My Family Encouraged Me to ‘Move On’ After My Miscarriage—Here’s What You Should Know

I squint, trying to catch a glimpse of the screen while lying on the examination table. “Lay back, give me a moment,” the doctor instructs. I force myself to remain still, envisioning my back glued to the bed while I focus on the silly posters on the wall, each adorned with cheesy phrases about self-care rituals before a gynecological visit. The room smells like a pool, but it’s just the scent of medical-grade sterilizers. The bright lights above me seem to infiltrate my thoughts, triggering memories of that horrible day. I avoid looking at my partner, Alex; his fear is almost palpable. My heart races, has been racing for the past eight weeks. My palms sweat, my body shakes, and I hold my breath. Tears threaten to spill—will they fall out of joy or despair? Please, God, not another gummy bear.

My mind drifts back to the anguish of losing my first child. It started with a solitary drop of red on toilet paper. A drop that I thought could be just a minor nick from shaving. It wasn’t. The nurse’s hotline dismissed my concern. At twelve weeks along, they told me not to worry about spotting and suggested I take a nap. But Alex’s mother, cool-headed, urged me to go to the ER. Without my knowledge, Alex floored the gas pedal of his old car, driving recklessly down the highway.

I had never arrived at an ER so quickly in my life. Perhaps it was the tremor in my voice that caught the nurse’s attention; perhaps she understood what I was going through. I was grateful for her kindness. My thoughts were a whirlwind, jumping from one fear to the next, as every hope I held for my baby flashed through my mind. I felt overwhelmed and shut down, tuning out the anxious chatter around me. I focused on the glaring lights above, letting them cloud my vision. I could sense the medical staff taking my vitals and asking questions, and I knew I was responding. Then, finally, the calming presence of Alex beside me broke my trance. I blinked, returning to reality, and he held me as I began to weep. It was time for the ultrasound.

The oblong shape appeared on the dark screen, eliciting a sigh of relief from Alex. I kept my eyes glued to the monitor as the technician cheerfully suggested an intravaginal ultrasound for measurements. Alex’s eyes sparkled with hope, his hands firmly grasping mine and resting on my stomach, as if to soothe my anxiety. The ultrasound probe entered, and moments later, a shadowy grey gummy bear materialized on the screen. Alex gasped. I looked away to see his face radiating with joy. “There’s our baby,” he exclaimed. But deep down, I knew my body had betrayed us; our baby would join the 10-20% of pregnancies that do not make it to birth. As this realization sank in, my grief twisted into anger aimed at the technician.

“Are you done yet? Get it out of me,” I snapped. I pushed her arm away, feeling like a bully shoving a child. As I bolted to the bathroom, Alex’s face reflected confusion and concern. “There’s no heartbeat. The baby’s gone,” I spat. He looked to the technician, searching for confirmation of my words. With her gaze downcast, she informed him the doctor would be with us shortly.

In an instant, despair overwhelmed any flicker of hope we had. I crumpled on the bathroom floor, half-naked and pushing Alex away. I couldn’t bear to look him in the eye. When the doctor finally arrived, nearing maternity leave herself, I screamed, “Get out!” Her perfectly round belly felt like a taunt. The doctor informed us they wanted me to have a natural miscarriage, believing it was healthier. But according to the American Pregnancy Association, natural miscarriages carry their own risks, and I was left feeling like my mental anguish didn’t matter.

I was consumed by self-loathing. I avoided mirrors, sobbing in the shower, wishing for a body that could nurture my child instead of harboring a lifeless being. I felt like a failure. An article from the Journal of Creativity in Mental Health aptly states, “The implications of an interrupted pregnancy can reach deep into a woman’s self-concept.” For five agonizing days, I carried the remnants of my lost child, and it shattered my self-image. I was ready to call the doctor and demand they intervene, but then the inevitable began.

My entire being fell into a pit of despair. I refused to take the pain medication prescribed to me, feeling I deserved the suffering as payment for my perceived inadequacy. While it’s common for parents to feel guilt and shame after such a loss, unless you’ve lived through it, it’s impossible to grasp its crushing weight. My baby never took a breath, and I felt like I had lost a part of myself.

Alex and I had envisioned a little girl with dark curls and green eyes. The Journal of Creativity in Mental Health expresses how maternal identity develops through dreams and fantasies during pregnancy. I spent countless nights dreaming of my daughter, brushing her hair, and cuddling together. Just days before the hospital visit, I dreamt of her saying goodbye, her ethereal form slipping through my fingers as I awoke in tears knowing I was losing her.

When it happened, the pain was unlike anything I had ever experienced. I ran to the bathroom, where the tangible evidence of my baby’s loss met me. Alex asked what I wanted to do. Unable to flush her away, I asked him to help. He wrapped her in a blanket and gave her a proper burial. I will forever be grateful for his support, as men often hide their grief to be strong for their partners, which can leave them isolated.

For a month, I bled intermittently and struggled to cope with the emotional fallout. I eventually learned to manage my triggers, allowing myself to cry into Alex’s arms each night. Research indicates that 15-30% of women experience significant psychological distress after losing a pregnancy and that many of these reactions are diagnosable. The emotional toll of carrying loss within yourself lingers, no matter how much time passes or how many people try to console you.

I had shared my pregnancy news with anyone who would listen, making my pain public. Some referred to me as “the girl who had a miscarriage,” and it took all my willpower not to lash out. Others tiptoed around me, while many struggled to find the right words and failed miserably. Clichés often do more harm than good, as highlighted in the article “A Dream Interrupted.” When I heard phrases like “It wasn’t meant to be” or “Your baby is in Heaven,” my anger flared. I wanted to scream, “Why wasn’t MY baby meant to be?” My father’s words stung the most when I confided in him about my grief. He dismissed my feelings, urging me to move on. I was crushed and didn’t speak to him for months.

Four months later, we decided to try for another baby without pressure or planning. One morning, an inexplicable urge compelled me to take a pregnancy test. I stared at the positive result in disbelief. Realizing I had stopped breathing, I turned to Alex and exclaimed, “Baby, I’m pregnant.”

For those navigating similar experiences, it’s essential to seek support and understanding. Resources such as Women’s Health offer excellent guidance on pregnancy and home insemination. Furthermore, if you’re looking for practical tools, check out Make a Mom for their fertility-boosting products. You can also explore our other blog post for more insights here.

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In summary, navigating the aftermath of a miscarriage is an incredibly personal and challenging journey. It’s essential to seek support, be mindful of how others approach the topic, and allow yourself the space to grieve.

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