“He Who Must Not Be Named” of the Pregnancy World

I remember the first time I told my soon to be husband I was pregnant. I was scared and nervous to tell him this 6 days before we got married in September of 2015. I remember my emergency c section for my son.

Christmas Eve of 2016, I remember telling my husband I was pregnant again. Scared, nervous and excited as I handed him my pregnancy test. I remember crying on New Year’s Eve as I drove home in attempt to tell him I was miscarrying. We laid together as I sobbed.

I felt like a complete idiot. I had told what felt like so many people that I was pregnant. Here I was taking all of that back. They say wait until you are out of your first trimester, but I was too excited. I was filled with joy, then sadness and regret of letting my word vomit come out. I had that hardest time saying or even typing out the word “miscarriage.” I didn’t want to admit it. It was like being a child and being told not to say “shit.” That was a naughty word and shouldn’t be spoken. That’s how the pregnancy world makes you feel about miscarriage. It was like I was saying Voldemort out loud. The word made me anxious.

“Call him Voldemort, Harry. Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.” – Albus Dumbledore

You were right, Albus.

Yesterday, my heart was ripped in half for the second time. I woke up and knew something was wrong. The next thing I know is I’m bleeding with the worst cramps my body has ever felt. My heart is sinking as my husband texts me and tells me to call my doctor. I’m already running late and Oliver has now learned if he shoves his fist down his throat he will puke up whatever he has just eaten. AWESOME. I push through my day trying not to cry as I make my doctor’s appointment, then trying to find the coverage for the day. I awkwardly call my regional boss to explain I have to leave. Her tone of voice clearly shows she has no care. The cramps are getting worse and worse. Once my coverage comes in I quickly leave. The drive to my house is awful. The cramps grow more intense. My father in law’s girlfriend picks me up and drives me to my doctors to meet Robert.

Of course the one day the office seems to not be running on time, its today. This is where I’m almost curled up in a ball on the floor. I just want the pain to stop. I’ve mentally prepared for the worst. This pain can’t lead to anything promising in my head. I’ve googled numerous stories of other women going through some bleeding spells and end up with a healthy baby in the end. Part of me in clinging to this thought. This can’t be happening again.

Not again.

The entire time my ultrasound is being performed I’m trying not to pull my hair out from the pain. The room is silent besides my little cries.  Robert is by my side, but I can’t focus. As the ultrasound finishes and she looks over the photos, she tells me she needs to speak to my doctor.

I know what is coming. There’s no way she wouldn’t of said something comforting if every thing was okay. My heart is aching. She sits at her computer and I can read it clear as day as she types. “No gestational sac visible.”

I try to hold in my tears. She leaves to get the doctor. I can’t hold it in. Next thing I know, I’m sobbing. This isn’t fair or right. I feel broken. Robert holds me close. I can hear his heart breaking along side mine. One preterm baby and two miscarriages later, I’m damaged goods. The one thing I feel like I could do as being a female, it seems I can’t do that. I didn’t want to tell the world I failed again. Saying the word again meant defeat.  I went through my phone into my pregnancy apps. I change the setting to not alert me as the weeks go on. I tell my husband to hide my ultrasound photos and hide my silly pregnancy shirt I ordered once the mail arrives. This is a cruel joke.

It’s hard typing these words out. I never thought I would be saying to people that this is happening, for a second time. I am not alone. I find others that go through numerous miscarriages. The pregnancy world makes it seem like these topics are taboo and shouldn’t be discussed. I won’t lie, I don’t think it’s easy to talk about. I don’t believe there should be the 13 week rule or that we hide behind closed doors to talk about it. The amount of support I have received from friends and family is incredible.

So, if you are ever in my shoes don’t think you are alone. I know how it feels to hear your own heart break. I see you. I am here for you.

 

 

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