My Miscarriage Story (Part 1)
In my head, I refer to my second miscarriage as “the loss that broke me,” not because my other loss didn’t break my heart, but because after the second, I felt like the light within me went out.
I realize now it was just the remaking of a new me. A stronger me. A more grace-filled me.
A month after that loss, I read a woman’s miscarriage story in Grace Like Scarlett and devoured it. Having known dozens of women who had suffered miscarriage, I didn’t think the raw relatability of this woman’s story was something I would be so hungry for. But then I realized knowing women have miscarried isn’t the same as knowing their stories. And somewhere in the lonely abyss that is miscarriage grief, I found myself desperate to talk to someone about the less socially acceptable parts of mine.
I’ve since found those women, and I’m grateful, but I still remember that initial hunger for someone who could relate, who was willing to go there and talk about the hard things.
I’ve prayed about this for a long time and after some encouragement from friends, I’ve decided to honor our baby’s life by sharing my miscarriage story. I don’t share for sympathy and I certainly don’t share to scare anyone, but I know the loneliness and confusion that comes with this type of loss, and more than anything, I share for the women hungry to be seen in their own grief and for those who haven’t experienced this type of loss to understand what miscarriage couples may go through in losing their unborn babies.
I originally wrote this story for me about a month or two after it happened to help me process my loss, but today I share it for you. I’m choosing bravery for the sake of others being seen because I know what it’s like to feel alone after loss.
*A quick disclosure: This is a miscarriage story. Not only is there mention of miscarriage, but there is also mention of blood, hemorrhage, and female reproductive organs. It is a bit long, but it reads like a book and I’ve separated this story into two parts. You can read part two here:
If you are currently pregnant, I encourage you not to read this post. The last thing I want is to scare expecting mothers. I share this story for the primary purpose of helping miscarriage mamas feel seen and known. And I pray this does just that.
Lastly, not all miscarriages unfold this way. My first loss was a polar opposite experience, but there are many pieces within the story that may relate to other experiences that I hope those who read will be mindful of when caring for couples through their own unique loss.
It was May 31, the day before my 32nd birthday, and there staring back at me were two undeniably solid pink lines.
I was part amazed at how easy it was. It took three years the first time, nine months the second, and this time… A mere two.
But I was also part hesitant. What does this mean? Is this mercy you are showing me, God? Or will this one end like the last?
I tucked the test in a hiding place to show my husband, Wesley, when he returned home from youth camp the following day.
I’m pregnant.
I let it sink in. The more reserved part of me didn’t want to get ahead of myself, but the more hopeful part couldn’t deny I was excited.
I finished packing snacks and a sippy cup into our diaper bag as I prepared to take my 18-month-old son, Levi, to the zoo for the first time with friends. I somehow managed to make it through the entire day pretending as if my entire life hadn’t just changed again in an instant.
As we walked from one animal to the next, my mind didn’t hesitate to jump back to that positive pregnancy test as the reality set in that I was strolling around the zoo with two little ones that day instead of one.
• • •
The next day, Wesley arrived home to wish me a happy birthday. Tired from a long drive, we lay in bed with Levi as we showed him pictures from our day at the zoo. At the end, I swiped to a photo of the positive pregnancy test and waited for his response. After a few seconds of silence, I looked at him and it clicked.
“Wait. What!? Are you serious!?”
Laughter. Kisses. Hugs. It was such a sweet moment.
“This is my birthday gift,” I said. “We’ll take it one day at a time.”
It was a precious recognition of our child’s life as a gift, yet riddled with apprehension and the painful reminder of our previous loss. And in that moment, I realized pregnancy after loss would be an ongoing fight for peace.
• • •
I remember waiting to get sick sometime around five weeks, when I started getting sick in my previous two pregnancies. But the sickness never came. There was some mild nausea and an undeniable exhaustion that I warmly welcomed as signs that I was in fact pregnant, but not long after, there was seemingly nothing.
I tried to be optimistic, but I knew a sudden cease in pregnancy symptoms could be an early sign of miscarriage. That’s what happened last time.
When Levi awoke in the night, I was already lying awake in bed in a downward spiral of anxious thoughts. I tried to comfort him, but instead, anxiety left me frustrated and needing Wesley to take over.
I retreated to the other end of the house, curled up on our daybed, and began sobbing hysterically. Unaware of what was going on, Wesley came to my aid as I told him I was worried my worst fear was unfolding.
“Is there blood?” he asked.
I was frustrated at his question like it was all in my head unless there was more concrete evidence; but then I recalled my own words to him when I said, “We’ll take it one day at a time.”
He prayed over me and I calmed down as we moved forward with hope.
• • •
I made it to exactly seven weeks in my last pregnancy when I would have delivered what I believed was our precious baby boy, Ira. As I approached seven weeks once again, I prayed fervently as I eagerly awaited to just get past it. I made it to the seven-week mark and thought maybe I could relax a little, but by seven weeks and one day, I found fear in my underwear once again… Blood.
It was the faintest pink spotting I’d ever seen, but it was enough to make my hope plummet. I immediately told Wesley as I lay in bed and let the tears flow.
I decided to give it a little time before I told my new midwife, but to my surprise, not only did the spotting not worsen, but it stopped completely after just a couple of hours. What did not stop, however, was the unbearable back pain I was experiencing. I can understand back pain in late pregnancy when you’re carrying a much larger baby, but at seven weeks, it seemed odd.
I told my midwife and she suggested a urine test to rule out a UTI or kidney infection. Since she was located an hour away, I made a quick trip to urgent care where they had me pee in a cup only to find that everything looked normal. However, due to the persisting back pain, they recommended I go to the hospital, which I didn’t like. So instead, they chose to test my HCG levels that day and the next to make sure my pregnancy hormones continued to rise.
They stuck the needle in my arm and sent me on my way. After returning for another blood draw the following day, my results showed that my levels were within range and rising.
I exhaled, thinking I had dodged a bullet, and attributed the whole ordeal to pushing myself too hard the day before the spotting appeared.
Little did I know how much that experience would foreshadow the weeks to come.
• • •
Some mild pregnancy symptoms would return and then seemingly dissipate in the coming weeks, giving me both hope and a fight for my sanity.
Am I just creating these symptoms in my head because I want assurance? Or do I really feel nauseous? Am I really having food aversions or was it something I ate? Am I tired because I’m growing a human or because I have a toddler?
I questioned everything and mentally relaxing during this pregnancy seemed like a distant dream. But until something actually went “wrong,” I moved forward week by week, eagerly anticipating the second trimester when the chances of miscarriage decrease and when I would finally feel comfortable telling family and friends about our new bundle of joy.
I bought a solid t-shirt for Levi that I had planned to iron on a vinyl design reading “Big Bro.” I hoped to tell our immediate families at 13 and 14 weeks when we knew we’d see everyone. I envisioned everyone’s reactions. The “oh my goshes,” the hugging, and the tears of redemptive joy at new life after loss. I couldn’t wait.
But with every bit of excitement was a tinge of caution, and the shirt remained neatly folded in the bag with its receipt until we approached the second trimester. I just couldn’t bring myself to make it any sooner.
• • •
Nine weeks rolled around and I finally had my first in-person appointment with my home birth midwife. We brought Levi along because we didn’t want to explain to a babysitter where we were going.
We pulled up to her home and she and her assistant welcomed us in. She had a room right off the front entrance for her clients with a standard medical table, a full phlebotomy cart, and a bookshelf filled with herbal tinctures, essential oils, and books about natural childbirth. In front of the window were two chairs and a basket full of toys for little ones. We made ourselves comfortable as the appointment began.
They asked me how I was feeling and if I had any pregnancy symptoms.
“Yes. Some mild nausea here and there and very tired. I slept in the car on the way here,” I said.
They laughed as though that were typical, but I immediately regretted my response as my mind wrestled once again with the validity of my symptoms.
We moved on by reviewing my health history and previous pregnancies, then we talked for a long time about my birth with Levi and both my hopes and fears for the birth. I was thrilled to be talking about childbirth. I hadn’t yet allowed myself much space to think that far ahead for this baby, much less talk about it out loud.
As we chatted, everything about the midwife’s calm responses put me at ease, but I still anxiously awaited to hear my baby’s heartbeat.
After a urine test and a quick blood draw, the moment finally came. I laid down on the table, pulled my shirt up, and unzipped my pants to prepare for the Doppler.
Before we began, the midwife assured me, “If we don’t hear a heartbeat, we don’t freak out. You’re still early on and it can be difficult to hear the heartbeat at this point in pregnancy. If needed or desired, I have a small ultrasound machine we can use to see the heartbeat if we can’t hear one.”
The midwife assistant applied the cold jelly and began searching for that sweet sound I longed to hear. I immediately heard a heartbeat and began to get excited when she informed me it was my own… I fall for it every time.
She moved the probe back and forth across my stomach for what felt like too long. Unable to hear anything, the midwife took over, taking almost as long as her assistant. She listened carefully as she moved to the lower right side of my abdomen and pressed firmly.
“Do you hear that?” she asked her assistant, “That sounds like the edge of a heartbeat right there.”
“Yeah. I hear that,” her assistant agreed.
What’s the “edge” of a heartbeat? I didn’t hear a different sound. I mean, maybe I did, but what do I know about Doppler sounds?
I tried to be excited, but my mind wrestled with doubt. The midwife offered to do an ultrasound if I wasn’t satisfied with the faint noise we had heard.
Trusting her expertise and not wanting to feed my anxiety or risk an unnecessary ultrasound, I declined and said,
“If you feel confident with what you heard, then so do I.”
Lies.
On the drive home, I asked Wesley,
“Did you hear the heartbeat?”
“Honestly, I was trying so hard to keep Levi quiet, I didn’t,” he replied.
My heart sank. Why didn’t I ask for the ultrasound? Why could I not believe even when proof greeted my eardrums? I kicked myself for doubting, but only time would tell the truth of the matter.
• • •
Ten weeks and three days. Stressed with my overwhelming to-do list, the lower back pain that was all too familiar from my visit to urgent care returned, and along with it the faint spotting.
I didn’t tell anyone. Not my midwife, not even Wesley because it was so light just like last time I figured it was fine. Sure enough, when I awoke the next morning it was gone.
Relieved, I decided to take it a bit easier that day; but even still, later that afternoon the spotting was back. I told Wesley but held off on telling my midwife unless it got worse.
It did.
Over the next few days, the bleeding just barely worsened. But with the progression being so gradual, I was somehow able to hold on to a glimmer of hope. It was so different from my previous loss.
I updated my midwife over the phone and she asked me questions about my symptoms.
“Do you have any clotting?” she asked.
“I just barely started passing the tiniest clots—smaller than the tip of my pinky finger,” I responded.
“Oh,” she replied, followed by words I can’t remember.
But I didn’t need to. Her tone said it all. Suddenly the atmosphere shifted and I wondered if maybe I was in denial as to the slightness of my condition.
We scheduled the ultrasound for Tuesday and waited.
• • •
Tuesday, July 18. I felt different that morning. Hopeful. I tried everything in my power to believe that if I had enough faith, my baby would live. Because the bleeding was progressing at such a slow rate, I thought maybe it was a subchorionic hemorrhage.
Nothing about this experience was like my previous miscarriage where I started spotting on a Friday afternoon and by Saturday morning, it was like a heavy period. This time, I had begun spotting on Thursday and by Tuesday I still wasn’t even at the level of a moderate period. That had to be a good sign, right?
My appointment was scheduled at an ultrasound office an hour and a half away. Wesley couldn’t take off work, so my mother-in-law, Donna, agreed to drive me to my appointment while my sister-in-law, Jessica, watched Levi.
Donna and I chatted the entire way to the appointment. Keeping my mind away from what we were about to step into, we talked about everything else. We arrived at the ultrasound office and waited in the lobby.
A very obviously pregnant woman stepped out with her daughter, and I knew my turn would be next. I silently hoped my belly would get to the beautiful point hers was. The third trimester gets a bad rap for being uncomfortable, but it was my favorite with Levi. I loved feeling and even seeing his every movement, and I longed to experience that once again.
“Danielle?” a woman summoned.
I grabbed my purse and made my way back to the ultrasound room with Donna following behind me. I sat on the table as they began their questions. I told them the first day of my last period and then they asked for my due date.
“February 5, 2024,” I responded, holding that date close to my heart.
“You’re eleven weeks and one day today,” the ultrasound tech said as she informed me they would be able to perform an abdominal ultrasound.
I was still feeling optimistic when I looked over to Donna and said with a smirk, “I’m so glad they can do the ultrasound this way this time.”
She was with me for my appointment with my miscarriage when they had to perform a transvaginal ultrasound because I wasn’t far enough along, which entailed shoving the ultrasound probe up you-know-where. But this was much more comfortable.
She moved the probe back and forth across my belly and the OB overseeing the scan said,
“Are you sure about the first day of your last period? You’re running small. At eleven weeks, we should be able to see your baby clearly this way.”
I nodded and they informed me they’d need to perform a transvaginal ultrasound to see the baby. So much for that. Everyone stepped out to let me undress, place the cover over my legs, and get resituated on the table.
Now I was nervous.
When the ultrasound tech returned, she prepared her probe and said, “I hate this part.”
Kind of annoyed by her comment and unsure of what she meant, I just said, “Yeah, me too.”
She moved the probe around as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing on the screen. It was silent in the room aside from the occasional click of her computer mouse as she took measurements of my womb. I knew legally ultrasound techs can’t answer questions or give details as to what they observe in the scan, yet she said something about not being able to find my baby.
My heart sank, thinking it was an ectopic pregnancy where the egg implants outside of the uterus. I looked at Donna and she was thinking the same thing with a worried look on her face.
“Does that mean the baby is in my fallopian tubes?” I asked.
“We’ll look at your ovaries, too,” the tech responded.
My mind raced to my limited knowledge of ectopic pregnancy from an old Grey’s Anatomy episode when Christina Yang had to have her fallopian tubes removed and along with them, her chances of ever getting pregnant again.
Starting to come undone, the OB walked in. I asked her where my baby was if not in my uterus and with a puzzled look on her face she said with certainty,
“The baby is in your uterus.”
Donna and I exchanged confused glances. What the actual heck? Now I know why ultrasound techs aren’t supposed to say anything. That was so misleading.
My emotions were basically a rollercoaster at that point. Hopeful to nervous to devastated to relieved and the scan wasn’t even finished yet.
“We’re going to look at your baby now,” the OB informed me.
They zoomed in several times and that alone made it clear to me. I knew what was coming.
They measured the baby and said, “Your baby is only measuring five weeks and six days.”
Then they turned up the volume so we could listen to the heartbeat, but there was no need… There was none.
• • •
Donna gave me a few minutes to call Wesley before we made the trek home.
“We lost another one,” I said with a tone of frustration.
He was shocked. He really believed this time would be different. If I was honest, I only hoped it would be.
For a while, the car ride home was silent. But I finally broke the silence and Donna and I talked the rest of the way home, this time not avoiding what just happened.
I told her how I felt numb. Nothing. I didn’t know what to think and there literally wasn’t a single thought in my mind. That had never happened to me before. I just felt… Empty.
When I got home, Wesley and I put the midwife on speakerphone.
“Danielle, I am so very sorry,” she started. “What you had is what’s called a missed miscarriage. That’s when the baby passes away, but your body hasn’t recognized it yet and delays the miscarriage.”
She prepared me for what was to come by saying,
“I know you have had a miscarriage before, but I advise you not to be alone, especially with your toddler, because you never know when a miscarriage will complete. Sometimes, once a woman knows she has miscarried, her body ‘releases’ the baby. So although things have been moving slowly, that could change in the coming days.”
I asked at what point I would need to go to the hospital—just in case—as I had previously been informed only to go if I bled through a pad in an hour. But she stated that sometimes that’s actually not enough. Instead, she suggested if I bled two cups in an hour, then I would need to go.
That metric honestly didn’t make sense to me because I have no clue what two cups of blood look like, but I put it in the back of my mind because I never needed to go to the hospital last time, so I figured that would be the case again.
We ended our call and welcomed Levi home from a day with his aunt and cousins. I hugged him extra tight just like I did after my previous loss, grateful for the child I have but not taking away from the pain of the ones I lost.
I cried myself to sleep that night asking God at the very least to get this miscarriage over with quickly. But the next day I learned the hard way to be careful what you pray for.
Keep Reading: My Miscarriage Story (Part 2)
