Miscarriage.
Loss.
These two words are often considered taboo in our world. The statistics are just numbers and if you know someone who has experienced pregnancy or infant loss, you often are speechless and avoid talking about it so that you aren't upsetting them - or because you're uncomfortable.
The problem is that sometimes, they want to talk about it. They want to discuss how it hurts seeing friends pregnant or sympathy for another mum experiencing loss and how it makes them feel. But, for the people who are uncomfortable to talk about it, is it because of the thought: what if it happens to you?
This isn't a typical "blog" post for this site, but, it's on my mind. October is Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Month with October 15th is Remembrance day. Today, at 7pm there will be a Wave of Light - in which, even if you haven't experienced the loss, you should light a candle for those sweet babies.
I remember the first time I began worrying about losing a baby. I was almost through my first trimester with H when I woke up to a post from a previous teacher at my old job. Her daughter was stillborn at 37 weeks. She was full term, but the mum thought something was wrong as the baby hadn't kicked over the weekend and went in to the doctor. It was devastating news as the baby's heart wasn't beating. They ended up inducing and she was stillborn.
My first thought after sadness was, What if this happens to my baby? From then on, the slight niggling worry in the back of my mind popped up every so often. Then, when I woke up bleeding at 36 weeks, I immediately thought about my friend and her daughter and could only pray that we wouldn't lose H. We were lucky; later that night we had a healthy baby boy.
I still think about the what ifs: if I didn't go in, if I hadn't started bleeding and how it would've affected our lives.
The girl now has a sweet rainbow boy and another little girl on the way. But she has never forgotten her firstborn. Nor should she.
At least she had a name.
That's what I think about. I don't have a name for the two miscarriages I've had this past year. With both, the baby stopped growing at 5 weeks, 6 days. Before we could even hear a heartbeat.
"It's good that it was early."
"At least you have H."
"You can get pregnant."
"Count your blessings that you have a baby."
These. These consolations are rude and unnecessary. I know I'm blessed to have a healthy, two-year-old boy.
But.
That doesn't mean that the other two babies we've lost mean anything less. No, we didn't know if the baby was a boy or a girl. No, we didn't have a name. No, we didn't have an idea of personality.
We'd still made plans.
We planned to move the guest room furniture into H's room, put him in a "big boy bed." We planned to get a new rug, move the crib, add a fan, and have Eric build more bookshelves into the room. We talked about how we would keep the color whether it is a boy or girl. We planned how we would tell our families, purchased a "big brother" shirt for H, and told our families - even though it was early. We were excited and never thought we’d lose them before we knew them.
Both times, we went in to the ultrasound and found out that I had miscarried. With the first miscarriage, I had a D&C as the baby wasn't passing on their own. It was even harder than I expected to have to tell our families we lost the baby. I couldn't tell anyone - telling my mum but letting her tell my sisters, letting my husband tell his family. The first time I talked about it, I told a couple of close friends - through sign language. I couldn't speak about it.
Slowly, a month went by. Our son turned two. My husband and I talked about trying again.
I got pregnant easily. As soon as I knew I was pregnant, anxiety and nerves reigned. I went in to the doctor early to check my levels (HCG and Progesterone). They were okay, but could be better, so I started on Progesterone medicine. This time, we didn't tell anyone besides my mum (she works in the doctor's office) and a sister-in-law found out about it when I mentioned I wouldn't be drinking at Halloween. We kept it quiet and I continued to worry.
We went back to the doctor when I'd estimated I was around seven weeks for an ultrasound. The baby was 5 weeks, 6 days. Again.
The doctor said it could be a fluke and to give it a few more days, but to prepare ourselves. The extra days didn't help. This time, I opted to try just the medicine as my body was already cramping.
This time didn't hurt any less than the previous time. If anything, it hurt more as it was just as unexpected. We had told ourselves we were part of the statistic to help accept the unexpected first loss. But two times meant there probably was a problem in my body. We scheduled some bloodwork to find out more.
The statistics 1 in 4 don't help. The it happens, it's not your fault, and others - these aren't helpful. My brain can understand and think about it, but that doesn't make the grief any less valid or any less sad.
We will never know those two babies. We will never see them grow, hear them call us mum and dad, read them books, sign to them - but they are no less wanted or loved than our living baby.
I know I've disappeared. I don't want to spend hours chatting on Marco Polo with my friends, or working on our websites. I've edited one Deaf Tale and that took over a month. I've not prepped for #nano yet nor have I edited or written anything else. The loss and grief of the miscarriage has consumed my daily life. That and trying to snuggle with a squirmy two-year-old. Because right now, I need the snuggles for my sanity.
And if you don't think that the men experience the grief and loss of a miscarriage, you would be wrong. It may only be "theoretical" to them, or they may not cry or want to talk about it - but they feel the grief and loss just as the mothers do.
Oh, and a little tidbit about deaf culture. Deaf people aren't afraid to talk about taboo subjects - money, politics, motherhood - and loss. We've very blunt people. Not rude (all the time), just blunt.
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