Finding Hope After Loss: My Miscarriage Story, 16 Years Later

I’ve never written this story before let alone tell it to its entirety to many people. Since the miscarriage happened, I have been acutely aware of how triggering just hearing the word miscarriage can be to some, so I never wanted to make it worse by telling my story or having it out there for someone going through it to stumble upon and make them feel worse. But, since it happened almost 16 years ago, I have felt a nudge to share especially around the anniversary of finding out my baby had passed. I have shared bits and pieces through the years but never the full story and never in one place, so I thought it was time to do that.

I don’t want it to be triggering, and I don’t share for sympathy. I want the woman who needs to know she is not alone in the hurt and pain to come across it and find hope. It still makes me sad when August 19th comes around, but…

It was a Saturday night, and I had taken my then 2-year-old son to our town’s Hot Air Balloon Festival for the evening. I pulled him in the wagon around the park and we had a wonderful time checking out all the balloons and all the little booths that were set up around the park. I remember it was bedtime, so I went to the bathroom before going into his room to read him stories. I wiped, and there was blood. Not a lot, but enough for me to be alarmed. I called my midwife immediately and she wasn’t overly concerned, feeling like it was me probably doing too much walking and pulling my son’s wagon. I was told some blood was not uncommon and didn’t mean something was wrong. I was told to take it easy, and she set up an appointment for me to come in on Monday. I prayed and prayed that everything was okay. I continued to have a smidge of blood until my appointment.

At the time, I ran an in-home daycare, so my mom came to cover me so I could go to the appointment (bless her heart because coving in childcare is not for the faint of heart 🙃).

I did all the typical things you do before the doctor sees you, weight, blood pressure etc. and then waited for my midwife to come in. When she did, she asked me questions about the bleeding and what I had been doing that day when I noticed the bleeding. Still confident there probably wasn’t anything to worry about, she had me lay on the table so that she could listen to the baby’s heartbeat. A few minutes went by, and she couldn’t find a heartbeat. She very calmly and confidently told me that sometimes this happens, and the baby might be in a position that it was not easy for the doppler to pick up on. But she also shared that there could be something wrong, and we needed to find out, so she sent me for an ultrasound.

I was numb. I remember her asking if I wanted to call my husband and I very quickly said no. I think I was trying to spare him the heartache of what I thought was coming as long as I could. She walked me down the long corridor to the ultrasound waiting room and sent a nurse to sit with me while I waited. I held back tears while I sat with the nurse. It took what felt like forever for my turn. I kept debating with myself if not calling my husband was a good idea. So many thoughts and emotions were whirling through me. It was agonizing.

It was finally my turn, and I got into the tech’s room and laid on the table. I knew the drill; this would have been my third baby. She gelled up my belly and put the device on there and I knew almost instantly, there was no heartbeat. She kept adjusting and moving around but I knew what I was looking at. I did ask her if there was a heartbeat and she told me that she couldn’t tell me anything, that she wasn’t allowed. I was so angry at that moment. Here is a woman laying on her table, sobbing and alone and I had to wait to hear the words I already knew. It was awful. I completely understand why she couldn’t say anything, and I was in no way angry at her, but there has got to be a better way to handle these types of situations than having to wait to hear if there was a heartbeat or not. It was one of the hardest moments of my life.

I was sent back to my midwife from there and I waited in the waiting room some more. All I could do was cry. The waiting was excruciating.

I finally saw her, and she confirmed that my baby had passed.

I can’t remember the details around the conversation of having a D&C and having it that day, but that’s what ended up happening. And it was a good thing that it did.

I know I called my husband on the way home, but I don’t remember doing it. I don’t even remember the ride home. The next thing that I can remember I was calling all my daycare parents sobbing, explaining to them that I lost the baby, and I needed to go have the D&C that day and that my mother would be here caring for their children. These parents were WONDERFUL! They came to pick up their children as soon as they could and brought me flowers that I would see when I got home. It was so kind and thoughtful.

My husband was with me at this point, and we were in a room discussing the best option for me to be put under anesthesia. I was so numb that I didn’t care what option. It all felt so unreal. I couldn’t believe this was happening, and so quickly!

I said goodbye to my husband, and they wheeled me back to the OR and the next thing I remember was waking up sobbing next to a nurse that was filling out paperwork. I remember coming to and thinking how absolutely weird it was that I was clearly upset before I was conscious of the fact, and she was just sitting there filling out paperwork instead of comforting me. (I have no ill feeling towards this nurse. She has probably been desensitized to this unfortunately).

I asked for my husband immediately and they went to get him in the waiting room.

I don’t remember anything else until I was in a room somewhere else. I remember asking what gender the baby was, I wanted so badly to know if it was a boy or a girl, but they didn’t know. Turns out that during the procedure, I had spiked a pretty high fever, and when they removed the baby, they figured out why. That sweet baby had been passed since around 12 weeks gestation; I was 16 weeks at the time of this all happening. The baby was so deteriorated that they could not tell what gender it was. I can’t write this now or even say it out loud still years later without getting choked up. This is the part of my story that I have always left out. I know there are probably others who have had an experience like this, but I’ve never heard it and it’s so awful to describe! But this is part of my story, and I want it to be all here for the woman who needs to see it.

I had to spend that night in the hospital so they could watch me. They put me in the maternity ward! I thought that was the worst punishment they could give me. They did stick me in a room farthest from the others in hopes that I wouldn’t hear a crying baby. I didn’t thankfully. That probably would have sent me over the edge.

I didn’t sleep at all that night, but I had the most wonderful nurse who came in and checked on me very often. She even shared with me that she had suffered a miscarriage too a few months back and that I was going to be okay. I really held onto her belief that I would be until I was.

And then I went home, and life just continued around me like nothing ever happened. It’s one of the hardest things to comprehend, how the world doesn’t stop when you are in the pit of despair.

But from the beginning of all of this, I knew I wanted to talk about it. I wanted women who also were suffering through a miscarriage to know that they were not alone. That there was someone out there who knows how they feel. I know not everyone processes their grief by talking, but maybe just reading my words will bring some healing and hope.

There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of that beautiful baby and all the what ifs.

As I reflect on sharing my story after so many years, I realize that the pain of losing a child never truly fades, but it does become a part of who we are. This journey of loss, grief, and healing has shaped me in ways I could never have imagined. My hope in sharing this deeply personal experience is not to dwell on the sadness but to offer comfort and solidarity to those who may be walking a similar path. You are not alone in your hurt, and it’s okay to feel everything you’re feeling. Grief has no timeline, and healing comes in waves. On those difficult days, when the memories and the pain feel too heavy to bear, I want you to know that there is light, even in the darkest of moments. Together, we can find strength, hope and the courage to keep moving forward.