The Price of a Miscarriage

            November 8^th…I stared down at the double pink lines staring back at me and tears filled my eyes. Baby #7 was on its way to me and my husband. My heart fluttered with happiness and my hands immediately flew to my belly, cupping what would grow another precious life. I ran to the top of the stairs and shouted for my husband to come upstairs. I immediately go back to wait in the bathroom and when he enters the room, I hand him the news and say, “Merry Christmas Daddy.”

            Cravings begin and I’m eating things I don’t usually do. I break the news to the children who are so happy and then I break the news on social media. I can’t wait to tell everyone that we’re going to be parents again. My heart is filled with love and I just can’t hold it back.

            Then…I start to spot. I’m pushing it back, hoping it’s nothing. It’s dark, old blood, nothing to worry about. I set up an appointment to confirm my pregnancy and they do an ultrasound. The tech says the fetus is too small and they can’t detect a heartbeat but there’s a baby growing in there. Don’t worry about the spotting. It’s normal and as long as there’s no pain, you’re fine.

            Dark blood turns to bright red blood and I end up in the ER. The doctor says we can’t tell if anything is wrong because it looks like the fetus is too small and if you end up having a miscarriage, there’s nothing we can do. I’m crying now and I’m thinking…why? But there’s no pain, whatsoever, so I’m keeping hopes that it’s fine.

            And then I hear the words: “Your pregnancy is a nonviable pregnancy. Your baby stopped growing at 4 weeks. I’m sorry but what you’re experiencing is an early miscarriage.” And I break down and I cry. It’s not the first time it’s happened but it hurts more than ever. I’m sitting on my toilet and peeing out blood and urine at the same time, crying and wondering why. The doctor tells me to come in if the pain is too much and she’s sorry. I hung up the phone and I called my husband who was working 9 hours away to say “we’re losing the baby.”

            And then the pain comes…so bad that my legs shake and I’m peeing out clumps of blood that feels like I’m giving birth. There’s blood running down my legs, staining the carpet and the bathtub and I’m weak. I’m crying and asking it to stop. But it doesn’t.

            The price of a miscarriage costs a woman everything. Floods of messages of “I’m sorry” and “I’m here for you” calm and comfort a small portion of it. But there’s so much more a woman deals with emotionally and mentally before she’s able to open and smile again. So much pain, so much loss and so much hurt into a life that never got to live.

            To my baby: You will always be a part of me. You never really left and as you make your way back to wherever you came from, know that my arms will always be open for you should you decide to make your way back to me. You were loved the same as all my children.