Marriage Monday: Miscarriage

There are a lot of moments I remember in my life.

Falling down the first time I rode my bike, with my Dad, in the park.

My brother Graduating from high school and leaving home.

Standing in the kitchen with my Dad holding me when my Mom got home from Dartmouth, and I knew my Grandfather had passed away.

Singing “Love Child” in the car at the top of my lungs with my Mom with the sunroof open.

The phone call in the middle of the night that I knew signified my Grandmother had passed away.

My Mom walking through the door, tears streaming down her face to tell me she had cancer.

Looking in my rear view mirror on I-95 as I drove into Maine for my first weekend of college with my car packed full of stuff, and my Mom behind me in her car.

Getting the keys to my first apartment.

Speaking in the world social forum in Venezuela.

The day that Stacey donated her kidney to my Mom.

Graduating college, (both times).

The day I realized I was in love with Casey.

The day Casey proposed to me, and six months later the moment I became his wife.

The day I realized I was pregnant.

The day I realized I was no longer pregnant.

Experiencing this miscarriage rates high up on the top of crappiest things on Earth for me (and look at my list, I had a lot of experience with crappy – thank goodness I have had even more happy). It’s isolating. First, because very very few people know (knew) we were trying, very very few people knew this happened. Secondly, no one knows what to say or do. It’s not an illness. It’s not a get-well card kind of event. It’s not a “better luck next time” when someone doesn’t get a job. It’s not a “cheer up charlie!” moment when someone’s having a bad day. It’s isolating to the point that I was scared to tell even Casey what was going on, because that loss also feels like failure, especially when we’ve been trying a long time. It also feels ridiculous. How do you miss something that barely even was? How do you treat this as a “late period” (thanks, Doc!) and not a gut-wrenching-loss? How do you pretend everything is ok. . . when it’s NOT. . ?

Everyone handles it differently. About 3 or 4 days after I realized what had happened, I sat in the kitchen talking with a mother that I was starting to work with. She said to me (snidely), “how can you tell me anything about kids if you don’t have any of your own?” I felt like all the air had left my body, and I had to finish the session and cry all the way home. How do people treat others in such a way, having no idea what could be going on for them? Those words were my breaking point. An entire bag of Doritos was eaten. Tears were shed. My husband held me. Everyone’s breaking point is different. There comes a time where we have to cry, to mourn what is or what isn’t. I’m human (yes, really).

Infertility and miscarriages are widely hidden from the world. They are both isolating, and isolation is a powerful way for people to begin losing hope, feeling depressed, wondering why people don’t notice that something is wrong. In writing this, I want to acknowledge that both of these have happened to us. There are support forums, I’ve joined them. There are places to share your story, I’ve done that. But here? You know us. . . in. . .real. . . life. And that’s scary. But, I am trying not to allow this power over me, because I haven’t done anything wrong. These things happen to people. Just like cancer. And graduations. And falling off of bikes. And marriage. And it is no less worthy of my attention than all of these other moments.

Thank you for reading and hearing this. And remember, please treat others with kindness . . . you never know what they are going through.