I recently discovered there is a lurking aspect to pregnancy not commonly discussed: Miscarriage.
A possibility exists the baby might not come to fruition. I never considered this prospect for myself. I am healthy within most parameters physically, mentally, emotionally. I teach movement, perform demolition, and construct spaces for a living. I take part in therapy & journal regularly. I practice Yoga. I squat. I eat a whole-food based diet, cooking everything from scratch. My husband & I continuously nurture our relationship. We disagree. We laugh. We surf the ups and downs. We make our friendships a top priority. Our family dynamics are screwy at times (Treat your family well damn it!). All in all, we work diligently at creating space for well-being. So naturally, I assumed such a foundation being paved internally for the unborn child we created.
Truth #1: Turns out none of this mumbo jumbo holds much weight when it comes to a full-term pregnancy.
“Let’s see if we can hear your baby’s heartbeat…” my midwife directed, bringing tears to my husband’s eyes. I laid upon the examination table and exposed my belly, anticipating the precious thump, thumps of life, which never came. My midwife kept repeating: Even though I was only measuring in the ninth week of pregnancy, my fitness seemed a definite condition for hearing the beat. Still nothing. We jumped into an ultrasound. Then an intravaginal ultrasound. Nothing. The midwives scheduled me for another ultrasound the following morning with Maternal Fetal Medicine, who’s equipment reigns as the Traeger of pregnancy Ultrasound machines. Husband & I rehashed our experience throughout the evening, convinced, we simply were not as far along in the cycle as once thought; we could be just six weeks after all, and perhaps too small to pick up…
Ultrasound succeeded by another intravaginal, we heard words like “debris” being exchanged Doctor to the technician. My heart plummeted. The word debris didn’t seem to be a positive implication to a healthy pregnancy. It’s not. The gestational sac proved visible in my uterus, though nothing paraded within it. Imagine being slapped into numbness. Sensation meets void… Oneness. Breathing at the apex of personifying one the most tragically fragmented moments of my life, I saw myself caught between the closing of a year and the verge of another. Pieces of my soul scattered before me on the floor, weeping. Ashamed. Longing another path. Yearning a different Karma.
Truth #2: Miscarriages are common. They say the mother is not at fault, yet the mind may wade into a cesspool of self-loathing.
Raw, guttural pain. Exhaustion behind the eyes. I am here, knowing I will never see a landscape the same again. The kind of mourning of losing something internal like an organ– an extension of self. And at the loss’ possibility, my ambiance wades hollow. Everything crashed to an end. The way I imagined myself sits on the brink of no longer existing. Stuck in a “watchful waiting” period as my midwife calls it. Pacing the unknown, the limbo: baby or no baby? The results of my declining HCG levels (the pregnancy hormones) still not conclusive. So, I’ll draw more blood and take another ultrasound, awaiting the call with a sadly drawn heart all the while, tears shed upon my soul. A friend told me, “This is something you’ll always remember.” Yes, I now know the process of a miscarriage, leaves an imprint on your being. Blighted means destroyed, shattered, wrecked, ruined, devastated, scared and just like a scar, I will carry this experience with me as a learning. I will eventually move on from my feelings of devastation. The shattered fragments around me and within me will also dissipate. I will feel my footing once more. In the meantime, I allow myself space to process the sensations running through me… the lack of comfort, the confusion, the uncertainty, as these circumstances are part of living. How I cope paints my future.
Nevertheless, this in-between, watchful waiting territory seems like unfair purgatory. I’d much prefer confidently inhabiting the space of baby coming in T minus thirty weeks. Nesting their nursery. Not crying to myself on the drive home. C’est la vie. We don’t always get what we didn’t even know we so passionately wanted. I suppose the cheerleaders on my sidelines speak some truth in as much as The Universe’s course may not align for this pregnancy, the timing not àpropos for the health of the baby or me. Ticktock, ticktock speaks the clock. When will it be?
If someone you know is going through a miscarriage don’t ask them if they have taken another pregnancy test. Refrain from telling them everything works out as it should because even if the mother believes this dogma, they do not want to hear it. They probably need time to feel whatever emotions encase them, to mourn, and find healing. More than listening to you talk, they likely yearn being listened to. If they confided in you, do not speak openly of their trials to friends or family. This is their body, their pain. Let them share it when ready. Instead, help them reconnect with self-love by loving them through means like cooking a meal, being there for hugs, or rubbing their shoulders to name a few. Ask what you can do to support. Simply hold space for them to grieve.
Truth #3: Right now, this miscarriage business is my crucible or situation of severe trial. All of these elements intermingling around me and within me will ultimately lead to the forging of a greater version of myself. I’ve arrived at a point of no return. Magic and miracles dance ubiquitously. This too shall pass.
Update. Since writing this piece, I moved past the threshold of the waiting period and entered miscarriage territory. My experience proved awful, one I would not wish for anyone. This morning, someone helped me remember that my heart grew through this experience, only for it to break, leaving me to digest the hemorrhaging. Gestation of suffering exists perhaps to expand our compassion and awareness of one.
