#ihadamiscarriage

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#ihadamiscarriage

In April of this year. 

It was painful and terrifying and devastating. It was the end of a brief and happy journey in which Hubster and I thought that our struggles with infertility had ended. 

As it turned out, new struggles were about to begin. 

Until this year, I didn’t know that October is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. Nor did I know that October 15th is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. If I had ever seen #ihadmiscarriage before, it hadn’t registered. 

Why would I? Until this year, I had experienced the pain of infertility, but not the pain of pregnancy loss. Before now, I wasn’t the mama of a baby I never had the chance to hold in my arms.

But I’m a mama now. I’m Asa Raye’s mama, and that fact has changed me and my life profoundly. 

Back in March, Hubster and I began to try getting pregnant after a six month hiatus from the task. I’d had a laparoscopy in September to clear the endometriosis from my body, followed with hormone therapy meant to help my uterus and ovaries reduce any residual inflammation. We spent February prepping to try again. I took my pre-natal vitamins and we did a Whole30 to detox and prepare. 

And apparently, something worked, because the first of April found me taking a pregnancy test that seemed to have an ever-so-faint line on it. My best friend freaked at seeing a picture, because she called to assure me that if there’s any line at all, you. are. pregnant. 

I took a second pregnancy test. 

Another faint line. 

Hubster and I hugged and cried and stared at each other in wonder. 

Pregnant. 

For one glorious week, we talked and dreamed and expected the fact that we were going to be parents in December.

A week later, I started to spot. Then bleed. Then cramp. 

In a process much slower and more painful that I’d imagined it could be, even at the early stages, it became clear that my pregnancy was slipping away from us. 

There were calls to the doctor, appointments, blood drawn, test results. 

#Ihadamiscarriage. 

Then I had devastation and loneliness and anger and grief and pain. I cried and clutched at Hubster as he held me, wishing that this hadn’t happened to me.

My miscarriage wasn’t a secret, exactly, but it wasn’t the easiest thing to talk about either. At first, talking about it felt like stabs to the heart—how could I speak about something so big and enormous and overwhelming? 

So we took little steps forward. 

Hubster and I started trying again for a baby. We met with our pastor regularly to talk and pray and process. I discovered that, much like infertility, there are women who have miscarried everywhere around me. 

Eventually, we chose to give our baby a name, even though we never had the chance to find out if we would be snails-and-puppy-dog-tails or sugar-spice-everything-nice parents. 

Gender neutral, we decided. 

We came up with Asa Raye. 

Naming Asa gave me a real sense of peace. A name made Asa’s presence in my life tangible and real in a way that others can acknowledge and appreciate too. 

Miscarriage is so often suffered in silence, or merely whispered about, and it seems that no one is sure how to talk about it. It’s abstract, rather than concrete, and we don’t know how to offer condolences or support. 

When we miscarry our precious babies, we hold that close to the chest, because we somehow feel ashamed, guilty, angry. The world often appears to tell us that our grief should be lessened by the fact that our babies weren’t in our arms yet. But the babies we carry in our bellies, even for a brief time, are carried in our hearts forever. 

So why don’t we talk more about it? 

I don’t know the answer to that question, but I do know this: we need to start talking about it more. We absolutely do. Because I know too many women who have miscarried and said nothing, because they are too ashamed and devastated and eaten with guilt to let anyone know about it. 

And here’s the reality: miscarriage is too painful to go through alone. All women who miscarry need to know that she isn’t the only one to lose a much anticipated baby. She’s not the first to feel guilty because there’s some relief over losing an unexpected pregnancy. She’s not the only one whose anger has actually frightened her when it springs up unexpectedly. She isn’t the only one to questions herself: all women who miscarry wonder if they ate, did, or interacted with something that ultimately caused the loss. 

But the statistics are clear: when you get pregnant, you have a 20-80% chance: 20% that you will miscarry, and 80% that you will carry to term. And if those stats are to be believed, it means that there are LOTS of women around you that have miscarried too. 

#Ihadamiscarriage began with Dr. Jessica Zucker, who lives and works in Los Angeles as a clinical psychologist. She specializes in women’s reproductive and maternal mental health, and she began the movement #ihadamiscarriage because of her own experience with a 16-week miscarriage. She’s doing pioneering work in helping women tell their miscarriage stories, as well as helping them grieve their losses. 

I stumbled upon Jessica Zucker through the Coffee + Crumbs podcast, just this past week (if you haven’t read Coffee + Crumbs, you should). The episode is all about miscarriage and National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day, which is today, October 15th. Coincidentally, my own miscarriage had been heavy on my mind, because this week was my wedding anniversary. 

My anniversary gift from Hubs? 

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A stacking sterling silver ring set, handmade by the wonderful artists at The Vintage Pearl, with Asa Raye’s name on a plain band and their birthstone on the other. Blue Topaz, because my baby’s due date was December 8th. 

When Hubster and I decided the time had come to try for a family, I never imagined the journey I was about to embark on. I had no idea. I didn’t know that infertility would change the fabric of my being. I didn’t know that Asa’s loss would be permanently etched into my soul. I didn’t know that #infertility and #ihadamiscarriage would become a part of my life story. 

And I never imagined that in struggling through things so big and enormous and frightening, I would find my voice, and it would be different than I expected. 

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So today, I am giving voice to this miscarriage of mine, hoping that by doing so, I might offer some courage or support or solidarity to someone else out there whose sudden label reads 

#ihadamiscarriage. 

You aren’t alone. You aren’t forgotten. And your baby isn’t either.