What it’s Like to Have a Miscarriage

Trigger warning: This piece includes my description of experiencing a miscarriage and some of it is graphic.  

This afternoon I had an appointment scheduled with my OBGYN. It was going to be our first in-office visit, our 10-week check-in, for my second pregnancy. But, as you may assume from the title of this post, we did not go to the appointment. 

On Saturday, January 22, just five days after I saw that wonderful little double line, when I was exactly 6 weeks pregnant, I had a miscarriage. 

I’m sharing this with you all because, believe it or not, there is still a stigma around the issue even though according to the MayoClinic about 10% to 20% of known pregnancies end in miscarriage. And I didn’t understand that stigma until I went through it. So this is what it’s like to have a miscarriage, and how I am coping with it now.

January 17, 2022

I took a pregnancy test but was genuinely shocked to see that faint second line appear in the little box. When I showed it to Alex, even he asked, “What does that mean?” Reminder: This would be our second pregnancy so we’ve been down this road before. The entire day I was awash with emotions: excitement, anxiousness, and maybe feeling like I had betrayed Arielle because now she would no longer being our sole focus. But at the end of the day, excitement won me over.

January 18, 2022

I decided to take another test to be sure, this time one of those digital tests that actually say “Pregnant” or “Not Pregnant.” Again, I felt somewhat shocked to see it read “Pregnant” but the confirmation solidified my excitement. We were going to have another little person to love. Later that day, as if I needed more confirmation, I experienced my first bout of morning sickness.

January 19 – 20, 2022

I scheduled a telehealth call with my OBGYN’s office on that Friday, January 21. I still felt nauseous, but I notice that it started to go away so I figured that maybe the original nausea had been brought on my my anxiety instead of actual morning sickness.

January 21, 2022

But when I mention this fact to the Nurse Practioner during my telehealth visit, she decides to get me in for an “early viability ultrasound” for the end of the next week, mostly because I wouldn’t be seeing my OBGYN until that 10 week mark. Looking just at the calendar, she tells me that my due date would be approximately September 17, which makes me relax a little bit because I had been so concerned that I wouldn’t be able to make Arielle’s first day of preschool in early September. After we wrap up our video session, she wishes me congratulations and I make the requested follow up appointments, including that ultrasound she suggested for the next Friday. 

January 22, 2022

It’s a Saturday. I am exactly 6 weeks along and I wake up to an alert from my pregnancy tracking app telling me that the little one inside of me is now the size of a chocolate chip. I think this is the cutest thing ever. Alex was home so I decided to take advantage of his help and we clean out under the sink in our master bathroom so I can find my body oils and moisturizers that had been so successful in preventing stretch marks when I was pregnant with Arielle. I am feeling so organized and hopeful that I can be this productive the rest of my pregnancy before chaos really reins down on us. However I am still very aware that I have not had any further morning sickness and I am actually feeling really good. 

We spend the rest of the day grabbing groceries, doing errands, and then my Mom and I go to Mass at 5:30. When we get home, I start to feel something akin to cramps, but I push it to the back of my mind. It isn’t until I change out of my jeans into my sweat pants that I feel a gushing sensation. I run into the bathroom and, sure enough, I see blood. I call out for Alex to open up my computer and I run out to the living room to look up the on-call number for my OBGYN’s office. It’s just before 7 p.m., there are fish sticks in the oven for Arielle, and I dial them up to explain what is happening. In my mind I am hoping beyond hope that they’ll tell me that this sometimes happens in early pregnancy, there is nothing to worry about and I can go back to watching “Jeopardy!” But instead they tell me they’ll be letting the on-call doctor know immediately and if I don’t hear from them within 15 minutes, to call back.

I sit on my couch, my phone clutched in my hands but the screen is black, and I can’t help but start to cry. The cramps are getting worse, painful, and I can feel that I am bleeding. Arielle is sitting in her high chair and when she sees my tears she tells me, “Don’t cry, Mama.” My heart only breaks faster. I know I am losing this baby. I can feel it with every stab of pain in my gut. 

Finally I get a call back. A woman with a very soothing voice tells me her name (I forget it immediately) and asks me what’s been going on. I take a deep breath to try and calm myself so I can actually explain everything that has been happening. She asks a few follow up questions and then tells me to come into the hospital immediately, they’ll be waiting for me in labor and delivery. 

My stomach drops. I knew this was coming but this seems to suck any last sense of hope from my sails. Alex and I get on our coats. We’re just lucky that my mom is there to take care of Arielle. We leave the house with the fishsticks still cooking, a quick kiss on my daughter’s lips is the last thing I take with me as we head for Boston. 

I love the city. I love an evening out in the city. And even with a pandemic still very much alive, all I see as we ride through the busy streets are people out and about, enjoying a Saturday evening in Boston. In my mind I keep wishing I was on my way to a night out on the town instead of what I feel will be a very long night in the hospital. And the cramps that seem to be getting stronger and stronger remind me of that fact.

When we get to the hospital we head up to labor and delivery to fill out paperwork for my admittance. We tell the attending nurse our names and she grabs a thick blue binder, takes a long strip of tape, writes my last name on it and slaps it along the spine. 

My winter coat is covering my middle section so when she asks how far along I am and I tell her, 6 weeks, her brows shoot up and her eyes widen. She tries to distract me by asking questions about the weather (it’s cold) and the traffic (there is none) as I watch her take the tape with my name off of the blue binder and attach it to a very thin black one. Obviously, this does nothing to distract me. This act is just another confirmation that I am losing this baby.

She makes a single phone call and we are whisked through a large door she opens with a key card, down the hall, and into a small room with glass sliding doors. A single curtain provides some privacy from the rest of the small bays and as instructed I change into the simple hospital shift as Alex settles into the chair next to the bed. I throw my sweater on over it to make me feel a little warmer though, for the first time in a long time, I really don’t feel cold. 

A few minutes later a nurse comes in and she introduces herself as Julia. I repeat what has been happening to me and she gives me a small smile. 

“This sometimes happens in early pregnancy and the baby turns out to be fine,” she says and her smile falters visibly, “but we need to see what is going on.”

Let me just stop here and say that all of the nurses, doctors, and aids in labor and delivery are absolutely wonderful and they took great care of me. But I’m sharing this story as I was feeling in the moment, which, as you can imagine, was scared and anxious.

After she takes my blood, I remember to tell her that I have an Rh-Negative Blood Type but Alex is Rh-Positive. For anyone who has had a baby, you may know what that means but for those of you who don’t, check out this explanation. So she had to give me a shot called RhoGAM to make sure this child, if it was still alive, and any future babies, would be safe. The shot is extremely painful as it’s going in – it burns. So between the cramps, the bleeding, and the RhoGAM, I am already feeling exhausted and defeated. 

After a while the on-call doctor comes in, Dr. French. He says the next step would be an ultrasound but since I am so newly pregnant, they aren’t sure if they will see anything. I tell him to do whatever he thinks is best and he pulls out the jelly and machine and the next thing I know I am staring at a dark screen, unsure of what to look for. He pushes, down and around. The last time this was being done to me I was actually able to see a fully-formed little one, just two weeks shy of being born. Now, from how he continues to poke around, I can tell that he is seeing nothing. There is no little person in there. But he presses on.

“We should have you do a transvaginal ultrasound. Again, it’s so early we may not see anything but we need to do it just in case,” Dr. French says, “Do you want me to try to do one up here? The machine isn’t as good as what they have in radiology but if we can see something it may save you some time tonight.”

I have a feeling that he doesn’t want to keep me here a moment longer because he knows the outcome. He knows this is a lost cause. 

I agree and he preps the wand, then inserts it inside. It is cold, large, and painful. He winces sympathetically when he feels me tense up. 

Julia tells me I’m doing great.

But as I watch Dr. French’s face, examining the screen in front of him, I can see that he isn’t finding what he wants to. 

He finally gives up. 

“We are going to call up radiology and get you down for another ultrasound,” he tells me as he puts away his equipment and Julia helps me to clean up and reposition myself on the bed. 

Then he rolls his chair closer to me, closer than anyone has gotten to me since I’ve arrived.

“I’m not seeing anything,” he says gently, “which doesn’t mean there is nothing there. It may just be because you are so early on. But, I want you to be prepared …”

“That I may have lost the baby,” I finish for him. 

He nods slowly. Another cramp rips through me and I can feel blood trailing down my leg. 

He tells me once again he’s going to order an ultrasound with Radiology and with a squeeze of my forearm, he leaves.

Julia asks Alex if she can get him anything to eat or drink as I am not allowed to just yet. He says he’s good and we are left alone. 

Until this point I had been sitting upright in the bed, but I feel myself slump down and onto my side. I curl into a fetal position on the bed and I start to cry so hard that I cannot take full breaths. Alex grabs my hand and squeezes it tight, I squeeze right back as it helps release some of the emotional pain that is rocking through my body. While no one has confirmed it, I know that this little one is gone, and I swear I can feel my heart ripping in two just as another cramp comes on.  

This is how I stay for several minutes until no more tears come out. I straighten up, Alex helps me to wipe away the black lines from my leftover eye makeup that has trailed down my puffy face. A little while later Dr. Jackson comes in and introduces himself. He tells me he is part of my OBGYN’s practice and wanted to check-in. 

This is the first time someone reassures me that if I had a miscarriage it doesn’t mean that I can’t get pregnant again. It’s also the first time someone explains the process if they don’t find anything with the second ultrasound. 

An hour or so later Julia comes in and says that there has been a mixup with Radiology and it’s going to be a while longer. And so, we wait. We turn on the TV. Julia does bring us some snacks and tells me I’ve been given the green light to eat and drink, but I don’t want anything. I’m not hungry.

All I can think is if I hadn’t of worn those tight jeans, or had lost those extra pounds prior to getting pregnant, or if I hadn’t had that drink a few weeks ago when I had no clue I was pregnant that none of this would be happening. Guilt and shame have set in. 

January 23, 2022

An hour later, a little after midnight, she comes in with a wheelchair. 

“Radiology is ready for you,” she gives me a small smile.

I climb in and she hands me off to an attendant who takes Alex and I down in the elevator to a very dark floor. At this point I’m feeling empty and I barely flinch as the tech inserts the wand. Her face is much harder to read but I’m not really trying anymore. 

She finishes up quickly, I climb back into the wheelchair and Julia comes down to bring us to our room. 

We play the waiting game for another hour. It’s now coming up to 2 a.m. Arielle has long gone to bed. My mom has already stationed herself on our livingroom couch for the evening. 

Finally Julia and Dr. French come in and the looks on their faces tell me everything I need to know. 

“We’re not seeing anything on the ultrasound,” Dr. French starts, “and you’re blood hormone levels came back at an 8. To get a positive pregnancy test you have to be at least at a 25 and that number multiplies so quickly. At 6 weeks, you should be in the several thousands by now.”

I nod, unable to talk. 

“You may have already passed it, but because we aren’t seeing anything we need to follow up with you. You’ll need to come back in for a blood test on Monday to make sure your hormone level has gone down. If not, we may have to do more searching because you may have the beginnings of an ectopic pregnancy which would either mean we would have to give you a pill to medically remove it or go in surgically.” 

Again, I nod. 

We go over the pros and cons of each method in the event that this is an ectopic pregnancy. Alex asks a few follow-up questions because he can tell I am starting to tune everything out. And then Julia is coming back with my discharge papers. Throughout the night we’ve gotten to know each other and she shares with me that she had a miscarriage between her first pregnancy, a set of twin girls, and her little boy. I know she wants to give me hope and I appreciate it, but right now hope seems so far off. 

I get dressed. As we leave our room, I look back and even though I’m still feeling the cramps, still bleeding, I stop and take a picture with my phone. This is the last place I was when I thought I was still pregnant, when, at least to me, my second baby was alive. 

Then we drive home. The streets of Boston in winter at 2:30 a.m. are much quieter than when we drove in. We get in the door before the clock hits 3 and after my mom gives me a big hug, I change into pajamas and I sneak into Arielle’s room. As I see her lying there, her arms behind her head and her light brown curls looking very much like a halo in the glow of her nightlight, I start to cry again and I find myself apologizing to her for losing her sibling. I make Alex pick her up so I can give her a hug because Dr. French said I should avoid lifting for about a month. Then I crawl into my own bed. Alex brings me something to help me sleep, and even though I think it’s impossible, I’m unconscious a few minutes later. 

The next few days are a blur. 

I feel empty. I feel exhausted. I cry a lot. I’m still bleeding but the cramps start to lighten up by the time I have to leave the house again. On Monday we go to one of the hospital’s satellite locations, outside of the city, for my followup blood work and the next day I receive a call from my OBGYN. 

“How are you doing, Kate?” he asks. I start to cry. His voice is so familiar. So comforting. And that’s what makes me tear up. But I tell him what’s going on, what I’ve been going through. He tells me that my blood hormone levels are back down to zero. I am officially no longer pregnant. 

Part of me feels relieved. I don’t have to go back in for surgery or for any medications and he tells me that we can start trying again, if we want to, whenever we feel ready. 

But another somewhat larger part of me just feels sadness over losing this baby. And that sadness has continued over the past few weeks. While it’s become less and less prevalent, I feel I am floundering. It’s only been in the past few days that I’ve had any sort of motivation or excitement about the future. The fog is slowly lifting and I know eventually I won’t feel this pain anymore.

While I know most people contemplate whether or not to share this experience with their family, never mind social media or the internet, I never once questioned my decision to tell you all about this. Not because we don’t still feel the pain of losing a baby, not because I didn’t feel like a failure or a terrible mother while going through it. But because I know that after going through this heartbreaking experience I was comforted by reading stories from women who had dealt with the same thing. And because I want the world to know about my second little one. My little Chip.

From the minute I found out I was pregnant I had this intuition that I was carrying a boy and like i mentioned above when we lost him he would have been about the size of a chocolate chip, so now when we talk about him, we call him Chip and giving him a name has helped with the sting a little.  

So for me, writing this down is about letting everyone know that Chip did exist. And he will always be apart of our family. For me, I know we have a little angel looking down on us. And I want other women to know that if it happens to you (while I hope you don’t ever have to know what it’s like), you are not alone.  

It is not your fault. I know that there were so many things running through my head as I sat in that hospital bed. But in the weeks since I have learned that nothing I did led to losing our little Chip. So I hope that if there is anyone else dealing with this loss that is reading this, you will know that you are not to blame.  

Even as I think to myself that in a few weeks we should have been getting ready to announce our little one, I just feel so lucky to have my little Arielle to hug, as well as Alex by my side and my amazing mom, sister (who’s been checking in on me every day), brother-in-law and the rest of our wonderful family to help me get through this. And I take comfort in the fact that someday I’ll see my little Chip in heaven. 

I love you, my little one. Mama will always love you.

A big thanks to the nurses, doctors and staff at Beth Israel Hospital Boston for the wonderful work they do, as well as to my friend, Jessie Wyman, for helping me document this difficult time in our lives.