What comes after (miscarriage)

TW this post talks about depression.

Yesterday on a work call I had to listen to two colleagues talk about how one of their partners, who is pregnant, was “getting big”. I tried to keep my face neutral as jealousy, anger and deep keening sorrow rose up. 

Later I took Santi for a walk and sobbed into the cold air at the empty park. 

They don’t warn you about this part. They don’t warn you about the place between miscarriage and what comes after, where your arms and belly are empty, before other children, when you’re just missing the baby you lost. 

So many friends have written me from their “after”, and I have taken comfort in their rainbows, in their joy. 

But right now, that’s not my story. Right now all I want is Georgie back. I want my baby. It seems like the world has moved on, and I’m still here at the metaphorical gravestone. 

I am taking care of myself. I am sewing and exercising and drinking enough water and taking my medication. A friend sent me a care package with stories from other women who have lost babies called, “Through, not around.” That’s very much where I am right now. I’m in it, and I have to keep walking through, one foot in front of the other, as best I can. 

I thought about waiting to write this until I was in my after, so I could tell you about how it gets better, about how we got our rainbow and are so happy now. But there are plenty of places where you can read that part of the story. Instead, I’d like to share some things I am experiencing, or have experienced, during this in between:

• Depression: I searched “post-partum depression + miscarriage” and found almost nothing, which is so frustrating. Obviously postpartum depression after miscarriage is understandably very common. I have a generalized anxiety disorder, and while switching medication shortly after my miscarriage, experienced a short period of deep and terrifying depression. Put bluntly, there were moments when I wanted to die and be with my baby. This kind of depression needs to be treated. If this is where you are, please talk to your doctor, or find a doctor that can help. I’m so grateful that my meds have started making a difference in this area, and the grief I go through now feels more measured, instead of something that swallows me whole. I am also thankful that I wasn’t physically alone when I was going through those days. Rolo was and is my rock through all of this.

• Body changes: The first time I tried to exercise after my miscarriage, I was shocked at how little stamina I had. I am slowly building it up, but not putting a lot of pressure on myself. It is hard to see my tummy flatten so quickly, and yet it still lacks the muscle tone I had just a few months ago. A few minutes of a workout video a day, my walks with Santi, and some semi-regular yoga really help me feel better connected to my body as it has changed from pregnant to not. 

• Low Self-esteem: I am generally a fairly confident person when it comes to appearance. This is in large part thanks to my parents, and also because I am a person in a straight-sized, socially acceptable body. But post-miscarriage I have felt lower about myself than I have in a long time. I combat this by the above mentioned exercise (yay endorphins!), highlighting my own hair (going back to my childhood blonde always makes me feel like myself), and taking part in the 100 Day wool& dress challenge, which you can learn about here. Intentionally getting dressed every day, but not having the decision fatigue of deciding what to wear, has brought out my creativity and helped me worry a lot less about what my body looks like. 

• Jealousy and anger: Like I mentioned above, pregnant friends, colleagues or even strangers I see are a huge trigger. Miscarriage is common, but it’s still kept so silent that there is a huge sense of “Why me?” to the experience. Why am I one of the few? Why did I have to go through this trauma? Why do they have it so easy? I don’t have any easy answers about this as it’s just something I have to let myself feel. But gratitude and awareness have helped me- gratitude for the things I DO have, like Santi, my wonderful Rolo, my dear friends and family, a beautiful home, good food, warm and comfortable clothes, and time for myself when I need it. It also helps me to remember that everyone is experiencing or has experienced their own heartache. Even if it’s not my particular pain, or at this particular time, life can be cruel to anyone. You just never know, so kindness goes a long way. When I can’t manage to be kind, I remain neutral or remove myself from the situation. I know I can’t give from an empty basket, and drawing boundaries is something I’ve had to learn to do.

I’ve had many, many good days in the month and a half since we lost Georgie, but I’ve also had really hard ones that have made the time pass so slowly. It feels like it has been much longer than it has, which is a good reminder to myself that it’s ok that my body and heart and mind are still healing from this trauma and loss. As women we put so much pressure on ourselves to be ok, to do the damn thing, to keep calm and carry on. I refuse to. It’s ok to not be ok, and right now that’s where I am. 

Our Miscarriage

My husband and I are very private people- somewhat unusual for a writer, especially one in 2022, when social media seems to demand that every part of us be on display.

So when, in conversation a few days ago, my husband said he thought I should write about my miscarriage, I was surprised at first. But, as we discussed it more, I realized his intention. Rolo and I went into this pregnancy thinking we knew the basics about the next nine months. It turns out that we didn’t, because not once did I expect that my first child could become one of the 25% of known pregnancies that end in miscarriage. But that is what happened, and the experience blindsided us all the more because of what we didn’t know.

Our story

After six years of mostly being apart, Rolo finally arrived home in Canada for good on October 15, 2021. Which is why, on November 16, I sat staring in disbelief at a positive pregnancy test. While I never in my worst dreams had expected to have a miscarriage, I was, at 34 with suspected endometriosis, thinking I would perhaps need some medical assistance, or at least time, to conceive our first child. I took two more tests just to convince myself of the good news, then I waited in a daze to tell Rolo.

Before I met my husband, I had always thought I would adopt, and perhaps not even have biological children. But meeting my sweet, wonderful husband changed my heart in an instant. I still hope to adopt one day, but I also have a deep aching desire to bring a child into the world whose DNA reflects our crazy, grace-filled story. Waiting for Rolando’s immigration papers, and then getting separated by the pandemic, had me drawing on patience I didn’t know I had. It also made me acutely aware of my ”biological clock”, and had me fighting tears of jealousy whenever another friend announced her pregnancy.

So although getting pregnant seemed to come easy, we had waited six years to be able to have a child by the time I saw those two pink lines. Having our list of baby names become an imminent possibility seemed like a miracle, and we jumped into learning and planning for our new family member with infinite joy.

The worst happened

Since I had some spotting that I had thought was a light period in early November, my doctor ordered an early ultrasound at around eight weeks to ensure we had our dates right. Rolo and I walked into the ultrasound room hand in hand, hearts pounding because we were about to hear our baby’s heartbeat for the first time.

As soon as the camera slid onto my belly, showing an image on the monitor above us, my heart sank. I couldn’t see my baby.

The technician said it could just be too early, and that the gestational sac was there. But as the exam progressed, she got quieter, responding to our questions with a simple, ”Your doctor will be able tell you more.”

After that appointment, Rolo kept a positive attitude. ”He just needs to grow,” he comforted me. I told myself the same thing, but I think in my heart I knew.

After an agonizing five days, my doctor finally had the ultrasound results and ordered some blood tests to check if my HCG levels were dropping. ”It could be too early, but it could also be a missed miscarriage,” she said. Google already had me suspecting that’s what could be happening, but I kept trying to hold out hope like Rolo was doing so valiantly.

I was under a lot of emotional and mental stress having to wait to hear the fate of our baby, so we decided to spend Christmas with my family in Halifax. We knew the holidays would prevent us getting results for a while anyway, and being with family brought the smile back to my face, distracting me from my overwhelming anxiety.

Christmas morning with my parents, siblings and niece was so wonderful. But on the afternoon of the 25th, I started to bleed and cramp a bit. It was light, starting off pink and slowly getting brighter. The cramps were a bit uncomfortable, but not extreme. Our family doctor in Halifax said I should go to emergency for an ultrasound just in case. On December 27th, that’s what we did.

After waiting for a long time, we were shown into a room and a doctor wheeled a portable ultrasound in. That night was the saddest of my life, but I’ll always be grateful for the compassionate honesty that ER doctor had. He told us that he wasn’t seeing the development he should, even with our dates being earlier than we had thought. Our baby hadn’t grown properly, even though the geastational sac kept growing, telling my body I was still pregnant. My body was now beginning to miscarry naturally. At 11 weeks and four days, our dream was over.

I called my mom in tears, not even having to say the words for her to know the worst had been confirmed. For the next few days I was in a fog, feeling like half of myself was on another planet, trying to process what was happening to me. We had a small ceremony where we prayed around a campfire in my parents’ backyard, and Rolo and I shared that we had named the baby Daniel George Barrientos Radford, or Georgie.

The doctors, and the medical information I could find online said I would continue passing blood, as well as some tissue, for a week or more, and that the pain would be like bad period cramps. On December 30th, the bleeding and pain intensified for a few hours, and I thought the worst had passed.

But the next afternoon at 3pm, the pain returned. I began going through two overnight maxi pads an hour, and the pain crescendoed into toe curling waves that almost made me pass out. Rolo held me as I writhed and cried out, and my mom called an ambulance.

Firefighters arrived first and took my blood pressure. It was 135/82, a testament to the agony I was in, since my bp has consistently been 90/60 for at least the past ten years.

On the way to the hospital, strapped onto a stretcher, I was so grateful for our healthcare system when the first dose of morphine washed through me. My bp dropped down to 110/70 almost immediately, and for the rest of the night, Rolo and I felt like we could breathe. It was the worst New Year’s both of us had ever had, but the paramedics, doctors and nurses made sure I was comfortable through it all.

An ultrasound the next morning showed that the pain was likely due to the gestational sac moving down to my cervix. Later that evening, a few hours before Rolo and I flew back to Ottawa, it passed from my body. My mom put it in a little box, where it is buried in the spot of a future tree my parents intend to plant. We’ll be able to go and sit next to the tree and think about our little one, in the arms of our grandparents in heaven.

A Wanted Child

While doctors have told me that my body did exactly what it was meant to- natural selection, they’ve called it- it feels like a betrayal. My mind and my heart shifted as soon as I saw those two deep pink lines. Georgie made me a mother, but without him, I am an invisible one. I will never hold my child. Never push him on the swings, watch him graduate, listen to his heartbreaks, cheer his accomplishments. There is a hazy, raw void where that life should have been. What could have been is a shadow that will walk beside me for the rest of my days. 

The emptiness of my belly still often feels like a black hole of grief. Just weeks ago Rolo was kissing it, saying hello to the baby as he came through the door. Just weeks ago I was talking to the little one inside, telling him about the plans we had, or begging him to give me a break from the nausea I experienced for over a month.

Yes, we will hopefully have another child. But that doesn’t make Georgie’s loss easier. Little Georgie was wanted and loved, and nothing can replace his brief presence in our lives.

They tell me that what happened to me is as common as 1 in 4. The chances of it happening twice in a row are 5% or less, which is some comfort, but now that it’s happened I know that anxiety will exist next to my joy the next time around. And while I don’t want other expectant mothers to live in a state of fear for those first fragile months, if I had known it was so common, or what to expect when it did, it likely would have lessened the tsunami of trauma I am still trying to swim my way through. So I am sharing, not only because Maya Angelou calls an untold story an agony, but so that, if the worst should happen to someone who reads this, they’ll know they’re not alone, and they’ll know to brace for the weeks to come.