No more blink.
Originally published by Ellie in January 2017 - we are reposting in honor of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month. This is something Ellie needed to say to help in her healing process. We hope this post helps someone else heal too.
We were 9 weeks along when we went in for our check-up. Couldn’t wait to see that little blink on the screen.
But there was no more blink.
I could see it in my doctor’s face as soon as she turned on the monitor.
FUCK.
This can’t be happening. I failed. My first job as a mother and I felt like a failure.
Miscarriage is a scary word. It’s sensitive, personal and hurts SO deeply. It’s extremely difficult to talk about. How do you talk about grief? Mourning something that didn’t quite exist? 1 in 4 women will go through a miscarriage in their lifetime.
1 in 4.
That means someone you know will go through this or already has. Since going through it myself, I have learned about many, many miscarriages that the women (and men) in my life have endured. Young and old - some only had one, some had many more. And like a lot of people, I wasn’t aware of the statistics until it happened to me. It makes sense that people tend not to talk about their miscarriages. There isn’t anything anyone can say that will make it better. There are no words. The sadness you feel is unlike any other - it’s in your soul and it’s always there, on the surface, waiting to show itself.
Grief and sadness are just two of the side effects of miscarriage. There are uglier feelings that come along with this type of loss. I’m not proud of these emotions but they are real and deserve to be acknowledged.
At first, on top of the sadness, I was mad as hell about all of this. Stomp my feet, shake my fists, grit my teeth - MAD. If you saw me at Trader Joe’s I might have run you over because I just didn’t care. I was angry and needed to live in that anger.
Next, layer on resentment. I love babies and mothers, but right now - I hate you. I do. I resent you for what you have. It’s irrational, and I know it. I’m not proud of it. But right now, I literally cannot stand the sight of you and your beautiful offspring (or adorable baby bump). It’s horrible, I know. But it’s the truth.
Another feeling: guilt. I know it’s not my fault. But it sure feels like it. I can’t help but go through everything I ate, every time I exercised, every small iced coffee I ordered, every tiny twinge I may or may not have felt. I know it’s not my fault, but who else can I blame?
Loneliness. I’m working on breaking out of my self-imposed isolation. The holidays do not help. Grief is a lonely process. Even with my husband to work through this with, it’s very lonely. I haven’t wanted to see anyone. I’ve actively avoided people and places. I don’t answer the phone. I skipped my birthday. I don’t want presents, I don’t want cake or pie or dinners or celebrations. Maybe later. When there’s something worth celebrating.
And finally, impatience. When I found out we were miscarrying, my first thought - after the wave of surprising, crushing emotion flooded over me - was we have to get pregnant again as soon as possible. Hurry up and make it right. I will be OK if we can just put everything back the way it was. Life doesn’t work that way. And while it would be nice to just move on, get pregnant again and go along as planned - I realized I have to allow myself to have this experience. I never asked for it but it’s happening to me and despite the fact that it’s devastatingly sad and horrible, I need to honor it. So I’m trying to do just that.
I feel a myriad of these emotions at all times. Sometimes I’m more angry than sad. Sometimes I’m more resentful. And I’m impatient all the time. I feel like something was unfairly stolen from me and there is nothing I can do. Regardless of these ‘ugly’ feelings - life goes on. Everyday is a tiny, almost indiscriminate amount better than the last. Baby steps, for lack of a better term. Baby steps.
I’m about four months out from my miscarriage. The physical symptoms are gone. I’m beginning to feel ‘normal’ again though I still cry every day. I know the sadness will fade, the resentment will pass, anger will disappear and I will feel like the ‘old Ellie’ eventually. Regardless of all that, I felt it was necessary to share my experience. As women, we need to feel comfortable sharing these experiences if we want to create an open dialogue. I felt like adding my voice to this conversation was a necessary step in my own healing process. Everyone’s experience is different. This is mine.
