Let's talk about miscarriage...

October is my favorite month, but October 7th is my least favorite day of the year. Go figure, right? I’m complicated like that. October 7th is the anniversary of my miscarriage, and even 9 years removed from it, I still dread this day. The sadness is always fresher and the feeling of loss heavier. And even when I try to ignore it, it’s there. Begging to be acknowledged, because what else can you do with something that’s had such a profound effect on your life? You have to face it and you have to feel it.

When I had my miscarriage, I felt lost. I told myself that I needed to find a reason and a purpose for what our family was going through, and I decided pretty quickly that I was going to make it count for something. And that something would be helping others. I committed, on that day 9 years ago, that I would honor the life of our lost baby by lighting the path when others found themselves on it, too. And before you tell me I’m brave or kind or whatever other platitude you could apply, I’ll tell you this, too: Sometimes, lighting the way is freaking hard. Have you ever looked at yourself when you’re at your most vulnerable and transparent? I have, and it’s terrifying. Emotions are tricky. When they’re happy, they’re the best thing ever. But when they’re raw and dark and real, they can send you running for the hills like a groundhog who has just seen it’s shadow. You’ll want to look away, but it’s in that moment that you need to look harder. You need to look deeply enough within yourself to find a way to pull yourself out. And for some reason, my tried-and-true way out has always been through openness.

Maybe it’s because talking openly gives life to the baby we lost. Maybe it’s because it dulls my pain a bit to relieve the pressure of keeping it inside. Maybe it’s because I feel a high when I know I’ve reached someone else who can relate. Or maybe it’s a combination of all of those things. But whatever label we put on it, I can’t deny its impact. I feel better when I talk about our middle child and the circumstances that surrounded that child’s departure from our tangible family story.

By way of backstory, I’ll share the basics: I was in my 12th week of pregnancy when I woke up to tell-tale red blood and cramping that told the outcome long before my doctors confirmed it. I rushed to the ER with my then-2-year-old in tow and called my husband to meet me there. After bloodwork and an agonizing ultrasound, we were told that our baby was no longer viable and that I was actively miscarrying. Because I was already bleeding, they gave me the option to go home and ‘finish the process’ in the comfort of my own home vice having surgical intervention. I agreed to that, not really knowing how awful the process would be. But more on that later. My body finally did something right in regard to gestation: I successfully miscarried our baby in our master bathroom and my life and my heart changed forever.

Each year, I wrestle with the idea of sharing a piece of this loss. If you know me, you know it stays largely locked in my heart (or in the red leather box where I’ve stowed all my mementos of that pregnancy). I seldom speak about that baby in my day to day life outside of with my immediate family. Many who know me don’t even know of that baby’s indelible existence and sometimes I feel bad about that, too. But sharing a broken heart is tricky, and often it’s easier to share it through words. Through writing, where my face and my heart can stay as hidden as I need them to.

Last night, as I sat at my keyboard and labored over how I’d approach October 7th this year, I started to cry. Like, ugly cry hard into the sleeves of my sweater. My husband came to me, rubbed my head and kissed the side of my face. He understands the torment I feel in my heart when I think about this day and sees that our pain and grief look different. Just knowing that he accepts that is soothing. He’s my safe space, and when I let those emotions fall, they sometimes fall hard. I told him that I wasn’t sure how I wanted to talk about it this year, or if I even wanted to at all. And then I told him I wished that it wasn’t even something we had to consider. Something we had to feel. Something we had to commemorate. And then it hit me. I wanted to spin this year’s tribute in the positive. I wanted to validate my own feelings and the feelings of others who have been there through positive affirmation that these very real aspects of pregnancy loss exist. Because in my own experience, just defining them is half the battle towards conquering them. So, here are my wishes in regard to pregnancy loss. Please share them with anyone who you think might need to hear them. I’ve written this post in a way that it can be shared freely without compromising my family’s privacy. There is power in sharing and power in feeling less alone. And if my story can reach someone else who has been there, I will consider my lost child’s life honored in the most profound of ways.

I wish I didn’t feel so alone when I had my miscarriage. I wish people around me had talked about it more and made me realize how common it is. One in 4 women experience pregnancy loss or still birth, but for something so tragically common, it’s very much under-discussed. That’s why I talk about my own loss. I want people to know that it happens to all kinds of people and that it’s nothing you did wrong. You’re not broken and you’re not to blame. I still struggle with those thoughts myself, but not nearly as much as I did when the pain and the loss were fresh. I want you to know that you’re not alone.

I wish someone had told me that my heart would always be a little bit broken. Maybe then I wouldn’t have put so much pressure on myself to heal and move on. Maybe then I wouldn’t have chased my feelings into anything and everything that I thought could help me. Talk therapy and chocolate cake and the bottom of a bottle are all semi-great options, but so far, none of them have fully mended my broken heart and I’m okay with that. My heart is broken because it is changed. But it’s still a good heart and so is yours.

I wish I didn’t lose friendships over my loss. I wish I had the kind of friends who didn’t pull back because they didn’t know how to react. I wish I saw, in those ugly moments, that the friendships that rose to the occasion were the ones that really mattered anyway. I see that now and so will you.

I wish someone had told me that I’d experience labor during my miscarriage. That my water would break and that I’d deliver our baby. I wish someone told me that it would look like a fetus and that it would still be in its amniotic sac. And I wish someone had told me what to do when that baby ended up in the toilet. Instinct made me scoop it up into my hands, but then what? I didn’t know that there are cemeteries for miscarried babies. I know that now and I want you to know that, too. Your baby can have a final resting place if you so choose.

I wish I could forget the sight of my husband digging a hole in our garden to bury our baby. I wish I could forget the dirt skimming over his wedding band and the tears that I saw him cry. I wish that wasn’t the only time I’ve truly seen my husband cry, but isn’t that the ultimate testimony to the gravity of our loss? My husband felt it, too, and as hard as it was to dig that hole, my hands and my husband’s hands are the only one’s who touched that baby before it arrived in the hands of God. That’s special and I’m grateful for that.

I wish that there wasn’t a qualifier and a quantifier attached to pregnancy loss. I wish people didn’t say things like, ‘It’s okay, they were only 4 weeks along’ or ‘I know someone who had it worse because they were further along’ or ‘It’s been x number of years, so you should be over it’. Loss is loss and it doesn’t deserve to be placed on a continuum. Your loss matters and it matters to me. Don’t water it down for the comfort of others.

I wish that no one else has to feel that same pain and loss, but if I can’t stop it, I have to find a way to help mitigate it. I am here and I am an ally for anyone who needs me. I am always a phone call, text message, DM or smoke signal away from being your friend and your support. I’ll cry with you, talk you down off that ledge and let your feel whatever it is that you’re feeling. Because when push comes to shove, support and compassion will always guide you better than a ‘Get over it’ mentality. I promise you’ll find your way, too, broken heart and all.