My miscarriage occurred on October 19, 1996, I was 9 weeks and two days pregnant when I lost my second child.
At about 7 weeks along into my pregnancy, I woke up one morning and reached for my one year old son who was beside me in the bed, as he wanted to nurse. As I stretched to pull him in to me, I felt a pop and a small gush of liquid – almost as if I had wet myself. I knew immediately that something was wrong. I started to shake and ran for the phone to call my midwife. She assured me that I was far to early on to have broken my waters, and that even if I had, there would not have been a noticeable amount of fluid. I was not so sure; something just didn’t feel right about that awful pop. Even now, 8 years later, I can still remember that exact sensation and the feeling of dread that settled in my belly.
My pregnancy continued, and I was nervous about taking care of another new life when my first son was still so little. I had the normal worries of whether or not I would be able to handle it all. I was fatigued and sore from being pregnant, and worried about being able to get through the pregnancy. I was also looking forward to a new little life. Another baby to bring to my breast, and into my arms. I hoped that maybe this time it would be a daughter and that I would get to buy all of those sweet little pink outfits. That I would be able to have that special mother-daughter connection. I dreamed she would have brown hair and big soulful brown eyes.
At 9 weeks I started to spot. At first it was very faint, light brown, but then quickly turned to pink. I called my midwife in a panic, the memory of that horrible pop in the back of my mind. She reminded me that I had also spotted with my first child, and not to worry, that it was very common. She told me to lie down and take it easy if it made me feel more like I was doing something, but that studies had shown that rest did not really do much to prevent first trimester losses. Whatever I felt most comfortable with is what I should do.
Over the course of the next two days the spotting turned to red, and then to out and out bleeding. I lay on the couch for those two days, trying not to think, talking to my baby, begging her to stay. Begging her not to leave me. Telling her how much I wanted her. Telling her how much I wanted to be her mother. Crying silently. Sobbing out loud. Wanting to do anything I could to stop it from happening. I have never felt so powerless in my entire life. Never so betrayed by my body.
I sobbed on the phone to my mother, telling her that I knew that it was going to happen. There was no chance now. I was bleeding too hard and the cramping had started. I remember holding my belly and just thinking no no no no no. I felt something heavy very low down in my pelvis. I stood up to go to the bathroom and I felt my baby slip right out of my body.
When I got to the bathroom I closed the door and locked it, much to my husband’s worry. But this was something I had to do alone. When I looked I could see the sac that held my baby, covered by the placenta. I opened it, feeling strangely morbid and guilty the whole time and saw the tiny one that was my baby. I wasn’t even sure that it was my baby, which was unsettling. It was a small curled shape about the size of a grape. I felt so bizarre, and almost ashamed that I wanted to look. That I wanted to see. But even then, so early on, I had the need to hold the little soul that had graced my body for such a short time. I needed to see my baby and to hold her.
Time at that moment seemed disjointed and fragmented. Nothing seemed real. I sobbed and cried, in such a primal way. It was grief, raw and simple.
I finally opened the door and fell into my husband’s arms. I didn’t know what to do with the baby. We had a clean jar, and we put her there.
I called my midwife, but she wasn’t on call. I had to speak with the replacement. She was very kind and so sensitive. She told me that I should think about maybe creating a special ceremony for the baby. That I should understand that my loss was as real as any other, and that I would need the closure that a memorial would bring. She asked me what the baby looked like and I told her. I remember her telling me that even so small and unformed that my baby was beautiful, perfect in every way, just as she was. That she was a miracle, just as she was. Those words meant more to me than any other in the days that followed. That acknowledgement that my baby had been perfect, had been a baby, had been born – but had died.
I asked if I should go to the hospital. She advised that if I felt the need to go to the hospital, that I should go. But in her opinion I had had a complete miscarriage, and it would not be of any benefit to go, and would very well be a detriment to my emotional state. She told me that they would want to take the baby, and that I would likely not get her back again. That possibly it would be better to stay home with my husband, light a candle, think of my baby and grieve together. She suggested that we might want to name our baby, if that felt right. She also told me of physical signs and symptoms that I should go to the hospital if they were to occur.
I gladly took her advice and stayed home. I found a beautiful scarf in my drawers and I wrapped my baby in it and set her down in a wooden box that I had painted. We lit a candle beside the box, and held each other. My son woke up and we just all held each other. I took a piece of the scarf and wove it into a bracelet and placed it on my wrist. It stayed there for over a year. I needed to keep that connection to her. We talked and cried, and we chose a name for our baby.
The next morning I felt completely empty and hollow. I remember my hands travelling to my belly and then stopping, and the grief just rising in me and flowing out. We decided to bury our baby on the mountain, in the forest on Mont Royal. We walked up the hill, which was difficult. My body was so bruised and battered from losing the baby and the climbing made the cramps and bleeding worse. I probably shouldn’t have ventured out so soon, but I needed to. We buried her in a grove of maple trees and tied a ribbon to the tree that she was under. Leaving after we had buried her was awful. It was hard to pull myself away. I felt so empty, so hollow, so betrayed. I wanted to grab her back. I wanted her back inside me growing. My mind was just a soup of swirling, confusing emotions.
The days and weeks that followed were dark. Just dark. I was devastated and nobody could fathom why. I couldn’t stop crying. I was angry. I hated the sight of pregnant women. I hated pregnant women themselves. I hated the whole outside world that was pressuring me to get over it, get on with it.
The day after I buried my baby my neighbours invited me over to dinner. I told them what had happened and they just couldn’t understand why I would want to change plans. You’ll have another baby. You can’t think about it. You need to get out and be with people. I declined, and hated them for their good intentions. For their not understanding that I lost my baby, not a pregnancy. I lost a baby that fit into the palm of my hand.
Over the weeks as I told people, I heard some of the most horrid things that people can say to a person in grief. It was for the best. There was something wrong with the baby, and you wouldn’t have wanted to be saddled with that responsibility. It was God’s will. It just wasn’t meant to be. You’ll have other babies. At least you have your son. It’s not like you knew the baby…Each one felt like a hot pin being stabbed into my already broken heart.
Sex became a difficult issue. I wanted a baby so badly that I wanted to be with my husband, to get pregnant right away, as if getting pregnant would have just put the same baby back in my womb. It didn’t make sense, not much did at the time. When we did make love I just cried the whole time.
I became pregnant exactly 2 weeks after my loss, though it was 4 weeks before I knew it. I was happy and empty all at the same time. It was the best and worst thing I could have done. To be joyous about the arrival of a new baby, while still grieving the loss of a baby does crazy things to your emotional make up. To grieve the emptiness in your belly that is now full. It just didn’t make any sense to me, and I surely couldn’t make it make sense to anyone else at the time. Being pregnant was apparently supposed to erase my loss, and instead it amplified it.
Being pregnant brought forth questions from outsiders, that in my grief, I felt violated by. So this is your second child? Ummm, no. This is not my second child. My second child died. But nobody wants to hear that. They want to celebrate your burgeoning belly, they want to be close to the life you have inside you now. I still wanted to celebrate my second child. I wanted to celebrate my third child as well. But I didn’t want my third to erase the existance of my second. It was complicated and confusing. I felt like I was from some other plane of existance, and people were just too uncomfortable to try to see in.
Mother’s Day was horrible after the loss. I was full and heavily pregnant by then, and I was so sad. I just wanted to be alone and cry. Everyone wanted me to celebrate what I had, and although I was grateful for what I had, there was also somebody missing. Mother’s Day is this big day of celebration, and I should be happy with my pregnancy and my son, and so I tried to suck it in and put on a bright face. The happy sadness of it just left me exhausted, overwhelmed and confused.
My midwife’s office was a solace that I could cry in. Our hour long appointments were as much about the baby that I lost as the baby that was growing. She acknowledged my confusion and my pain. Yet even so, one day I looked at my file and saw a notation that said “grief ++”. That little notation was pretty much the end of my sharing. I didn’t know anybody else who had had a baby, and that double plus made me feel like a bit of a freak. Should I not be crying? Was something wrong with me that the loss of my baby had just blindsided me? Do other women not feel this way? Was my grief inappropriate?? Disproportionate?
I know now with the wisdom of time and distance that the notation was just likely a reminder to herself and others that my loss had affected me deeply. At the time though, in my oversensitive and depressed state of mind, it made me feel ashamed.
Grief lessens with time. One day you wake up and you do not cry. Although I carry my second child with me, it is not with a raw grief. It is a wistful longing for what could have been. A sadness and want that has aged with time to something more gentle. I am thankful that she came to me, for the small time that she did. She gave me so many gifts, and she inspired me to be able to help so many others through their grief. Her short life is the reason my life is the way it is today, and I am thankful for her. She has given me insight and compassion.
I work as a jewelry designer. As part of my work I created a line of grieving jewelry for other mothers who have lost babies during pregnancy and infancy. There is so little to hold onto after the loss of a child. The mother baby bond is so strong, and the feeling of seperation is so keen after a loss. I wanted to create something that mothers could carry with them at all times, something tangible to touch, a line between her and her child. The bracelet I wove from my baby’s scarf was my most treasured possession during my grief, and what saw me through. Just to touch it during the day, during a time when I felt emotional, gave me such strength. The letters that I receive from countless mothers tell me the same, that we still need to carry our babies with us. That acknowledging our child’s short life is monumental in our healing, in our letting go. That my baby’s life has served to help so many other mothers means everything to me.
When I speak to the mothers that call me looking for something or someone to acknowledge their babies, I am honest and share my experience. They share those same feelings of shame, they often feel as if they shouldn’t be buying something special to remember their babies, asking if it is morbid. Asking if they should still be crying after three months. I let them know that wherever they are at is the right place for them to be at that moment. Until you invite sadness in for tea and listen to what she has to tell you, she will not leave your door. The sigh of relief that follows is monumental. A weight has been lifted. The simple sentiment that yes, it is ok to have loved your baby. It is ok to grieve their loss. It is a gift that all mothers should receive.
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