I was nearly 12 weeks along when I lost our unexpected third child at work, just before the afternoon rush to pick up my other two kids from daycare. As I neared the nursery, I felt an odd mix of relief and energy—not unlike the joy I had experienced after giving birth to my daughters. Just like that, it was over.
That morning’s ultrasound had shown a blighted ovum, which had ceased to develop past seven weeks. Surprisingly, I felt no sadness. I could trace the moment my pregnancy symptoms had disappeared, and honestly, this unplanned third child came too soon after my youngest, who had just turned one. We hadn’t even decided to try for another. I was still nursing and yearning to reclaim my body. Plus, I had just settled into a part-time job that I loved. The timing was simply terrible.
I shot a quick message to my close friends, dismissing their sympathies with a simple, “It wasn’t even a baby. I have two healthy girls, and this wasn’t planned.” I convinced myself that I was fine.
I celebrated what I thought was a lucky escape, considering all the new jeans I could buy and a summer vacation we could now plan. Most importantly, I felt grateful to keep my newly negotiated job. Lucky me.
But the aftermath caught me off guard. Just two days later, a wave of despair crashed over me. I felt abandoned by everyone who believed I was coping well because I had told them I was. Maintaining my composure at work only deepened the turmoil. I longed to cry, but I was afraid if I started, I wouldn’t be able to stop. “I’ll cry tomorrow,” I reassured myself.
Gradually, all the bright sides of not being pregnant vanished, leaving only heavy clouds of sadness. For the first time, nothing seemed to matter—not the jeans I thought I wanted or the body I had foolishly believed I had reclaimed.
Every time I looked at my family, I felt a void. Despite my insistence that it wasn’t really a baby, I keenly felt its absence. The moment you find out you’re pregnant, you start imagining that new life—even in ways you don’t consciously acknowledge. Would it be a girl or would the universe finally balance itself with a boy? How would our youngest manage, still just a baby herself? More importantly, how would I cope? Yet deep down, I believed we would manage, and with every worry, there were twice as many hopes.
In my otherwise mundane life, I found joy in the notion of that third child—a gamble many see as a luxury. This child had the potential to be a true gift, showing me that little things don’t matter; if two of the three kids have brushed their teeth, it’s been a good day.
Instead, miscarriage robbed me of that gift. Suddenly, the year stretched ahead, filled with milestones I would try to ignore. With no assurance of trying again, the thought felt like a daunting risk. I decided it would be better to wait and hope for another blessing.
I never discussed my miscarriage with anyone; I simply didn’t know how. What words could possibly make me feel better? It wasn’t until I received a generic letter from the health visitor stating, “please accept our condolences,” that I recognized I even had the right to grieve. I clung to that letter for months—it was the only proof I had that I was ever pregnant.
“It will take time to heal,” I was told, and gradually, I did begin to feel more like myself. I found the courage to speak to my boss, revealed my ambition to write, published a book I had been working on, and started my own blog. The experience of miscarriage began to take on new meaning, or perhaps I just needed it to.
The question of the third child lingered, and it wasn’t until we decided to take control of our future that I truly began to heal.
Two years later, we welcomed our third child into the world. The balance of our family is restored with a boy. Some days are smooth sailing, while others? Not so much. But there are definitely more hopes than worries. I was right about that.
My miscarriage no longer haunts me, yet not a day passes when I don’t wish I had known how to process it better. When I don’t wish I had allowed myself to grieve. When I don’t wish someone had told me how vital it is to acknowledge that grief. Because a miscarriage is never truly over. Just like that. And it shouldn’t be.
You absolutely have the right to mourn this loss.
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Summary
This article discusses the emotional journey of experiencing a miscarriage, emphasizing the right to grieve the loss, regardless of the circumstances surrounding the pregnancy. It shares a personal story of navigating the unexpected feelings of loss and the complexity of family dynamics. Ultimately, it encourages readers to acknowledge their grief and seek resources for family planning and support.
Keyphrase: Right to Grieve Miscarriage
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