by Kate Mallory
I feel fear in sharing this post, as it is deeply personal. I also feel hopeful that my story will comfort others who feel alone in their loss of a pregnancy. I found comfort in reading the stories of others and so I wanted to pay that forward. As a disclaimer, I also want to acknowledge that the topic of infertility can be triggering.
A positive pregnancy test. Immediately, my heart swelled, and my thoughts swirled:
How fortunate are we to be pregnant a second time?!
Are you a boy or a girl?
What will life be like with two young children?
I can’t wait to meet you.
I love you.
Logic tells us not to get attached until it’s “safe.” Statistics show us that many pregnancies end in the first trimester. My brain tried to protect my heart, but my heart attached anyway.
Upon seeing the positive test, I immediately shared with my husband the good news and called the doctor to confirm with a blood test. The blood tests showed that my hormone levels were rising appropriately. Hooray! My husband and I talked about names, how to share the good news with family (we ordered our son a “Big Brother” shirt for him to unwrap in front of our parents on Christmas), what the nursery would look like, and how we couldn’t wait to see what a wonderful big brother our son would be.
A few weeks later, my husband met me in the waiting room before our first ultrasound. We excitedly chatted as we waited to see our precious baby. Upon being called to the room, we saw a tiny baby measuring on time but without a heartbeat.
Our doctor steadied us by explaining that it could be too early. A seed of doubt was planted, but we didn’t worry too much. After all, the same thing had happened with our son. We did not see his heartbeat at the first ultrasound. A follow-up a week later showed that beautiful flicker. He just needed time.
We reassured ourselves that this baby just needed the same. We prayed for this baby to continue to grow healthy and strong, and I embraced my morning sickness daily with gratitude for a healthy pregnancy. The week crept by, and we met again in the waiting room. I held my breath and my husband’s hand as the ultrasound tech searched for a heartbeat. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “no heartbeat.”
It felt as if my own heart stopped as tears stung my cheeks, and she went to get our doctor.
Our compassionate doctor, whose own eyes filled with tears, explained to us we were miscarrying. She detailed our options as gently as possible: wait for the miscarriage to happen naturally, take medication and miscarry at home, or have a procedure with the option to perform genetic testing and possibly receive answers. I will forever be grateful to our doctor for caring for us so tenderly.
We opted for the operation, and I went in the next morning.
What followed was an overwhelming sense of loss, grief so sharp it would take my breath away. I experienced panic after the operation and the thought that “What if the baby was going to be ok?” For the death of an unborn child, there is no funeral, no obituary, no obvious outlet. Friends and family supported us and cared for us in our grief in ways we couldn’t have known to ask for.
They brought meals, called, texted, sent flowers to acknowledge our loss, and they listened. Many were not afraid to step into our grief with us rather than try to make it “go away.” In our despair and seeming isolation, we found acceptance and compassion.
I find comfort in my faith that our baby opened their eyes to see Jesus and bypassed the brokenness and pain that we experience on Earth. I look forward to the day we meet in Heaven.
Now, over a year later, I am ok with what is not ok. It is not ok that babies are lost before they are held in their parents’ arms, and I am ok. In order to heal, we need others to listen and accept our feelings, not try to make them “go away.”
Many of my clients come to me burdened with shame for their feelings that are “wrong” or “inconvenient” or “bad.”
As humans, we feel. To feel is to live.
My job as a therapist is to hold space for my clients to feel their feelings and live fully. I have been fortunate enough to receive this care from others and consider it a privilege to offer it to my clients. To all those who are hurting or in pain, you are not alone.
To my baby,
I can’t wait to meet you.
I love you.
At Kardia Collective, we offer miscarriage grief counseling to walk with you through the grief that accompanies a miscarriage. Reach out to our team today to request an appointment.