Hope Is Grief's Best Music

It's a peculiar thing to share sad news on social media. A part of me just wants to disappear or post frivolity until I feel whole again, because that feels easiest. But, it doesn't feel honest, and I need to be honest in the acknowledgment of my own grief right now.

I don't know how else to broach the topic aside from the truth: we lost our baby.

We conceived mere days after I published this post, which feels ironic in itself.  I couldn't believe it when two pink lines showed up on the home pregnancy test (and then again, darker, on two more over the next several days). Once the shock subsided, elation set in. I scheduled my first prenatal appointment, ordered the pregnancy books I'd been bookmarking for nearly a year and quietly began sharing the happy news with our families and close friends. We were so thrilled.

Then, two Fridays ago, I started to feel mild cramping while teaching. I wasn't too concerned by it, because everything I read suggested it was normal, especially at six weeks, and that I only needed to worry if the cramping was accompanied by bleeding. By Saturday, I began spotting lightly. My worry increased, but I didn't want to let myself crumble into full-on anxiety unless I had a valid reason, so I moved my doctor's appointment up to earlier in the week to help alleviate my fears. I happened to have two photo shoots that day which kept me busy and distracted. Sunday passed uneventfully, but I still went to sleep feeling unsettled.

When I woke up on Monday morning, I knew from excruciating physical evidence and a hollow feeling deep in my gut that a miscarriage was underway. Two blood tests and one ultrasound later, my worst fear was confirmed: I wasn't pregnant anymore.

The emotional anguish is unlike anything I've ever experienced. My little world came to a screeching halt while the rest of the world continues to spin. It feels particularly unfair because of how long we waited for this baby. I experienced a dark moment right after it happened where I wished we hadn't ever found out we were expecting, because to be given a gift as sweet as that after months of praying for it--only to have it ripped away shortly thereafter--feels especially cruel. I also have this overwhelming sense of guilt that because this all unfolded in a matter of weeks, we didn't have the opportunity to tell everyone we were planning on telling, and now they're finding out about both the pregnancy and the miscarriage here. I know that worry seems insignificant and ridiculous, but it matters to me.

Due to the unfortunate physical repercussions of miscarriage, I was at home on doctor-ordered bed rest for a whole week. Now that I've been back at work for several days and am slowly catching up on answering client emails & editing photo sessions, I feel a little bit lost. Reinstating a "normal" routine is both restorative and heart-breaking.

I've found some solace in reading other people's stories about pregnancy loss while curled up in bed, although it makes me ache to know that so many women have these stories to share. 1 in 5. Twenty percent. That's a sobering statistic, and one that keeps flashing through my brain over and over again. 

How can something so common be so painful?

Do you believe in signs? I do. Some of you may remember that I lost my maternal grandmother on my birthday two years ago. She was a woman I resemble in a lot of eerily similar ways, and when I noted the date once it was confirmed we lost this baby, it didn't surprise me that it was her birthday: November 11th (11:11). I cried and cried and cried because of the significance. You see, my nana experienced two or three miscarriages in between the births of her three children. My sister, who rushed to meet me and Tiho after my initial doctor's appointment, tenderly pointed out that maybe the timing of this was nana conveying that she is here with me, holding my hand and letting me know that it is going to be okay. 

I wrestled for a while in deciding whether or not to post this. I considered waiting until we had happy news to share, but you know what? Sometimes life is sad and uncertain, and there's nothing wrong with that. I'm human, you're human and we all go through tough shit. It's confusing, because while I certainly don't want this struggle to define me, it is a part of me now. I share because it's all I know how to do. I don't believe human beings are meant to suffer alone: by writing this down, I hope that somebody, somewhere, feels even the smallest sense of comfort, solidarity, connection or understanding.

I know we will heal and move forward from this and eventually conceive another baby. If there is any shred of goodness to be found in this experience, it is the knowledge that my body is capable of getting pregnant on its own. I strongly feel the presence of a tiny soul close by who is fighting hard to find us, too (maybe that makes me sound nutty, but so be it). I am equally excited and terrified by the prospect of trying again. In the end though, isn't that what parenthood is all about? Beauty and terror? Loving your child(ren) so fiercely that absolutely nothing trumps their wellbeing? Feeling your heart lurch outside of your body in the wake of their harm?

I came across these words in a children's book at exactly the right time. They perfectly convey my emotions surrounding this neverborn child: 

"I wanted you more than you ever will know...

So I sent love to follow wherever you go.

In the green of the grass...in the smell of the sea...

In the clouds floating by...at the top of a tree...

At the sound crickets make at the end of the day...

You are loved, you are loved, you are loved...they all say."

*Painting by Beth Allen. It makes me feel connected, and for that, I am grateful. Despite how profoundly sucky this whole situation has been, I am still grateful. Grateful for my ability to feel things intensely, grateful for unfettered trust in the universe, and, more than anything, grateful for hope.

P.S. Below, some additional reading if you're interested (it helps to know we aren't alone when navigating the complexity of this poignant heartbreak):

How to Cope With a Miscarriage.

Tears Are a Language.

My Miscarriage: The Story I Will Keep Telling.

My Broken Heart.

Angel Baby.
A Fist Bump.

Suite 994 (I've followed this blog for years. I returned the other day and re-read her entire archive).