I sat in the waiting room at the hospital. Eyes rimmed red, heart aching and mind blank.
Sitting next to me was a young couple, the girl with a large, swollen belly, who looked too young to be having a baby. As I sat there, I listened to the pregnant couple talk about how hard they were going to party this weekend and while my jaw hung slack, two of their friends showed up and talked about scoring some weed for the weekend. They were talking about doing drugs while I held a belly that had held such hope and so many dreams for me.
“Teresa Blaskie?” a voice called from what seemed like a very distant place.
My husband had to nudge me. I had spaced out from the sheer disbelief that around me, in this small town waiting room, were people who did not seem to be at a place in their lives to raise another human being, who were having babies and here I was, wanting one with every fibre of my being, with an empty belly and a broken heart.
I got up and walked toward the nurse who had called my name. I didn’t speak, I just followed in her direction.
“So Mrs. Blaskie, it looks like we’re going to be taking a look at this fetus today, aren’t we!” she said cheerfully.
Punch to the gut.
Air wooshed out.
“There is NO fucking fetus!” I replied, tears spilling down my face. Steve, my husband, gripped my hand tighter and we forged onward into the room. The uncharacteristic outburst on my part didn’t seem to phase Steve but perhaps he was feeling as numbed out as I was. The nurse looked uncomfortable and apologized, muttering something about my chart and how it wasn’t noted. I didn’t care, I just wanted this over with.
I was directed to a room where I changed into a paper thin hospital gown and was then led to the ultrasound room. It was dark, quiet and somber. It reflected back to me exactly how I felt and reality sunk in deeper.
As I laid on the table, with the ultrasound tech doing an internal ultrasound to ensure that the uterus had cleaned itself out and that a D&C was not necessary, I mourned the loss of my unborn baby.
I had only been six weeks along when we lost our baby and even though there are pregnancies that go on longer before a miscarriage and miscarriages that are more devastating in nature, it killed me at the time. I was gutted.
You see, in the moment when you pee on that pregnancy test stick and you get a plus sign or a digital PREGNANT or two lines, your life changes. Your mind shifts. You fall in love. It happens instantly (at least it did for me).
When I peed on that stick, the eight months of trying vanished. The sex that had become routine and not as much fun (“I’m OVULATING… We HAVE to have sex RIGHT NOW!”) all seemed worth it. The plans were forming together (pink or blue… would we move? I can work less now… Let’s go shopping for baby clothes!) and the love was blossoming.
And when I started cramping and bleeding, my world began to crumble.
And when I went to emergency and they did an HCG test and saw that my numbers were lower than they should be, my heart began breaking.
And when I finally saw the results of that ultrasound, I went numb.
Miscarriage is hard. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been pregnant for two days or six months. It’s hard and it hurts and you will feel the loss.
But it does get better.
You will want to try again and when you do get pregnant that next time, it will be that much more precious to you. You’ll appreciate every second because you know what it means to have it ripped away from you so suddenly and without control.
We lost our first baby to miscarriage but we now have a beautiful daughter named Willow and she is the light of our life. I will always wonder what our other baby would have been like but I feel at peace now and I feel like everything happened for a reason… even though at the time, I likely would have flipped you the bird for saying so.
In light of it being Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, I invite you to reflect back on your own miscarriages. Don’t be afraid to think about them, honour them and talk about them. Send a little prayer and some love to your unborn baby. If you haven’t experienced one yourself, reach out to a friend or family member that might have and simply say, “You are such a strong person to get through what you got through. You are awesome.”