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Miscarriage

There’s no Heartbeat: A Story in Honor of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day

“There’s no heartbeat.”  It was my first pregnancy and my first ultrasound, and while I had been nervous before the appointment, my thoughts were of an ectopic pregnancy or twins; miscarriage never even entered my mind.  Having done IVF with a genetically tested embryo, I didn’t even think miscarriage was a possibility.  So when I heard those fateful words at my seven-week ultrasound, I was completely unprepared and totally stunned. 

After consoling me, the nurse practitioner who did the ultrasound asked me to make a follow-up appointment a week later.  She said there was a slim chance that we’d hear a heartbeat at the next appointment, but it was unlikely.  I knew that for my own mental health, it would be best to assume the worst.  Over the next week, I vacillated between crippling anxiety and devastating grief.  The second appointment confirmed what the first had indicated: I was miscarrying.

The following days, weeks, and months were among the most difficult of my life.  As a single mom by choice (SMC), I had no partner with whom to share my grief.  Although my family was extremely supportive, I often felt alone.  Upon telling a friend what had happened, she confided that she, too, had suffered a miscarriage.  She said, “You are now a member of a club that no one wants to be part of.” 

Sadly, the infertility club and the miscarriage club have many overlapping members.  I learned this when I started attending one of JFF’s support groups.  Through the group, I have met numerous women who’ve also had miscarriages, either before going through fertility treatment or during the course of treatment. 

While I wish none of us were members of either club, I am beyond grateful to have connected with other women who understand what I’ve been through.  One of the most upsetting aspects of my miscarriage was encountering friends and family who didn’t offer the support I longed for.  Some said the “wrong thing,” while others said nothing at all.  For me, the latter was more painful. 

Even when someone said something that wasn’t helpful, at least I knew they were thinking about me and were making an effort.  The friends and relatives who were silent made me feel like they simply didn’t care.  Some individuals who had congratulated me on my pregnancy didn’t even say “I’m sorry”; others offered condolences initially but then didn’t reach out again or never mentioned my miscarriage in subsequent conversations.

In addition to the JFF support group, I began attending one for miscarriage and pregnancy loss.  At one meeting, a woman said something that really resonated with me: “When I lost my baby, it was as if I had been holding a vase, and I dropped it and it shattered.  Some people rushed in to help me pick up the pieces, while others jumped back so they wouldn’t get cut.”

If you know someone who has suffered a miscarriage or pregnancy loss and are wondering what to say or how to support that person, think about what you’d say to someone who’s lost a loved one.  A simple “I’m sorry” goes a long way.  In the aftermath of my miscarriage, what I wanted most was to be seen and heard.  I wanted people to acknowledge that my pain was real. 

It doesn’t matter at what stage of a pregnancy you experience a loss; it is devastating no matter when it happens.  Whether it’s a failed embryo transfer, a first trimester miscarriage, or a full-term stillbirth, that loss likely will change you forever.  Even when people go on to have another child, the pain of a loss stays with them. 

For those who haven’t experienced a miscarriage or pregnancy loss, it may be difficult to understand what someone who has is going through.  Even if you don’t understand or are worried you might say or do the wrong thing, the best thing you can do is to show up for that person.  For more specific suggestions, see this article from the UK’s Miscarriage Association.

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