Finn
Today is May 15th. I don’t feel like I thought I would feel. Exactly 7 months ago, I had a miscarriage. Today was my due date.
For the most part, I’ve been okay. I went through a lot of emotional stages. Some easy, some hard. Miscarriages occur roughly 1 in every 4 pregnancies. Not an uncommon thing. But I think that was the hardest thing about it for me.
I spent so much time worrying if I was feeling and grieving too much or not enough. Since it’s so common, you feel like your feelings, actions, and just your loss in general should fall right in line with everyone else. And you hate it.
Did they tell people? Did they name the baby? Did they have a memorial? Should I be more devastated? Maybe I’m not sad enough. Maybe I’m making too big a deal of it.
My nurse was great. She told me exactly what to expect. The people I did tell were supportive and in retrospect were appropriately consoling. But I felt disconnected and kind of petty.
I didn’t want to hear from other people who had had miscarriages. There was no way they could understand my grief and my loss. This was MY baby. Theirs was different—not less or easier, just not mine. And hearing about other people’s miscarriages only made me feel more isolated. More “common” and like it wasn’t a big deal. Like I shouldn’t feel so hurt. Because it happens 1 in every 4. When you have such a shocking loss, you don’t want to believe you’re 1 in 4. Because a hole this huge shouldn’t be common or “happen to everyone”.
I still can’t accurately describe it. I don’t know about other people who’ve been through it, but I, prior to experiencing it, had tried to imagine the pain you’d feel at such a loss. You have all this joyous momentum at being pregnant only to have it ripped away. I just couldn’t fathom. And then it DID happen.
It’s such a heart wrenching thing, but at the same time, you brace yourself for this horrible “hit”—you hold your breath, close your eyes, and clench your fists and after it comes, you peek out, hold your hands over your stomach, and let out a gush of air, and think, “Whoooo. That wasn’t so bad. I’m okay. We’re okay."
The guilt. That sucks too.
I felt guilty for a few reasons.
I know people who’ve carried pregnancies full term, delivered, and lost their baby. I know people who’ve lost their children at a young age due to illness or accidents or injuries. These people carried, bonded with, held, touched, experienced varying degrees of life with, and LOVED their babies. And LOST them. I felt like I had no right to feel so hurt and sad, when I was just 11 weeks pregnant and just had a miscarriage. I know, rationally, that no one would begrudge me for mourning my way, or judge me for feeling such pain at my loss, but I still felt guilty. I felt dramatic.
I also felt guilty because God has given me 3 beautiful little babies already. What right did I have to mourn the loss of a pregnancy, when I was already so abundantly blessed? There are people everywhere who struggle with infertility and miscarriages for YEARS and have ZERO children. What did I have to complain about?
And then there was guilt that maybe I wasn’t miserable enough. I wasn’t sad enough. I felt like I moved on too quickly. Shouldn’t I have cried more? This creeping, infiltrating thought, that I must just be an awful mother, because how could I not be more devastated?
I still grieve for the things I won’t know, watch, learn, or experience with her. I don’t know if it’s a “her or him”. But I feel like it might have been a girl. I watch Bobby, who’s 2. I watch him experience things for the first time and the joy in his face. I listen to him doggedly try to express himself through new words that are still foreign to him. I can almost see the wheels inside his head turning as he’s cognitively putting things together. And it’s awe inspiring. I'll never know that with her.
Chubby thighs. My kids always had chubby thighs. I’ll never see her chubby thighs. Or trace my finger over the delicate arch of her perfectly formed little foot. Or watch her yawn and stretch. Or kiss her tiny, soft, pursed lips. I’ll never smell the curve of the back of her neck. I’ll never hear her tiny, little voice or feel the soft warmth of her hand in mine. I won’t know her personality or watch her develop relationships with her brother and sisters.
I mourn the loss of those moments.
When you have kids, and then lose your pregnancy, the gravity of what you’ll miss out on, for me, is what hurts the most.
The responsibility of such beautiful souls being entrusted to me, literally brings me to my knees. Takes my breath away. Leaves me speechless and sobbing. Gives me feelings and emotions that words to describe just don’t exist. Or if they do, I certainly can’t form them.
I have very little tying me to her. Few memories linking us. The moment I found out I was pregnant. Which was just slid into the everyday chaos of our lives, that I feel guilty I didn’t cherish and celebrate it more.
But I’ll find peace, and maybe even joy, on occasions like these, in moments we celebrate as a family, and in God’s promise of eternal life when we finally meet.
For the most part, I’ve been okay. I went through a lot of emotional stages. Some easy, some hard. Miscarriages occur roughly 1 in every 4 pregnancies. Not an uncommon thing. But I think that was the hardest thing about it for me.
I spent so much time worrying if I was feeling and grieving too much or not enough. Since it’s so common, you feel like your feelings, actions, and just your loss in general should fall right in line with everyone else. And you hate it.
Did they tell people? Did they name the baby? Did they have a memorial? Should I be more devastated? Maybe I’m not sad enough. Maybe I’m making too big a deal of it.
My nurse was great. She told me exactly what to expect. The people I did tell were supportive and in retrospect were appropriately consoling. But I felt disconnected and kind of petty.
I didn’t want to hear from other people who had had miscarriages. There was no way they could understand my grief and my loss. This was MY baby. Theirs was different—not less or easier, just not mine. And hearing about other people’s miscarriages only made me feel more isolated. More “common” and like it wasn’t a big deal. Like I shouldn’t feel so hurt. Because it happens 1 in every 4. When you have such a shocking loss, you don’t want to believe you’re 1 in 4. Because a hole this huge shouldn’t be common or “happen to everyone”.
I still can’t accurately describe it. I don’t know about other people who’ve been through it, but I, prior to experiencing it, had tried to imagine the pain you’d feel at such a loss. You have all this joyous momentum at being pregnant only to have it ripped away. I just couldn’t fathom. And then it DID happen.
It’s such a heart wrenching thing, but at the same time, you brace yourself for this horrible “hit”—you hold your breath, close your eyes, and clench your fists and after it comes, you peek out, hold your hands over your stomach, and let out a gush of air, and think, “Whoooo. That wasn’t so bad. I’m okay. We’re okay."
The guilt. That sucks too.
I felt guilty for a few reasons.
I know people who’ve carried pregnancies full term, delivered, and lost their baby. I know people who’ve lost their children at a young age due to illness or accidents or injuries. These people carried, bonded with, held, touched, experienced varying degrees of life with, and LOVED their babies. And LOST them. I felt like I had no right to feel so hurt and sad, when I was just 11 weeks pregnant and just had a miscarriage. I know, rationally, that no one would begrudge me for mourning my way, or judge me for feeling such pain at my loss, but I still felt guilty. I felt dramatic.
I also felt guilty because God has given me 3 beautiful little babies already. What right did I have to mourn the loss of a pregnancy, when I was already so abundantly blessed? There are people everywhere who struggle with infertility and miscarriages for YEARS and have ZERO children. What did I have to complain about?
And then there was guilt that maybe I wasn’t miserable enough. I wasn’t sad enough. I felt like I moved on too quickly. Shouldn’t I have cried more? This creeping, infiltrating thought, that I must just be an awful mother, because how could I not be more devastated?
I still grieve for the things I won’t know, watch, learn, or experience with her. I don’t know if it’s a “her or him”. But I feel like it might have been a girl. I watch Bobby, who’s 2. I watch him experience things for the first time and the joy in his face. I listen to him doggedly try to express himself through new words that are still foreign to him. I can almost see the wheels inside his head turning as he’s cognitively putting things together. And it’s awe inspiring. I'll never know that with her.
Chubby thighs. My kids always had chubby thighs. I’ll never see her chubby thighs. Or trace my finger over the delicate arch of her perfectly formed little foot. Or watch her yawn and stretch. Or kiss her tiny, soft, pursed lips. I’ll never smell the curve of the back of her neck. I’ll never hear her tiny, little voice or feel the soft warmth of her hand in mine. I won’t know her personality or watch her develop relationships with her brother and sisters.
I mourn the loss of those moments.
When you have kids, and then lose your pregnancy, the gravity of what you’ll miss out on, for me, is what hurts the most.
The responsibility of such beautiful souls being entrusted to me, literally brings me to my knees. Takes my breath away. Leaves me speechless and sobbing. Gives me feelings and emotions that words to describe just don’t exist. Or if they do, I certainly can’t form them.
I have very little tying me to her. Few memories linking us. The moment I found out I was pregnant. Which was just slid into the everyday chaos of our lives, that I feel guilty I didn’t cherish and celebrate it more.
But I’ll find peace, and maybe even joy, on occasions like these, in moments we celebrate as a family, and in God’s promise of eternal life when we finally meet.
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