Not that I need to warn you now, you did read the title correctly, this is a confronting post and I debated over whether to write about it. Something tells me other people will understand.
We had no problems conceiving Zac, obviously, as he took us by surprise. When we decided to add to our wonderful little family of 3, the excitement of planning it all out was almost overwhelming. We didn’t have the chance the first time, so it was all new to us and we wanted to enjoy the journey.
We get to “work” and after a few months I started getting those changes that you only get when pregnant. Boobs and all. It was all happening and we were eagerly anticipating the future.
Mother’s Day morning I woke up to some severe cramping. Immediately I went to the toilet. The thing that you think won’t happen to you, happened. Undoubtedly it could not be mistaken for something else. I wanted to vomit. Someone was squeezing my heart and tightening with every breath I took.
I walked out of the bathroom and did not tell Shane. I did not want to say it out loud. Or admit to myself what took place. And so, I waited for a little while. The responsibility of destroying his world at that time, I could not cope with. Finally, swallowing the lump in my throat, I shared the news, and immediately felt as if I had driven a stake through his heart. He couldn’t speak. You see, we are a team. What happens to me, happens to him and vice versa. And the heartache and anguish I felt was cutting him too. I wanted to be selfish and have him hug me, feel sorry for me and focus on me, but the reality of miscarriage is that the baby is robbed from both of you, not just the mother. We cried and just moved around in a stormy haze. When you have another child to look after you put on a brave face, then ugly cry when they aren’t looking. Not that you should hide your emotions, but how the hell do you explain miscarriage to a 3 year old.
How ironic that day should be Mother’s Day and my Grandmothers 80th, which was an hours drive away. Feeling like we should keep up appearances and distract ourselves, we push on and head out to a lunch for my Grandma. Isn’t it amazing how when the chips are low you can still pull out a false version of yourself. It may not be the best version but it still resembles you in some way or another. We get through the lunch without saying a word to anyone about that morning. I wanted to go home, hide in our bedroom and cry.
We didn’t say a word to anyone for a few days. Why. Why would I want to talk about something that made me feel so much shame? Shane suggested we tell somebody so we can vent, let it out, and grieve. He was on the brink, as was I. But any pain I inflicted on myself seemed irrelevant in comparison to that previous Sunday morning. Eventually I tell my mum, and he tells his. For the first time I hear the word miscarriage and it may as well have been a knife stabbing me. I am told of many women I knew in one way or another that experienced loss of children or fertility complications. Some repeatedly. None of them ever spoke to me about it. You would have never known. I understood why.
We began trying again and eventually we were blessed with our second beautiful little man, JJ. We didn’t concentrate on “trying” as much as previously. The fun was sucked out of it by grief. One morning I realised my period was late and on a whim used a test we’d bought months before. When I laid my eyes on the positive result my heart again felt tight, but I could breathe through it and I let out a tear of relief. Showing Shane will forever be a dear memory. But the pain of the past still surfaces. And I ashamedly did not see a doctor, or tell any of the doctors including my future obstetrician about what happened. They ask you as part of protocol but I didn’t want to talk about it. When I lost the baby, it was so early on and I felt unjustified talking about it. Having it written down against my name on a doctors file was the last thing I wanted.
I want women who have experienced loss to know, I am so incredibly sorry that happened to you. You are not a faulty human. You are capable of love, there is so much love within you that the world needs. It is okay if you do not want to talk about it. But if you want me to come and just sit with you so you do not feel alone, message me and I will come and do that. I am so sorry you feel like a piece of you was stolen away and that you feel broken. You are not broken to me, you are amazingly strong and I admire you.
The Peninsula Mum has also written about her story here