Tales of Miscarriage

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Miscarriage ArtBelinda Jane

I’m fourteen weeks pregnant. The joy, whilst overwhelming, is tempered with anxiety. Because in March we also did this happy dance. Only it wasn’t to be.

At my nine week scan we heard the words no parent wants to hear: “Your baby has no heartbeat.”

I’d had flashes of something being wrong. A feeling of cold dread one night, when I sat in the bath and cried without understanding why.

The day after the scan was hell, but with each day that passed I felt stronger. I took a week off work, booked a D&C.

One day, before the procedure, I walked to the park, picked a tree and held a ceremony to gift the baby’s spirit to the tree for safe keeping.

Time went by; we grew strong enough to try again.

When I told my colleagues the news of our second miracle, one said: “We thought you were pregnant a few months ago.” I was I was I was.

Another colleague has been asking the childless women in the office why they don’t have kids yet. No matter how well meaning the question, it is never okay to ask this of a woman. Behind the smiles and politely brushed off comments, for those who are struggling it hurts like hell. You never know what a woman has gone through, or is going through in order to have children. And unless you are that woman, or her partner, it’s frankly none of your damn business.

Miscarriage Motivational ArtMr_a_to_z 

That night, I scoured the Internet for tips on how, as a guy, I was supposed to talk about miscarriage, but most of the information was about how to help your partner. How to be the “strong” one (as though she isn’t the strong one). But there was nothing about how seeing a father holding a newborn makes you scream into your shoulder. Nothing on how your inability to raise your wife from her melancholy makes you feel like a failure as a husband. And definitely nothing on how to talk about miscarriage with the men you’ve been friends with your whole life.

Miscarriage Caroline Darragh 

No baby shower, no gender reveal.

My swollen belly won’t be wrapped in a bow, friends won’t gather around to squeal.

No heartbeat. For a month baby’s been gone.

They’re sick of hearing,

Sick of the tears.

But I can’t hold them back, I have to leave here.

When will it stop? I can’t cope.

Can’t learn to heal.

Always apologizing, don’t want to burden.

No one fully cares that I’m still hurting.

Stuck in grief or moving too fast?

Don’t want to forget, just wish they would last.

Miscarriage ArtAnonymous

Now I know what hell actually looks like. What it feels like.

When you are 12-weeks pregnant and you see blood streaming down your legs. When you are having an ultrasound and the doctor says “I’m sorry, there is no heartbeat.” When later the doctor says that your pregnancy actually stopped 6-weeks prior.

Hell is the night in the maternity ward where you’ve got half the anesthesia needed because you drank 2 glasses of water and you feel every move of the extraction of the no-longer-living baby inside your womb.

Hell is when you are lying still, with pain in your womb, and in the room next door there are crying newborn babies.

Hell is when you want to take this baby and run away. When your husband is waiting for you downstairs and you are empty in all ways.

Hell will be with you all the time after this.

Hell is when nobody knows about your loss because, really, what could they say? “We are sorry”? How would this even help?