The atmosphere is unnervingly sterile. I find myself in a dimly lit corridor, the hum of fluorescent lights creating a surreal backdrop. It feels like I’m trapped in a time warp, as if nothing in this space has changed since the 1970s. I catch a glimpse of a dusty Time magazine poster, the date reading 2009. Perhaps I’m not truly present at all; maybe I’m lost in a strange dimension. That would certainly explain the overwhelming sense of unease coursing through me.
“Mrs. Bennett?”
With trepidation, I rise and shuffle toward the door, wishing to prolong the inevitable news. The doctor’s accent is unfamiliar, and her expression remains neutral—neither warm nor cold. In this moment, I could really use a smile. Why does it feel so frigid in here? My partner, Jack, is completely oblivious, chatting animatedly with our son, Ethan. I silently plead with them to avoid the toys. I simply can’t afford to worry about germs right now. My focus must remain sharp.
The doctor flips through my test results before looking at me over her thick glasses. My gaze fixates on her mouth as she enunciates the word with painful clarity: “m-i-s-c-a-r-r-i-a-g-e.” Suddenly, a buzzing fills my ears, and the world around me blurs. It’s as if I’ve been struck, leaving me dizzy and utterly lost.
Tears spill forth, shaking my shoulders as I reach for a tissue from her desk. Everything is a haze through my tear-laden vision, and I quickly feel ashamed for my emotional breakdown. A flicker of empathy—or perhaps discomfort—flashes across her face; it’s clear she’s unsure how to respond to such raw vulnerability.
As I step out of that sterile room, the weight of reality settles in. It has happened—something I fervently hoped would never touch my life. I’ve experienced a miscarriage. Well, not quite yet. Now, I must wait. My body is set to carry out the painful process on its own.
I’m stuck in this limbo, running to the bathroom every twelve minutes, anxiously checking for signs of what’s to come. I brace myself for the impending pain, lining my bed with towels in a desperate attempt to salvage my linens during the night.
Every choice I made comes rushing back. Each bite of food, every product I used—was it my fault? Could I have done something differently? Maybe it was just unfortunate luck, a random genetic mishap. Yet guilt creeps in, reminding me of moments when I wasn’t my best self. Perhaps the universe is punishing me; perhaps I somehow deserve this.
The tears come in waves, relentless and heavy. I’m still expected to take my vitamins, monitor my caffeine intake, and maintain hope. The doctor mentioned there’s still a chance—though it’s slim. So, I find myself in this frustrating state of being half-pregnant for an undetermined time.
Hormones continue to wreak havoc on my body, not as potent as they should be, but enough to trigger a teenage-like breakout on my face. I find myself crying unexpectedly—watching an episode of my favorite show, reading bedtime stories to Ethan, each reminder of what could have been brings fresh waves of sorrow.
Suddenly, an overwhelming urge to clean takes over. I become hyper-aware of every speck of dust in my home. Why does everything seem so dirty? This isn’t just a need for tidiness; it’s a sign of something deeper—a sign of depression. I’ve recognized these symptoms before, and I know how to combat them. But right now, I must allow myself to experience this pain.
Depression is a heavy cloak—it suffocates. But I also know it thrives on being ignored. If I don’t confront it now, it will surface unexpectedly, like a monster lurking in the shadows. I need to face this discomfort, to truly feel it, much like Eleven confronting the Demogorgon.
My heart aches. I don’t care what anyone thinks—this was the beginning of a new journey. A new life that would have been a companion for Ethan, a chance for our family to grow. There were supposed to be four of us, and now, there are three.
Words feel inadequate, and I hesitate to acknowledge this reality. It feels like I’ve let down our unborn child, my husband, and Ethan. It’s as if no one can truly understand the depth of this loss.
“It happens in 20% of pregnancies.”
“I know someone who had two.”
“At least it’s early.”
“At least you have one.”
“You can try again soon.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
While well-intentioned, such remarks often minimize the reality of miscarriage. Please, let’s not downplay what has occurred. Acknowledge that the brief moment of pregnancy was real and that the pain is valid. Just be present. Sometimes silence is the best support—simply being there when the due date arrives is what I need most.
For now, I want the universe to recognize the profound loss I’ve experienced. If sharing my story helps even one other person feel less alone, then perhaps some good can come from this pain. To all the “almost-mothers” out there, I understand what it feels like to wait, to question, to ache, and to fear. I know what it means to be half-pregnant.
For more insightful resources on fertility and pregnancy, explore our post about couples’ fertility journey or visit ACOG’s page for expert advice on treating infertility. Additionally, check out this article for further understanding of this sensitive topic.
Summary:
This poignant reflection captures the emotional turmoil of experiencing a miscarriage. The author navigates feelings of shame, guilt, and sorrow while confronting the societal tendency to downplay such a loss. Through raw honesty, she emphasizes the importance of acknowledging the reality of miscarriage and extending support to those grappling with this heartbreak.