My miscarriage story and a follow-up
By: Lee Tae Cobb
Tags: Birth, Grieving, Miscarriage, Death, Loss

On a cold and misty Sunday afternoon, I thought I would check if I was pregnant. I bought the cheap Rite Aid brand pregnancy test, thinking the possibility of a pregnancy was slim to none. As a couple, Tyler and I tried for a baby at the beginning of the month, but everything that I had read said it would take one or two more times to get a positive pregnancy. I got a pack of two pregnancy tests with a coupon for $4 and went home to try them out. I called Tyler on FaceTime to chat and left him on the phone while I fiddled around in the bathroom. I casually read the pregnancy test directions and popped off the test cap. I took a pee and then waited. Within 30 seconds a plus mark appeared. “What?” I stated. “This can’t be”. I then peed on the other stick. That was also positive. I bought 10 more tests and peed on every one of them and each came out positive. I was pregnant.

I always had a fear, a deep internal fear, that I would never be pregnant. I never knew where this came from. Maybe it’s because I am adopted and I do not know my biological family history, or that I have had multiple polyp surgeries in my uterus. This combination has led to suspicion and a perpetual feeling of being infertile or unable to conceive. The moment those tests turned out to be positive created a state of dissonance. I was thrilled thinking about being a mom. Scared to be a mom. Afraid I would not be a mom. I also have a fear of running out of time. After my friend passed away at 29, I was constantly reminded about how life can be cut short. I have this fear of not having enough time to have a child. These are the effects of any trauma surrounding a death no matter if the loss is unexpected or expected.

I immediately called my mother to break the news. She was thrilled, but I also stated my apprehension that I may lose the baby. In a fog of excitement and fear, I began to download and search everything on being 5 weeks pregnant. What did the baby look like? What did the baby need? I looked for a list to find out how not to screw this up.

The next week I mentioned my pregnancy to Tyler’s parents and mine. I also let three friends know, two are mothers and another a close friend. In the tight-knit circle, I chatted with them about the future. I talked about my emotions and my morning sickness. I made doctors’ appointments and was told by the nurse to keep doing what I am doing, and it will be a successful pregnancy. I imagined how we would tell Tyler’s boss so he could ask for time off. I imagined telling my friend who is currently pregnant. I imagined buying baby necessities and started making an imaginary list of who I would invite to my baby shower. Whenever I would think about a happy future, I also would remind myself of the chances of miscarrying.

After a week of bliss and imagination, eating lots of dairy, and systematically taking my prenatal vitamins, it felt like everything was on track. I had fully fallen in love with this baby, which was the size of a pea. I did everything to protect it. So, when I went to the bathroom at Shake Shack, I did not expect to see blood. Every time I would visit the bathroom, in my gut, I feared that, when I wiped, blood would appear. This time, in the stainless-steel box in Philadelphia, a light pink smear soaked into the thin breakable toilet paper. I sprang out of the bathroom and darted towards Target. This time my tests were more expensive, $20 for two. I did not care. I ran back to the same bathroom, running into our friends. I grabbed my friend and pulled her into the bathroom. She tried to reassure me that it is probably just spotting, which is common in early pregnancy. I am not sure if I can pin it down to intuition or my perpetual fear of being infertile, but I knew something was wrong.

Later that night Tyler and I went to the emergency room. I tried to tell myself everything was going to be alright, and this was just light spotting, common in early pregnancy. I was second-guessing that there was something wrong. Tyler rubbed my back as it had begun to cramp, and I could feel that my bleeding was getting heavier. When we were brought into the small private emergency room Tyler helped me undress and change into the hospital gown. Our physician’s assistant entered our room. As I tried to think only about happy positive thoughts, I noticed how much the PA resembled the actor Adam Driver. I thought to myself, “would the PA be offended if I pointed out how much he looks like Kilo Ren?”. I told myself, “Yes, he would be offended,” and so I just listened. The PA set out the agenda for my visit; he would first check my blood. If I was pregnant, then they would bring in the ultrasound technician. In my head, I perked up. I imagined that the ultrasound would be my first chance to hear the heartbeat, my first true moment of meeting my unborn baby. I got excited.

For an hour and a half, Tyler and I watched Diners Drive-ins and Dives on our hospital television. I felt content. The blood results came back that I was pregnant, so I told myself we were just waiting for the ultrasound. The ultrasound would tell me that everything is okay, and soon we will be home warm and comforted in our bed.

In the ultrasound room, I recognized the technician from a year before, as I had gotten a number of ultrasounds to prepare for my polyp surgery. I wondered if it would be weird to mention to her that we had met. I decided it would be strange and acted like this was all a new experience. I laid down on the cool bed. The technician started to run the ultrasound wand over my stomach in search of a heartbeat. She had me move on my side. I then asked her “do you see anything?”. She looked concerned and said “no.. but.” She never finished that sentence. I noticed on the screen flickers of pink and orange. I convinced myself “there’s the heartbeat”. Then I would tell myself that if it was the heartbeat, she would have pointed that out. She then inserted a probe into my vagina. The cool probe searched around seeking out the small possibility that the pregnancy was lurking in my fallopian tubes. The technician told me that she did not see anything resembling a heartbeat, but the doctors could look further. I knew then that I had lost my baby.

My wheelchair ride back to my hospital room was calm and quiet. I chatted with the attendant about how peaceful the hospital was even on a Saturday night. This surprised me because on television emergency rooms are always noisy. She told me there is chaos, but the hospital hides it. When I made it back to the room, Tyler asked me how the ultrasound went. I told him there was no heartbeat. I shrugged it off and convinced myself there was still a chance the technician might have missed it, or perhaps we were incorrect about the implantation date and so I was actually earlier in my pregnancy and the ultrasound would not be able to pick up the heartbeat. We continued to watch television, but my focus this time was on a tan cabinet outside of the hospital room. I could feel two tears leave my eyes. Tyler reached out his hand to comfort me and I thought to myself, everything is okay. We later got the confirmation that there was no heartbeat, my HCG levels were high, and there was a strong chance I might have an ectopic pregnancy. We were told to return in 48 hours to check the HCG levels. Because of my obsessive online searches about pregnancy and everything related, I knew exactly what this meant. I had almost definitely lost the baby, even though the PA told me there is still some hope. As we left, a woman at the front desk asked me, “How did it go?”, I mumbled back “Not so good.”

When we got home, I finally cried. I sat on the ground and let it all out. I curled up on a small rug in our living room and hugged my stomach. My perpetual fear of a miscarriage had come true, and I did not prepare for the outpour of my emotions. I had prepared for years about the possibility of a miscarriage but forgot to prepare for the overwhelming sadness that would clench onto the body. The truth is, when I found out I was pregnant I fell in love with the baby. I imagined a future with the baby and so the short period of knowing I was pregnant; I did everything to protect the small pea-sized embryo. Even though I feared this pregnancy would end the way it did, I hung onto hope that my deep-down desire to meet this baby would come true.

Tyler had to instruct me how to walk upstairs, wash my bleeding body, and lay in bed. I cried on the floor, in the shower, in bed, and on Tyler’s shoulder. All my crying eventually put me to sleep. When I awoke, I cried more. I sent out texts to the friends that knew about the pregnancy. The texts read “I lost the baby”. I immediately got responses back, but instead tossed my phone aside. Tyler called my friends to explain what happened so that their heads were not filled with blank thoughts and growing questions. I had never felt this kind of loss before. I have lost grandparents, a best friend, and though each death has been painful and exhaustive, this loss is sickening and deep. I called my dad, who currently resides in the hospital. It was the first time I saw myself reflected back on the small FaceTime screen. I screamed at him that we had lost the baby, and he looked sad and confused. I looked destroyed and traumatized. My Sunday was spent grieving and sleeping. Tyler’s Sunday was spent making phone calls to tell the family we were no longer pregnant.

We went one more time to the emergency room, 48 hours after our first visit to confirm the miscarriage. I knew going in that I was miscarrying, but the confirmation from the doctors made the reality stick firm. I spent the next few days crying and searching online for the best ways to get over the miscarriage. No one had an answer, but it was the first-person stories that would stop the extreme moments of grief. Women with similar experiences spilled their accounts onto web pages and forums. These words reminded me that I am not the only person to go through a miscarriage.

Over the week Tyler and I watched season after season of Designated Survivor and Tiny House Nation. We ate popcorn and take-out, and two gallons of ice cream. We laughed at jokes and cried over the devastation. When a moment would get tough, Tyler would rub my back or give me a long drawn-out hug.

I was not prepared for the blood after a miscarriage. There is so much blood. For the next week, I bled large clots, I leaked on my clothing, and my back cramped. The pain was not just emotional but was physical. My relationship with my period is monthly dismay. When I am on my period I hate going to the bathroom. I hate looking down at my underwear and dealing with pads and tampons. However, when one is miscarrying, your relationship with the blood is different. Instead of dismay, looking down and seeing blood is devastating. The tissue of your unborn child is being flushed down the toilet and so each bathroom visit turns into a ceremonial goodbye.

I was not prepared for throwing a grenade at loved ones. It is a strange feeling to surprise friends with two combative pieces of news. Because I was only in my first trimester, I had not let many people know that I was pregnant. I first had to explain I was pregnant, and then finish up my sentence with the news that I miscarried. While I prepared to reach out to friends, I wondered if they would care or be supportive. I did not want to ruin their week.

I was also not prepared for the reactions I got from those who found out about my miscarriage. People do not react like you always want them to. Most people say the right thing, but sometimes people say the wrong thing. I am the kind of person who grasps onto the wrong thing, forgetting the kind words that came before and after. Online you can find lists of, “What to say and what not to say to someone who just had a miscarriage.” Honestly, they are pretty accurate. One friend told me “don’t be sad”. How could I not be sad? Another friend rationalized my grief as “maybe it’s your hormones that are making you sad”. My response was “I think it was love, not hormones.” These statements heated my body, my heartbeat quickened, and I saw friendships fall apart. I wondered, “how dare they say that?” Being told how to think, act, feel, and heal is not what someone wants to hear when they are grieving. However, reassurance from some friends reminded me that people sometimes just say the wrong thing.

I mostly got amazing responses from friends, family, and strangers. Small acts of kindness lifted me out of perpetual sadness. My stylist listened to my story and right before I was about to leave, he wished me well. He did not have to say the right thing or go into what he thought of my situation. His eyes told me he supported me, and acknowledged my sadness. The attendant at the front desk of the hospital whispered to me “good luck” showing his concern for my situation. The nurse in the emergency room lightened my mood but respected my sadness. His smile brought a little joy when my head was filled with cloud and shock. Three close friends perpetually checked on me throughout the week, even though some lived across the ocean. A few friends told me how much they also cared for the baby we never met. My gynecologist gave me a single hug to offer her condolences. These moments helped the healing process. I cannot be more thankful to those who were there this week. The most meaningful support was Tyler. Tyler’s manager, without hesitation, gave him the week off. This act of kindness has allowed Tyler and I to grieve together.

Though Tyler’s boss was kind, I did not know how to go back to work. As a Ph.D. student, I had to return, so I could teach my students. I went back that Tuesday and felt like I was in a daze. Do I tell my students what happened over the weekend? No. Is it inappropriate? Probably. So, I kept quiet. I ended up canceling the next day because I just could not keep up smiling.

One regret that I have is that I wish I kept the positive pregnancy test. I threw them all away. In the euphoric moment of pregnancy, the little plastic stick was just a source that displayed I was pregnant. I could feel the essence of my baby in my stomach and I did not need proof of its existence. Even after the miscarriage, bleeding into the toilet at least signified that I carried an embryo. Once the bleeding stops, the remanence of your unborn child is no longer tangible. Without the bleeding, I can only rely on my memory and the complicated medical records that prove to me that my baby even existed.

I never blamed myself. Whenever I would start to blame myself for the miscarriage, I stopped myself. I had read over and over that miscarriages are common, and I kept on having to repeat that in my head. I did everything I could to keep the pea-sized embryo alive. I ate good food, did low-impact exercises, and I paid attention to the kinds of chemicals I put in and on my body. I was told later on, by my gynecologist, that the miscarriage was most likely caused by the new polyps in my uterus blocking the implantation process. Not every woman has an explanation, and even this possibility could be incorrect. Though I do not blame myself for this miscarriage, I do fear if I ever have another miscarriage, I will hate myself and my body.

All these moments have led to this moment, writing this experience down so I can continue healing and remember the baby that was. Healing is a process that has its highs and lows. Healing is not easy and is uncomfortable. Healing is cruel and reassuring. Healing is complicated and perpetual. People can say “the pregnancy was just six weeks”, those are individuals who do not understand how much I love. I am a person who, when I love you, I love you hard. I loved this baby hard, and that’s a feeling I do not want to forget.

This is my miscarriage story. They say I am part of a club now. The next fears we have are whether we are infertile or unable to conceive. Doctors, researchers, friends, and family tell us there are other ways to have babies, or we will have another chance in our future. I hope I can conceive again. I hope these doctors, researchers, friends, and family are right. Yet, at this moment while I am healing, I do not want to hear about solutions and advice. I want to take a moment and sit in my grief and have others be okay that I am not okay. Miscarrying is devastating and often ignored or not spoken about. Therefore, women are not prepared for this bag of emotions. I am however asking for my friends and family to be okay while I obsessively dig through the bag. I may pull out something that makes me angry or makes me laugh, and each one of these emotions will eventually lead me to something that resembles “healed”. As I close this story, I can reassure you that I will look towards the next steps to starting a family. I will heal in my own time. I will grow from this situation. I will forever love the baby that we never knew.

Follow-up

Today marks a year since I lost my first pregnancy. Laying here feeling tired and heavily pregnant with a baby due in less than three weeks feels strange, exciting, and sad. I have not gotten as close as I wanted to the baby inside of me due to losing the first baby. I find myself making jokes to my friends about what my future baby will be like, but what I truly desire is just a breathing baby. Finding out about my first baby I was full of excitement for a future, even though it was short-lived. My second baby was filled with the expectation of loss and paranoia, especially in the first trimester. I still have a habit of perpetually checking my underwear for blood, in fear that I will have lost the baby inside of me. I hardly grieve the first pregnancy anymore, but on this day, I find myself in a haze between wanting to love the one who sits in my belly and not forgetting the one who stirred up so many complicated first-time emotions.

I learned from my early pregnancy that I can survive the loss, especially while holding my partner’s hand. I can survive disappointment, and I can grieve how I want to grieve and ignore the judgment that I guarantee comes along with loss. What I noticed most was my refusal to ignore the stigma of miscarriage. I have used this year to continuously speak out about my experience, expressing that those who deal with fertility complications are allowed to cry, grieve, be okay, be confused, express our feelings, and not express them. I learned it's okay to ignore recommendations people throw on you when you are grieving, and find your own way to heal. It was okay to embrace my jealousy watching our friends get pregnant. It’s okay to explain our experience in graphic detail. It is okay to say we are angry. It’s okay to not follow the proper etiquette and I am growing used to unapologetically expressing my feelings without holding them inside. I have learned I don’t have to keep my mouth shut. I have become someone I am proud of. I have been able to navigate a year of loss and I am okay I did not handle it “perfectly”. I handled it in the way I needed to help me heal. Now it has been a year since I lost the baby and 10 months since I lost my dad. It has been horrible, but also a year I have grown into the self I always thought I could be. I am happy and okay with being sad. Some of you might hate that I express myself in this way or may only want to see the happy parts of my life. Honestly, we shouldn’t be friends then, because this is me.

Though this year has been awful and yet amazing and part of me. Without speaking out, as women, as those who grieve, would/ could feel alone. Thank you to those who have helped me navigate this year. You know who you are. You have made me a better person. These awful experiences have made me a better person.