“The magnitude of this may not hit you today or tomorrow… but it’s something you’ll carry with you for a long time.”
Those were the words my doctor told me only a few hours after I had started bleeding that morning, right after Thanksgiving. She had tried to find the heartbeat in her office with the Doppler, but had been unsuccessful. Given that I was supposed to be 11 weeks along, she told me that there was a slight chance the silence meant the fetus was still too small. But, “honestly,” she said, “that chance is slim.”
Miscarriage: a parent’s worst nightmare. Like so many of life’s tragedies, you never think it could actually happen to you. Ours wouldn’t be confirmed until the following day with an ultrasound at the hospital, but I could already feel what they were going to tell us.
“What should I expect tonight?” I texted my good friend who had gone through this already. When she told me that she passed hers in a matter of hours, I of course, expected the same. However, when I went home that day, nothing seemed to intensify at all, except for the cramps. I just felt numb. I didn’t even want to Google anything … which, in 2017, is weird, right?
“Given the size, it looks as though it stopped growing at eight or nine weeks,” the resident doctor told us the following day. I did the math in my head and realized I had been carrying around a lifeless dream, a fallen star, for two weeks; maybe longer.
The one silver lining about that day was that we were able to head back to our doctor’s office and see our OB right away after getting the miscarriage confirmed. He had delivered our little girl, Ella. That doctor was the only one I wanted to see when I was throwing up from labour pain in the delivery room three years ago, and was the only one I wanted to see now.
“It’s the way that these things go sometimes. There’s a fifty percent chance that there was something actually wrong with the baby, and this was your body’s way of getting rid of it. And there’s another fifty percent chance it was bad luck. Not every pregnancy works out, and it’s kind of amazing scientifically when they do. It’s absolutely not your fault.”
Those were the words I needed to hear to pick myself up and start to move on. There was nothing I did to cause this; it’s just the way it went. And maybe, this was a blessing in disguise… a decision my body made for me, before it was too late.
That’s not to say that the next several weeks weren’t painful.
Since I had already started bleeding, our OB thought I was going to pass everything naturally, which would have been the best case scenario. After seeing a few days later that that was not the case, he gave me drugs to induce labour, so I could pass everything that way. That didn’t work either.
Several rounds of ultrasounds and days of continuous bleeding later, I was scheduled for a vacuum aspiration, a “lighter form” of a d&c. The procedure was pretty quick and painless. I was only given morphine and was awake the whole 10 minutes, and walked out of there a good hour later. A day later and I was back at work, and the bleeding did taper. I thought life would finally get back to normal.
I wasn’t so lucky.
That following weekend, I was at home getting ready for a night away with my husband; our daughter was going for a sleepover at my parents’. Out of nowhere, my bleeding increased so heavily that our weekend away turned into an all-day stint in the ER. The whole time I was thinking: “How can there be anything left inside to lose? I’ve already been bleeding for over a month!”
Yet another ultrasound a few days later confirmed it. “There is still material inside, and it’s stuck up at the top of your uterus,” the ER doctor told me. “We’ll have to admit you right away, and put you on the emergency surgery list. You need a full d&c as soon as possible, as your risk of infection is high.”
The next thing I knew, I was signing forms for power of attorney, and getting debriefed on anesthesia and blood transfusions. This time, the doctor and nurses ensured me they would get absolutely everything out, as they were going to be using a camera during the procedure.
Afterwards, as I lay there in recovery with my heated blanket, still high as a kite, (Is there anything better in the world than hospital drugs and those heated blankets? Pure heaven!!) I felt so thankful. I know it’s weird. But I was, and I still am.
I’m thankful for Ottawa’s dedicated doctors and nurses, who got me into the ER and finally took care of my problem that day once and for all. I’m more than thankful to my husband, who held my hand every step of the way. I’m thankful for my job and my supportive bosses, who didn’t once question my leave from work, but instead told me to “take all the time I need to heal.” I’m thankful for my parents, who raised me to always stay positive. And, I’m thankful for my Granny, who also went through this when she was younger. Sharing our experiences has made us closer.
Lastly, I’m thankful for my daughter. I’m thankful she has shown me what unconditional love really feels like; that fierce, all-consuming, “I’d give my life for your safety” kind of love. She makes our life so full.
It’s because of that intense love that I know we’ll find the courage to embark on this journey again soon. No matter what we went through, I never want to miss out on a second chance at this great love; I owe that to Ella.
Some think that miscarriage is easier when you have already had a healthy child, because that’s just it – you already have one baby, one blessing, so you should be thankful for what you have. But I argue it’s even harder, because you truly know what you’re missing out on.
My story had a decent ending, but I know that not every story like this does. This piece wasn’t written to share the good news of my eventual recovery or ask for pity; it was to help those grieving the loss of a pregnancy. Hopefully you take away some information from this, or sense of community. Motherhood is a crazy ride that comes with many highs and lows, and we’re all in it together.
