I read this post; the latest addition in the Potty Mouthed Mama stigma collection. I felt my breath catch in my throat. I read the comments posted by women after women sharing her own experiences and I knew, that I had to go THERE again, and post my story too. Because of all the ridiculous things in the world to get weird about, to not talk about or share, miscarriage has to be the strangest to me.

I think maybe women feel defective in some way when miscarriage or still birth happens. We blame ourselves. What went wrong and why. I felt defective. Broken. And wondered what I could have done differently to save our baby. I know now that probably nothing would have changed the outcome. And that no amount of blame changes that there is no baby when there could have been.

Now… My story.

We had decided, quietly, so as not to draw attention to ourselves, to try for a baby. Serious, roll up your sleeves, there’s work to be done, try for a baby. And within a few months, we were pregnant. I peed on about four early pregnancy tests before I would agree to go to the doctors. It seemed so unreal. So simple. I felt pride and satisfaction at my awesome’ness as a baby bearing women.

We had barely confirmed the pregnancy with an ultrasound when my symptoms disappeared. I told Hubby something was wrong as I started to spot. It was a couple of days of spotting when on the third day I had cramps so bad I couldn’t stand up. I took myself to the hospital. I knew it was over. I was losing the baby. As I sat and waited (alone as my Hubby was at working driving) I started to think, maybe it wasn’t happening. Would they leave a women miscarrying her baby in the waiting room for 6 hours. Really?

I almost went home I had talked myself around that much.

And then they called me in. Wheeled me to ultrasound. Where a young man with a wand turned to me with more compassion than I had ever experienced from a complete stranger and said. I can see it but it won’t be there for long. I had already started the loss. I cried. And thanked him for his kindness. I was wheeled back to my cubicle to wait. Finally I walked out the door. To my car.

Knowing. It was over. And I had to call my Hubby and break his heart. He had wanted a baby for years. I got home and he arrived shortly after, having returned the truck in record time to be with me, and I fell into his arms and cried. It was over.

And we grieved together. We decided not to say anything as no one knew we were pregnant, no one knew we were trying. We decided to save them the pain of our loss. It was the next day when I caved and told my family. And having to call them and say ‘We were pregnant’ Happy noises! ‘… And I’m miscarrying’ Gasps was one of the hardest thing I have had to do. But it was cathartic in a way. And they gathered around us. All coming over to drink tea and look at family holiday photos together. They didn’t push or probe or whatever. They were just here. To support us. It was perfect. They were perfect.

We planned to try again. And we are still trying again. And again and again. 12 months later, in the month that we conceived last year and still no pregnancy. No baby. No answers. Sometimes it makes it hard, I think, as a baby would go a long way to healing some of those heartbreaks. To curing the feelings of defectiveness.  Some hope, some days would be nice. And so when it becomes too much. I blog about it. Share my anger and frustration and demoralization with the world. And the world shows me the love. The hope, that exists out there.

And I get to believe again. No matter how I felt before. 

And I have my Hubby. Just about the most supportive, tea offering, spirit raising, optimistic person on the face of this planet by my side. This time, this challenge that we are facing together is making us. Literally building a foundation that we will get to raise a family on. And for that, I will always be grateful to our child who didn’t stay.