into the "blues" I had had for close to two years. His delivery hadn't ushered in any post-partum blues. Instead, it seemed to have ushered in some kind of immunity to blues of any sort.

Three years later I would have my beautiful little girl "as planned". She moved like crazy all through the pregnancy (which lasted a healthy 37 weeks), and she joined my "little set of boys" to make our family truly complete. Eight years after the miscarriage, I got to do all the things that other new mothers get to do; and I got to come home with my baby while the flowers were still fresh and the pink balloons were still floating high. With my daughter, as with my little son, I just didn't experience any particular post partum blues. I was happy from the moment I saw her and have been absolutely happy and delighted with all three of my children ever since.

There is life after miscarriage, but as with all grief, the road can sometimes be long and not without bumps or obstacles. The crying (and the fear of crying) does stop, and the emptiness does go away. It takes time, but one day those of us who have been through miscarriage wake up and realize we can think of our children without thinking of that child who wasn't meant to be; and somewhere along the way, that never-reached due date passes without our really noticing it.

Still, even though we get to where we don't think of it very often, when we do we can feel the emptiness as if it were yesterday. While there is lots of life after miscarriage for us, there is no life for the child we so wanted to bring into the world; and that, I suppose, is what leaves us looking toward the skies and listening toward the winds, wondering what might have been.