When it becomes a reality, again..

From The Diary of a Hopeful Woman

This cautiously happy post is in honor of not only the author’s good news, but also in honor one of our regular readers who has reached 40 weeks, and will be induced tomorrow if she doesn’t go into labor naturally before then, so good luck to her! xoxoxox–MM

*Warning* This post talks about pregnancy after Miscarriage.

I wasn’t ready for the world to know when this was originally published, now, the world is allowed to know.

Thanks for understanding why you’re not the first to know.

During the middle of last week I was getting hit with extreme fatigue and nausea, two of the symptoms that beat me to a pulp during my last pregnancy before our miscarriage. The weekend was exhausting and overwhelming, and I did nothing much out of our normal routine.

According to my Glow and Ovia apps, I am not due for my period until Thursday (tomorrow) or Friday. But we all know, we can test early thanks to the overpriced HPT’s available. (HPT = Home Pregnancy Test) So while at the grocery store yesterday buying necessities to get us through the next two weeks, I picked up two boxes of tests. First Response & Clearblue Digital test with weeks estimator.

I debated for a couple of days on whether I wanted to wait for my missed period or check-in with my body and just pee on a stick. Well, clearly, I decided not to wait. Luke helped me with the decision and told me to go ahead and test today, if unclear or negative results we can just wait till the period shows up or if it doesn’t come by Monday, test again.

I saw that the design of the tests have changed, but wow – they’re awesome now! Love the wider tip and handle design – makes it SO much easier!

The pee started raising into the window, I sat it on the counter and waited. Luke let the dogs out as I was peeing on the stick, then when he came back in and came up the stairs, I peeked at it and said, “I think we got it.” There was a faint line on the left side (the pregnant line). I stared at it waiting for it to get darker or disappear like a sick joke. I decided to stop looking long enough to brush my teeth. He questioned it being faint and wondered if that counted. According to what I read during our first pregnancy, even the faintest of line, counts. He grabbed the box out of my drawer and read the box that quoted what I just told him.

As the test sat on the counter, we finished getting ready. The both of us observing the pregnant line going from faint to obviously there. By the time we were ready to leave for work, there was no question, there are two pinks lines.

I entered my positive test into Glow and Ovia, obviously both apps forced their pregnancy apps onto me. So I re-downloaded them. Both had my previous pregnancy on there, and notified me that my baby was 5 weeks old and this is how we should be progressing, etc etc. Oh joy. What a thing to see and be reminded of today..

I had to record that my previous pregnancy ended in miscarriage (something I thought I already did). Glow was much more difficult to figure out how to do that on. Ovia was pretty simple.

I put in the first day of my last period (06/13/15) and it estimates our due date at the end of March. But for the sake of my sanity, I refuse to look THAT far ahead for quite awhile.

I didn’t expect to react to the positive results like I did.. I was so sure I would cry (either a happy or sad cry, maybe a mix of both) – I didn’t cry. I thought I would smile, I didn’t. I thought I would be in shock, I somewhat was. The feeling that I felt was unsure, nervous, happy but cautious – I felt protective of my heart.. if that makes sense (I know it doesn’t).

Luke said he wasn’t going to get his hopes up yet, which described exactly what I was thinking that I couldn’t put into words.

So despite our positive test this morning, we are waiting to officially miss the period and test this weekend again. I will be using the First Response again, and if there are two lines again, I will be taking the Clearblue Digital test with weeks estimator – to see what it has to say.


What Question Should We Stop Asking Couples?

By Sarah Philpott

So, when are you going to have a kid?

Do you want more kids?

Are you finished having kids? 

Why don’t you have any kids?

When we reach a certain age, these questions come directed at us with sniper-like speed. They are asked by the sweetest, most well-meaning people ever: the little old lady who sits at the end of our church row, the older-widowed gentleman who is behind us in line at the grocery store, and the man at the party who doesn’t know a follow-up question to “what do you think of the weather.”

But, these questions are also asked in a taunting and teasing manner. You know the ones: “So, when you are you and Vanessa going to get that baby making started? Do you need me to tell you how it works?” (wink, wink) says your husband’s business colleague in the middle of the company party.

Tisk, tsk, tsk. Neither Emily Post nor Amy Vanderbilt would approve of such banter as appropriate. I’m sure it is mentioned in their etiquette books between the chapters of “how to address a wedding invitation” and “how to fold a napkin.” To put it simply, “baby makin’ ain’t a topic for small-talk.”


The reason questions related to procreation can be uncomfortable is because a large percentage of couples face the reality of infertility or pregnancy loss. For these couples, their heart’s desire and the timing of God fail to intersect at the same point. It can bring with it angst, sadness, and confusion. These couples have learned that creating a child isn’t as easy as making a dinner reservation, and they don’t necessarily want to share their personal details with the man standing behind them at the grocery line. It’s not that they want to keep this a secret; it’s just that they don’t really want to unleash real, raw emotions in the middle of Publix. A deluge of tears might spill down aisle 5.


Let’s examine the thoughts of ten women when they are asked the innocuous question: “Are you going to have kids?” You can read how emotionally laden such a simple question might be:


Woman SAYS
Oh, how I wish I could have more babies! But you know what- I didn’t choose to have that emergency hysterectomy that stole my uterus from my body.  
No, I think we are finished.
We’ve been trying for two years & have lost four babies due to miscarriage. Yes, we want more babies, but it’s not working out.  
We will see.

Please read the rest of this piece at Sarah’s website!

What I Gave to the Fire

Author’s note: My experience with two miscarriages brought me to my knees. There, in the darkness, I heard a calling to write my story and share it in the form of a book. The process took eight years, but I did it! This is the first chapter of What I Gave to the Fire, now available in its entirety on Amazon.com in print or Kindle format. For more information, please visit www.whatigavetothefire.com

Chapter 1 of What I Gave to the Fire
by Kim Flowers Evans

I see the blood in my underwear and know it is happening. Now it is more than spotting. Now it is thick bright blood; fresh, emergency-red that screams when it sees daylight. Whoever said lightning doesn’t strike twice must not have lost two pregnancies.

I look at the bathtub and notice the stubborn mildew stain that persists no matter how hard I scrub. I can’t handle this again, God. It’s too much for me. Come on, you wouldn’t give me this to deal with again, would you? I wipe my nose on my sleeve. I thought you liked me. I’m a good person. I’m nice to people. I bend over backwards to make them feel comfortable. Isn’t that what you want me to do?

The tiny bathroom feels like an elevator shaft, going down, the walls silently absorbing my words.  

Two miscarriages in a row? Me? I’m healthy. I try to be a good mom. Why in the hell is this happening? Time is running out for me, and you know that. But you just sit there, in the clouds, or wherever you are, watching this happen.

I pull generous amounts of toilet paper off the roll and wipe several times to soak up the flowing stream of blood. I put my underwear in the sink and turn the cold water on. Suddenly I recall my very first period and Mom’s words to me: Cold water keeps the blood from setting in.

I walk through the house, naked from the waist down, to get a fresh pair of underwear out of my bedroom dresser. I return to the bathroom, find a pad, and rip the backing off.

I make my way to the kitchen, grab the cordless phone from the kitchen counter, and call my husband at work. I am dizzy, spiraling deeper down the elevator shaft, thoughts racing. I was right all along…God is nothing more than a cruel puppeteer…I’m never going to be able to understand or accept this…Why? This is personal. My ability to bear children is under siege. Why? WhyWhyWhy?

Hello?” The sound of Trent’s voice melts my despair into tears. I cannot speak.

What’s wrong?”

I’m bleeding – quite a bit more,” I tell him.

Oh shit,” he says, “I’m on my way home.”

Today is his 39th birthday. I don’t feel like singing.

Happy Birthday, Dear Tre-ent. Our baby is gone.

I call the doctor’s office next. My hand is shaking so much, I almost drop the phone.

“…This is an emergency, I need to speak with the doctor…What? She’s not in?”


“Yes, have her call me as soon as she gets back to the office.”

I look at the clock. It’s 2:30 already. Olivia’s bus will be here soon.

I quickly brush my hair, splash water on my face, and walk up the street. The bus pulls up, right on schedule. I half-heartedly smile as Olivia hops down the stairs, her blond hair bouncing. Her smile fades as soon as her eyes meet mine.

“What’s wrong, Mom?”

She’s always been able to read me with stunning accuracy.

“Nothing,” I lie. I take her purple backpack and sling it over my shoulder as we walk home. “I just don’t feel well today. It’s not a big deal. Come on; let’s get a snack. SpongeBob is about to start.”

I know she doesn’t believe me, but I don’t want to delve into it further with her. It was only last week that we told her about the pregnancy, huddled under her loft bed in our pajamas. Her face turned pale, and she told us she didn’t want a baby brother or sister. How would she feel now, if I told her the baby may not come after all? This is a lot for a 6-year-old to process.

Olivia sits on the couch. I feel her eyes follow me as I walk to the kitchen. I pour some Goldfish crackers into a bowl, grab a juice box from the fridge, and take them to her. She’s already kicked off her shoes and settled on the couch. I walk back to the kitchen, open the oven door, and brush barbeque sauce on the ribs for Trent’s birthday dinner. I feel more blood trickling from my body as SpongeBob’s laughter streams in from the television. Reality is pin-balling back and forth between crisis and normality. My eyes scan the kitchen walls. Trent recently painted them a pale yellow color called “newborn” to celebrate the pregnancy.
Newborn. The color of hope.

I close my eyes for a moment, then place the ribs back in the oven.

When Trent walks through the door I can’t look at him. A combination of anger, sadness, and fear tangle up inside me. I feel like a failure.

“How are you? Has the doctor called back?”

The phone interrupts our conversation.

It’s the doctor.

“I’m sorry to take so long to return your call,” she says, “I’ve been attending a long labor and delivery at the hospital.”

Her reference to another birth delivers a punch to my gut. For a fleeting second I have an intense desire to yell at her for being so insensitive.

“How much bleeding are you experiencing?” she asks.

“I don’t know. I lost track of how many pads I’ve been through. A lot. I’m bleeding a LOT.”

“And this has been going on for how long?”

I glance out the window and notice the evening light on the grass in our backyard.

“About four hours.”

“Okay.” she says with a clinical tone that infuriates me. “If you are having a miscarriage, you basically have two choices. You can either miscarry at home, or come to my office in the morning for a D & C. I will only be available in the morning, so if you want to have it done, it has to be then.”

I’ve heard the term D & C, but I have no idea what it is. I don’t want to ask, either. The thought of it, however undefined, makes me cringe. I do not want this pregnancy to end by artificial means.

“What can I expect if I miscarry at home?”

“That depends on your pain tolerance.”

I don’t ask her to elaborate. Instead, I fill in my own details, remembering my previous miscarriage three years ago. There was a lot of bleeding and sadness, but not unbearable physical pain. And with Olivia, I had an epidural, but I felt plenty of hard contractions before and after, when it came time to push.

“I want to stay home,” I tell her.

I hang up the phone.

“I have to lay down,” I tell Trent.

“Okay. Tell me what I can do to help.”

“You can make this stop happening,” I snap. The anger momentarily brings relief, then regret. “I’m sorry. I just need to lay down. I’m not going to be able to finish dinner. The ribs will be done in about thirty minutes. You and Olivia go ahead and eat without me. I’m sorry to ruin your birthday.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he says. “I just want you better.”

I glance at him, his big brown eyes meet mine for one desperate moment before I leave the kitchen.

I lay in bed, covers wrapped around me. The cramps are starting to develop a jagged edge, and I can’t bear them without moaning. I know I am scaring Olivia, but I also know Trent will take care of her. I hear her footsteps gently padding, then stopping at the bedroom door.

“Mom, are you okay?” She approaches me, with eyes full of concern. I am shocked at how blue they are in this moment.

“I’m going to be okay, honey,” I say through gritted teeth, “It just hurts and then it goes away. I’ll be okay. You and Dad go ahead and have dinner without me.” I hope she doesn’t ask about his birthday present, a new set of bass guitar strings I had forgotten to wrap.

She leaves me alone, which is all I want. This is between me and my body. I take a deep breath, beginning to sense a rhythm to the bouts of pain – like waves rolling through me – labor pains – only these empty waves will bear nothing. I think of my labor with Olivia again. Each time I tell her birth story, I say the same thing most mothers do: the pain didn’t matter at all, because in the end, I had her. It starts occurring to me now that this empty labor might hurt just as much as delivering a baby. Why didn’t the doctor didn’t tell me that this would be labor? I wasn’t expecting labor. This pain is for nothing. I bury my face in the pillow and breathe in the smell of dusty feathers.

Evening transitions into night without my knowledge. I twist and turn in bed, drifting in and out of sleep. Suddenly I’m awakened by a stab of pain. The wall of my uterus feels like it is tearing in half. The red glowing numbers on the alarm clock read 3:00 AM. I reach over and shake Trent.

“I can’t take this any more. We have to go to the emergency room.”

He reaches for his glasses on the nightstand, nearly knocking them on the floor.

“I’ll wake Liv.”

Olivia appears in our bedroom doorway like a sleepy angel in her pink nightgown, rubbing her eyes. I kiss her warm cheek, catching the scent of her sleepy breath.

“We have to go to the hospital, honey.”

She stops rubbing her eyes. “Are you going to die?”

I shake my head. “No, honey, I’m not going to die, I just need to find out what is going on with me.”

Suddenly I feel another contraction. I break eye contact with her and drop my head to hide my clenched jaw. I pray she won’t panic. I can’t imagine how frightening and confusing this must be for her.

Trent helps her change out of her nightgown while I find my tennis shoes. I make no effort to change out of my pajamas. I don’t give a damn what I look like. We step into the cool night air and load ourselves into the car. The road in front of our house is silent and wet from rain; the glow of streetlights reflect on the pavement like smashed lightning bugs.

I cringe and twist in my seat as Trent navigates the curvy road to the hospital. Why didn’t I call Mom and ask her to stay with Olivia while we do this? The question pounds in my brain. Why am I putting her through this? Mother guilt intensifies my pain.

Truth is, I had already been to the hospital with Mom 18 hours earlier, before the bleeding became heavy. I had been spotting, not feeling pregnant any more, and I was getting worried. She drove me down this very same road, attempting to distract me by chatting about random things like weather and where we could go for lunch later. But it didn’t work. In my 38 years, diversionary tactics never worked. I longed for the truth.

Mom accompanied me to the emergency room and found a seat by the window. After I checked in with the receptionist, I sat next to Mom as she pulled out her electronic Boggle game and began to play. I didn’t say anything.

Soon, I was called back to the reception desk and notified that I couldn’t be seen by the doctor currently on duty, because I wasn’t an established patient of hers. My doctor was out of the office.

“I think I might be having a miscarriage,” I told her, “What am I supposed to do?”

She put her pen down. “Your only option would be to go to the emergency room if it gets worse,” she said, “I’m sorry.”

Her apology didn’t begin to comfort the sinking feeling I had. I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to grab her around the throat and squeeze until she felt the same level of pain as I did. Maybe then she would listen to me and allow me to receive some medical attention.

But a voice sounded in my head, silencing me in my tracks: Don’t make waves.

And now it’s 3 AM, and I’m back. We enter through the automatic doors. The receptionist gestures Trent and Olivia to the waiting room where CNN is flickering on the television. Trent wraps his arm around my shoulder and squeezes. Olivia places her head gently on my stomach and gives me a hug.

“I’ll see you soon,” I tell them, wishing they could stay with me, but also desperately wanting to be alone.

A nurse meets me and walks me to a cubicle, gesturing to the chair beside her desk. She wraps a blood pressure cuff around my forearm. As the cuff squeezes, I feel tightness in my chest and throat. Tears pool in my eyes. This is utterly sad and terrible, I think. Sad and terrible things aren’t supposed to happen to me.

She asks me questions and records the information on a clipboard. “Okay, let’s get you into a room.”

The hallway is spotless and bright. The floor is lined with color-coded tape. The nurse opens a door swiftly and hands me a paper gown.

“Go ahead and put this on, opening in the front. Someone will be with you shortly.”

I undress, put the gown on and carefully climb onto the table. As I lay back, the paper pillowcase crinkles under my head. I squint at the bright lights. I feel like I’m in a laboratory. Time stands still.

I hear the voice of a different nurse.  “How are we doing in here?”

“Not too great,” I tell her. Understatement of the year.

“Let’s clean you up a bit.” She uses a towel to sop up the blood between my legs. It feels soft and warm, and I am comforted by this care and attention.

“I’m sorry Kim, I’m going to have to insert a ureteral catheter to get clean urine for the lab.”

I hold my breath as the nurse attempts to distract me with small talk.

“Do you have any pets?”

“Yeah,” I answer dutifully, “Cassie, a yellow malamute/lab mix.”

I don’t tell her about Sheena, my 19-year old tortie cat which we had to have euthanized just last month. Not long before that, Mystery and Patch were both hit by cars on the highway in front of our house. I hadn’t fully realized this vortex of loss until now.

The nurse interrupts my train of thought. “I have two huskies at home. Great dogs. Crazy, too. Just last night they tore a hole in my living room carpet. But I love them.” She sat back on her stool. “Okay, we’re all done.”

Next, the doctor enters into the room, looks at me from behind his clipboard, and announces I need a pelvic exam. The nurse stays, and I am glad.

After the exam, I wait for the lab results. Thankfully, the contractions have subsided. I wonder how Trent and Olivia are doing in the waiting room.

Finally, the doctor returns.

“Well, Kimberly, I looked at your lab results. While your hormone levels are low, they still indicate a pregnancy. I recommend you go home and rest, then call your doctor later this morning. You can get dressed now.”

He exits the room. The door clicks behind him.

The nurse hands me my clothes, conjuring a smile. A rogue wave of hope splashes over me.

“Is it possible that this isn’t a miscarriage after all?” I ask her.

“Don’t give up hope just yet,” she smiles without looking at me.

I try to believe her, but deep down I know it is over.

Finally, Trent and Olivia are permitted entry to my room. Their faces look sleepy and concerned. Olivia gently approaches me. I take her hand and I look up at Trent.

“Let’s go home.”

We stop at Burger King to pick up some breakfast, and drive home as the sky turns pink on the horizon. Tucked under the covers of my bed once again, I fall asleep as the sun begins to rise.

A few days later, I am in the bathroom, still shedding blood, when I feel a warm clump of tissue gently exit my body. I hear it drop into the water. At this moment, several thoughts run through my mind: Was this the fetus or just more blood? Should I collect it and take it to the doctor for analysis? Should I bury it under the tree in our back yard? I look into the bloody water. The tissue is out of my sight. There’s nothing I can do except flush it away. It is gone. Sadness spreads slowly through my chest like thick syrup.

My doctor visits continue. There are subsequent needle pricks and lab results as she tracks the progressive drop in my hormone levels and my pregnancy slowly fades away.

I learn that a miscarriage isn’t a black and white kind of thing. It’s a continuum: you’re pregnant, then you’re sort of pregnant, then you’re not so pregnant, then you aren’t pregnant any more. During this time, the doctor offers no conclusive answers or explanations about why this happened. There are no pamphlets, books, or support group information. She simply sends me on my way with a recommendation that I wait a full year before trying to get pregnant again. And I know fully well that at age 38, I can barely afford another year.

We need submissions!

Our cache of submissions from all of you wonderful readers is running dry! If any of you have a story to share, please consider submitting to the blog if you haven’t already. You may email miscarriagememoirs at gmail dot com, or you may use the submission link google doc. It doesn’t have to be brand new or unique for this site–it can be something you’ve already written and/or previously published on your own blog.

Thanks so much for all of your support–I hope this is as healing to everyone as it has been for me.




MM note: I attempted to contact Catherine, but I hadn’t heard back by the time I published this post, but I just had to share her work. Her follow up post is great as well. Please check out her site! Catherine, if you read this, please let me know if this is kosher. Readers, go support Catherine!

by Catherine Gale

This story begins with a star.

It is the story of a little girl.

This little girl is our daughter, and she lives in heaven.


On the 23rd February we should have heard her heartbeat for the first time.

On that day we should have come home and made happy calls to friends and family to tell them our news. To make it known that she was there and to make our joy public.

Instead we found out that she had died at 8 weeks and 5 days, and our world came crashing down.

There are no words to describe the emptiness and lack, the horrible grief and the loss of hope.


But first, the star. For months beforehand, we both had a sense about stars. A feeling.

When we found out I was pregnant, we both knew it was a girl.

We had another name picked for a girl, but it somehow didn’t feel right for this one. I looked at lots of names, and there was one that stood out. It meant star.


Fast forward to that 12 week scan when all our plans and dreams came crashing down.

The doctors did their best to reassure us that miscarriage is very common, that there is nothing we could have done to prevent it: that there is no reason we can’t go on to have a healthy baby. In the midst of it, all I could think was – But we wanted this one

I asked God why we had had such a sense of who this baby was –her gender, her name, if it wasn’t going to work out.

But now I know it was because of that, that he told us. So that we would know who she is.

I say ‘is’ and not ‘was’ because I know with every fibre of my being that she is in heaven.

I picture a little blonde girl with my blue eyes and Matt’s wisdom. I saw a vision of my Dad holding her. She is waiting to meet us.


The storm is not over yet. I have battled physical complications and subsequent anxiety and depression. At the moment, every day is a battle and sometimes I think it will break me.

And yet.

I never understood how there could be joy within suffering, but now I do.

In the midst of pain and anguish and defeat, I feel victory and joy because of the hope God has given us.

I know that God has not forgotten all that’s lost and broken. He will restore all things.

Our story will be one of hope. And this is the start of that story, written on the battlefield. A story for such a time as this.

So today we make her name and her story known.

Her name is Esther.

“Miscarriage Is Normal and Normal Hurts”

by Alicia de los Reyes

At the beginning of all of this, I had a premonition. When I saw the spot of blood in the bathroom, I knew. “No!” I said out loud, involuntarily. But it was barely a spot — more like a very pale pink tinge. It could be the embryo implanting, I told myself. It could be a little first-trimester bleeding. Still, I looked myself in the eye as I washed my hands and told myself silently, “You can handle this.” I kept staring even when the water stopped running. “You are strong,” I told myself. “You’ll be ok.”

None of my clothes fit that night, but instead of feeling huffy and angrily tossing shirts out of my closet, I had happily tugged a loose sweater over my extra-large bra. This bra is usually reserved for two or three days of the month before I get my period; I’d been wearing it a whole week. My belly hung over my skinny jeans, too, a first since the magnificent Ten-Pound Month in college. I was elated.

My happy glow didn’t wear off the entire evening, even though I was barred from the beer festivities. (Officially, I was the designated driver for my husband Andrew.) I drank a soda and sniffed each glass as my friends tasted seemingly every pumpkin beer manufactured in the Puget Sound region. I leaned against the kitchen island and carefully avoided the pepperoni on the pizza, smiling.

I saw real blood just as I was leaving for work that day, a Monday afternoon. Shit, I thought. Shit shit shit. I called my husband. “It could be nothing,” I told him. “But I’m scared. I have cramps.” They’d started on a bike ride earlier in the day, but were so mild I thought nothing of them. Since taking the pregnancy test, I’d noticed every glimmer of a cramp, and a few had come and gone quickly. I was still getting used to the reality that I was pregnant. Not might be, was. But I’d just made an appointment to go to the doctor. It was too early even for an ultrasound.

But I could tell something was wrong when I saw dark red. I ran up the stairs and pulled out my remaining pregnancy test. I couldn’t take it — I didn’t have to pee. And besides, what would it prove? I put it away, ran back downstairs and dashed out the door, trying to make sure I had my water bottle, my keys, my wallet. I brought a maxipad just in case. “I’m going to be late,” I told Andrew.

“That’s okay,” he said. “That’s not important.”

The sky was overcast and I told myself to relax on the ride over, a traffic-less journey on route 90. I made up a mantra: Please stay, baby. But I didn’t want it to stay if it wasn’t ready to be here. I said the mantra, then I didn’t say it. I said it again. I couldn’t listen to music.

At work, I began to feel worse. I opened the door to the office building and ducked into the bathroom. More blood, dripping damningly into the toilet. It was good I had brought the pad. (But if I hadn’t brought it, would the blood have gone away? Would it have been nothing? The only snippet of magical thinking I allowed myself.) I went into the little room where I tutor students, unsmiling, trying to stay calm, trying not to get upset.

As I talked my students through calculus problems and private school entrance exams, I could hear my voice flatten. Could they tell? Why didn’t one of them ask me what was wrong? I flipped the flimsy pages of a textbook and pointed to a problem. The minutes passed by in a steady stream, neither slowly nor quickly. I signed another student in and signed her out. The clock on the wall was my talisman; if I’m still bleeding after this student, I told myself, I’ll text Andrew. If I’m still bleeding after this hour, I’ll call my mom.

The hours passed. It all got worse. In between students, on a ten-minute break, I went out to my car and called my mom. My dad picked up, his voice sounding ultra-cheery. “Hey, baby!” he said. I didn’t want to make him sad but I kept my voice flat. I did want to make him sad. I felt like I was melting into the damp asphalt. I had been waiting to cry all evening.

“Can I talk to Mom?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. He must have realized something was wrong. “Do you need her right now?”


My dad didn’t try to make small talk while we waited for her to get off the other line. I remained silent, still not crying.

My mom finally picked up. I had six minutes until my next student. “I think I’m having a miscarriage,” I told her, without saying hello.

“Oh, honey,” she said.

“I only took a pregnancy test last week,” I said, and then, finally, I started to cry.

Please finish reading this story by following this link

“I feel like a robot…I never expected this, to feel nothing…”

Today’s story is a guest blog from Little Miss PMA. Check out her blog and show her some support. Thank you so much Toni! XXX ~MM

As I sit here today, its hard to comprehend everything that has happened in the last six years, in particular, the last year, which has been the toughest I have ever faced. In March 2014 we said goodbye to our first, in March 2015 we lost our second. Two weeks apart. Both at 21 weeks gestation.

Six years ago we started trying to make a baby, a year later prompted a trip to the GP and referral to a fertility specialist. A lap and dye and six rounds of Clomid later and we are referred to IVF. Im polycystic and he has trouble across the board. Thankfully we live in an age where babies can be created in a lab, without this technology, our dreams of a family would be going down a very different path.

First round of IVF failed in March 2012, two attempts at a frozen embryo cycle were cancelled due to poor uterine lining thickness. Third attempt at a frozen transfer was going in the same vein but I begged to be able to transfer, I was desperate, it was now November 2013 and my patience had worn thin. They warned me I was wasting a precious embryo but I didn’t care, I needed to try. Lo and behold, our first ever positive pregnancy test!

To see two lines was pure joy, I shook all morning, kept poking my boobs to make sure it was real. We did it!! It had taken years but we got there. Eight week scan showed a blob with a flickering heartbeat. It was the most beautiful little ‘Squidge’ I had ever seen, I cried happy tears! Twelve week scan and Squidge only wants to show their bum but no problems detected. A smooth and beautiful pregnancy so far. No need to worry about our 20 week scan, right? We don’t want to know the sex and that is really our primary concern upon attending the anomaly scan.

The world stops. Our beautiful, precious, long awaited baby has a serious heart problem. A follow up scan confirms HLHS (hypoplastic left heart syndrome) basically the left side of the heart hadn’t developed. Three choices: carry on and operate two days after birth, carry on and provide comfort care until the baby passes approximately two weeks later, or end the pregnancy.

Ive always been pro-choice when it comes to a termination, I just never ever thought I’d need to make that choice, but given the odds and other factors, we felt the best thing to do for our baby, was to spare them from any suffering.

Six days later I was induced and 33 hours later, Milo was born sleeping. I had A LOT of morphine in my system and feel this stopped me taking in the enormity of it all, what I had just been through didn’t register. I watched my husband cry over our baby boy, unable to feel what he felt.

I was determined this wouldn’t define us, we wouldn’t be Bereaved Parents for the rest of our marriage. All my focus went into the next steps IVF wise. We were told it was a one off, bad luck, unlikely to happen again. I had to correct this situation, I had to give my husband the child he deserved.

We had one more frozen embryo to use, I couldn’t wait but guidelines state you must have three periods before trying again, our turn came around, but as luck would have it, the incubators broke the day before my transfer was scheduled and therefore it was cancelled. Talk about bad luck, I mean you cant write this stuff can you?! The following month we made it to transfer, but the embryo didn’t implant, another spectacular failure.

The waiting around between cycles was killing me. All I wanted was a healthy baby, I’d always assumed once I was pregnant, there would be baby, I was learning fast this wasn’t the case so decided to take matters into my own hands. After lots of research, I decided our best option was to head abroad. In November 2014 we travelled to Cyprus for 10 days. I had four embryos replaced the day before we travelled home. We tested on our wedding anniversary, another positive test.

The thrill wasn’t the same. The naivety of pregnancy had gone, I was now very aware of what could go wrong, not just heart conditions, but neural tube defects, chromosomal issues etc. I could only focus on what we knew, there was an increased risk of a heart defect but additional scans had been scheduled and so I had to try my best to enjoy it as much as possible.

Unlike my 1st pregnancy, this one was plagued with scares, increased nuchal measurement at 12 weeks, combined with bloods gave us a 1 in 11 chance of Downs. Talk of termination began to surface and I remember shutting the conversation down fast. I did not want to contemplate another one.

At 14 weeks the nuchal measurement had gone down and the heart looked OK. I am adamantly against CVS and Amnio as they carry a risk of miscarriage and after everything we had been through I couldn’t accept that risk.

We were fortunate enough to be able to afford non invasive prenatal testing, a simple blood test. However, baby had other ideas, the 1st sample didn’t have enough of baby’s DNA in it, clearly this baby wasn’t into sharing, but 2 weeks later after another test, we received the results. The odds were more like 1 in 59 million….phew!!!

Sixteen week heart scan showed a healthy heart, the anomaly scan revealed a perfect baby and the follow up heart scan showed it was perfect too. We were home free!

Nine days later I went to work as normal. My back and legs ached but I was 21 weeks pregnant and I carry BIG, nothing to worry about right?

At 4:00 pm I start contractions. Hoping they were Braxton-Hicks, I booked a GP appointment. By the time she saw me I was in established labour.

At 7:48 pm, Millie was born sleeping. Another beautiful baby that we couldn’t take home. I had contracted an infection and it is assumed that my cervix was incompetent and let it in. I had no warning, no symptoms, one day she was kicking the hell out of me, the next day she was gone.

Fifteen weeks later….I’ve completely shut down. I do not feel anything for my children. I clearly cannot cope and my brain is protecting me. I hate this. I feel like a robot. I’m on antidepressants and in counselling but its going to be a long road. I’ve lost both my children and I cannot cry. I am not angry. I am not sad. I’m just lost. I’m on autopilot. I never expected this, to feel nothing, I know the feelings must be there as my anxiety, insomnia and eating habits have all been affected. I do not know how to access my feelings.

My children deserve so much more. I’ve failed them. This wasn’t the plan. But I cannot stop. I cannot stop the longing for a baby, despite everything, I know I will try again. Maybe I’m mad, maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, maybe I’m broken?

Despite all of it, part of me still has hope. In the darkness there is still light. Millie was healthy, until the infection got to her, so that’s a step forward from Milo. It amazes me that despite all the pain and suffering, we as the human race, can still see good and light and hope.

Infertility will not beat me, a termination for medical reasons and a late miscarriage will not silence me. I will be heard, I will be counted, I will beat this. Never ever give up.

Love, Little Miss PMA xxx

How to Bury Your Baby After a Miscarriage

By JoAnna Wahlund
June 10, 2015

Reposted with permission of the author from Catholic Stand. MM note: This article is specifically geared towards those who identify as Catholic, but there is good information in here for people of all religions or lack thereof if you want to bury your baby after miscarriage. Make sure you look into your state’s particular laws and procedures!

The loss of a child is a nightmare for every parent. In the first few hours and days of grief and shock, it’s hard to know what to do.

If you are reading this article because you recently lost a baby via miscarriage, there are three things I want you to know:

1. I am so sorry for the loss of your baby.

2. You have the right to bury your baby.

3. If you did not bury your baby, do not not feel ashamed or guilty. We can only do our best in the circumstances we’re in according to the knowledge that we have.

I have been in this unfortunate position three times. My second loss was very early (5w6d) and happened late at night while I was in the emergency room. In our shock and grief, my husband and I didn’t think to try and save any discernible remains, and the baby, whom we named Chris, was so tiny at that point that we likely would not have been able to identify his/her body amid the blood and tissue.

The Process

With my first and third losses, my husband and I chose to bury the baby at our local Catholic cemetery. I had a D&C in both cases, and we were able to obtain the baby’s remains from the hospital.

If you are waiting for a miscarriage to occur at home, or if you suspect one will occur, it’s important to be prepared to save the baby’s remains for burial, if you so choose. The site Catholic Miscarriage Support has excellent and detailed advice regarding supplies to have on hand and what to expect before, during, and after the miscarriage, and they also provide advice regarding how to store the baby’s remains until burial. I don’t have any experience with this aspect of miscarriage management, so I recommend reading the advice linked above instead.

If you will undergo a D&C, you need to insist that the baby’s remains be returned to you and released to either you, your husband, or a local funeral home. Unfortunately, this is not an easy process simply because the request is rare. It may be different with an authentically Catholic hospital (I have never been a patient at one during a miscarriage situation so I have no idea); both hospitals where I obtained my D&Cs were secular. “This is not a common request,” my OB said to me as he was trying to figure out the paperwork involved. The following is my most recent experience with burying my miscarried child, specific to the state of Arizona, and advice for anyone going through the same thing.

Obtaining the Baby’s Remains from the Hospital

Once you arrive at the hospital for the D&C, tell every single medical professional you encounter at the hospital that you want the baby’s remains returned to you for burial. Tell your doctor. Tell your anesthesiologist. Tell every nurse who comes to your bedside for any purpose. Read every paragraph on every page of paperwork given to you to sign to make sure that you’re not giving them permission to dispose of the baby’s body as medical waste (and if you find paperwork with that clause, cross it out and write in the margin that you want the baby’s remains returned to you for burial – and initial it). We wrote or had the nurses write on every single piece of paper relating to the procedure that we did not want the pathology department to dispose of the baby’s remains; they were to be released to us after appropriate testing had been concluded. Perhaps it was overkill but we wanted to make absolutely sure that everyone was on the same page.

Above all, stand your ground. You may encounter confusion or resistance from your doctor, the hospital, and/or other medical staff. You have the right to your baby’s remains (it is not against the law to release them), and you have the right to bury your baby. If the hospital does not have a process for releasing the baby’s remains, then they need to develop one. (Incidentally, we met with the funeral home on the morning of my D&C, and they were very helpful regarding arrangements. The representative we spoke with gave us her cell phone number and told us to have the hospital call her if we had any issues, so if possible, I recommend letting the funeral home run interference if you run into any resistance.)

With my most recent loss and D&C (June 2, 2015 – we named the baby Francis), our first step was, prior to the procedure, filling out special paperwork authorizing the hospital to release Francis’ remains. One of the forms asked my purpose for the remains, and I wrote, “Burial of my child.” I was determined that everyone who read that paperwork would know that we recognized our baby for who s/he was — a valuable, beloved child.

Per the state of Arizona, part of the paperwork we filled out at the hospital included a Fetal Death Certificate. We had someone from the Records department of the hospital go over it to make sure that everything was filled out correctly to avoid any delays due to incomplete paperwork. After the procedure, the doctor signed off on it (this was required), and then the hospital transmitted it electronically to the state Office of Vital Records. We also received a copy.

Two days later, my husband went to the local county Vital Records office with our copy of the Fetal Death Certificate. He obtained an official copy of the certificate from Vital Records, and with that official copy he applied for and received a permit to transport human remains, known as a disposition-transit permit, effective for 24 hours.

Francis’ remains had been sent to another hospital’s pathology department for identification (i.e., a medical technician had to make sure all parts were accounted for). We had the option to have the remains released with or without preservative. ( I don’t think our funeral home had a preference but that may be something to check on with your funeral home.) We had said that preservative was fine but for some reason the pathology department chose not to use it.

Once that was done, the remains were returned to our local hospital, and my husband was notified that he could pick them up. He did so that day, permit in hand, and delivered them to the funeral home, who had agreed to hold the remains for us until burial. We had to give them a copy of the permit for their records. (We had the option to keep Francis’ remains at home and bring them to the cemetery ourselves the next day, but we asked the funeral home if they could hold them for us instead, and they agreed.)

Note: Our experience in Fargo was fairly similar to the above, except that Noel’s remains were released directly to the funeral home from the hospital, thus avoiding the need to get a disposition-transit permit or similar. The process will likely vary depending what state you’re in and their specific processes, or maybe it varies depending on the funeral home in question.

Burial Details

The funeral home had previously given us a small casket (you can see a photo of it here) to give to the pathology department to hold Francis’ remains. If you are required to supply your own casket, Heaven’s Gain sells small caskets for miscarried children. Otherwise, a small wooden or ceramic box would work best (you can probably find these at a local craft store such as Hobby Lobby). We purchased a small ceramic box with a cross and bible verse on it for Noel’s casket; I found it at a Family Christian store.

Many Catholic cemeteries have special sections especially for miscarried babies under 20 weeks gestation, and that is the option we chose. Babies over 20 weeks are considered stillbirths, not miscarriages, and are usually buried in a section of the cemetery reserved for infants and children. If you encounter a Catholic cemetery that doesn’t have a special section for miscarried babies, remind them that burying the dead is a corporal work of mercy. In my humble opinion, every Catholic cemetery should have such a section, and should offer their services free of charge in a pregnancy loss or stillbirth situation.

We buried our second child, Noel, in a special section for miscarried children at Holy Cross Catholic Cemetery (North) in Fargo, ND. We buried our eighth child, Francis, in a special section for miscarried children (called the Rachel Mourning Baby Section) at Holy Cross Catholic Cemetery in Avondale, AZ.

You will likely need to call the cemetery directly and inquire about special sections of the cemeteries for miscarried children. Neither the website of the Diocese of Fargo nor the Diocese of Phoenix mentions the special sections on their respective websites, although the Catholic Sun (newspaper of the Diocese of Phoenix) wrote an article about them in 2012.

Thankfully, our parish priest was able to direct us to Holy Cross Mortuary when my husband called to tell him about our loss. We also arranged to have a deacon from our church present at the burial; he conducted a beautiful graveside ceremony. I believe that he read from the Funeral Rites for Children, as found in the Order of Christian Funerals (OCF) – the book which contains all Catholic funeral rites. The Funeral Rite for Children includes special prayers for children who died without baptism. We had a graveside ceremony and a memorial Mass for Noel as well, and we plan to have a memorial Mass for Noel, Chris, and Francis in August 2015.

Another option for a funeral rite is the Blessing of Parents After a Miscarriage. There are also several archdioceses that have developed special rites especially for miscarried babies — the ones that I am aware of are Order for the Naming and Commendation of an Infant Who Died before Birth from the Diocese of Wichita (you can find a pdf of the rite here) and the Diocese of St. Louis, and a Naming Ceremony from the Diocese of Atlanta (note that it says it may only be used within the Diocese, so you may need your priest to get permission to use it elsewhere). If you know of any others, please let me know!


In both cases, our child’s burial was handled free of charge. This is not the case in all dioceses, unfortunately, so that is something you will need to investigate. The funeral home and cemetery in Fargo handled Noel’s arrangements free of charge because we were poor at the time and could not afford to pay (I have no idea if they make similar arrangements for all miscarried children, however). The representative we spoke with at Holy Cross Mortuary here in AZ told us that they bury all miscarried children under 20 weeks gestation free of charge, and have done so for the past 13 years. We did choose to pay $50 to have Francis’ name carved on a common gravestone, but that was optional and the only cost we incurred.

If you have any additional questions or could use some guidance in navigating a similar situation, please don’t hesitate to contact me. I’m happy to help in any way I can.

Solving the Mystery of Miscarriages

Centers help find explanations and treatments when pregnancies repeatedly don’t succeed

June 15, 2015 1:29 p.m. ET

(Reposted in part from http://www.wsj.com/articles/solving-the-mystery-of-miscarriages-1434389396)

About one in four pregnancies ends in miscarriage. Yet doctors and parents learn the reason why only about half the time.

A few clinical research centers have opened around the country in recent years to help find explanations when pregnancies repeatedly don’t succeed. The centers also study new treatments they hope will help patients boost the chances of a successful pregnancy the next time around.

Just over half of miscarriages occur when a fetus has too many or too few chromosomes from the time of fertilization, doctors say. Most women in this situation go on to have a healthy baby in a future pregnancy. It’s the rest of them that stump doctors.

The Program for Early and Recurrent Pregnancy Loss, or Pearl, provides clinical services to women who have had multiple miscarriages for reasons that aren’t clear. An estimated 5% of couples experience recurring miscarriages. Two other centers affiliated with large institutions also conduct clinical research on miscarriages, including at Stanford University and the University of Illinois at Chicago. The centers might conduct genetic testing, look for hidden infections or hunt for mysterious immune disorders, among other techniques.

Shedding light on the causes and potential treatments after a miscarriage also gives people an emotional boost. “So often after miscarriage women and couples blame themselves. If you can tell a woman this was the molecular basis for your miscarriage, it had nothing to do with what you did, that gives huge relief to the patient,” says Zev Williams, director of the Pearl program, located at Albert Einstein College of Medicine and Montefiore Health System in New York City.

Please head on over to the Wall Street Journal to read the rest!

The loneliness of losing a baby

By Lucy Taylor
February 1, 2010
From The Daily Mail

When I discovered I was pregnant in October, I felt so many different emotions it’s difficult to know where to start.

I was shocked because of my age – 38 – and the fact my partner and I had been trying for only a couple of months. As women are bombarded with the message that our chances of conceiving naturally after the age of 35 are virtually zero, I had assumed we’d almost certainly need some form of medical intervention, and even then I knew there were no guarantees.

When the shock dissipated, I felt excitement verging on elation. Ever since I was a teenager, I’ve wanted to be a mother.

But over the years, as relationships failed to work out, I focused on my career as a journalist, instead. I enjoyed the single life. I travelled widely. It took me a long time to grow up and realise what was really important in life.

But as the years marched by and (I like to think) I started to grow up, I also began to confront the reality that I might never be a mother.

I fleetingly considered single motherhood and started making inquiries about adoption. Then I met my partner. It wasn’t the mad, passionate, love-at-first-sight thing I’d spent (wasted?) so much of my life dreaming about.

But thank goodness I realised before it was too late that real love bears little resemblance to love in the movies, novels and our fantasies.

It was different from any of my previous relationships. In the past, I’d been drawn to high-risk, roller-coaster affairs or men who just weren’t interested in me.

My partner is the opposite. He’s secure in himself, funny, mature – and he loves me. It took a little bit of adjusting because I was so used to being with egotistical rogues who were too busy loving themselves to love anyone else.

But I began to realise how lucky I was to have found one of the good guys. He was as keen as I was to start a family.

When I found out I was pregnant, as well as the excitement there was also fear. I was afraid of so many things. We’re not supposed to talk about this in a culture that romanticises pregnancy and motherhood, but many women feel huge anxiety and ambivalence about what lies ahead.

I was afraid something might be wrong with the baby. I was afraid I wouldn’t feel that overwhelming rush of love you’re supposed to experience. I was afraid of losing my identity as a woman and being subsumed by the role of a mother.

I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness and fear. My partner was working 50 miles away and, for some reason, I decided not to contact him

I was anxious at the loss of my previous care-free, independent life. I was afraid that the couple of glasses of wine I’d had before I knew I was pregnant would have caused some damage.

The thing I was most terrified of was having a miscarriage. One of my friends had become withdrawn and had sunk into a deep depression after losing her baby at 15 weeks. I was worried about how I’d cope with the physical and emotional pain of such a complicated loss.

Because I am superstitious (even though I know it’s nonsensical), I avoided buying any pregnancy books and even tried, unsuccessfully, to avoid thinking about names.

I loitered one afternoon at the pregnancy and childbirth section in a bookshop, flicking through books, but coming up with the illogical conclusion that if I bought one, something bad would happen.

Then, in my eighth week, I was suddenly filled with optimism. Everything was going to be OK, I thought. I bought two bottles of champagne for our respective families on Christmas Day, which would be the 13-week mark and the day we’d planned to share our good news.

And I couldn’t resist it. I bought a pregnancy manual and Lennart Nilsson’s famous and awe inspiring book, A Child Is Born. I spent hours looking at those spectacular pictures of life inside the womb, and read about the miraculous journey from fertilisation to birth.

And then, a few days later, I woke up and felt drastically different. I hadn’t had many pregnancy symptoms, but the most acute – tender breasts – had disappeared overnight.

There was a little bleeding, but no pain. Though I knew bleeding during early pregnancy is common and not necessarily an ominous sign, I just knew I was having a miscarriage.

I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness and fear. I didn’t have a clue what was going to happen next. My partner was working 50 miles away and, for some reason I don’t fully understand, I decided not to contact him.

Instead, I lay on my bed for a little while and cried. Then I went online. I clicked frantically from one website to another. I must have read 100 of them. Among the mountain of information, I stumbled across the fact that a miscarriage could take up to four weeks.

The thought of not knowing for sure for such a long time seemed utterly unbearable, so I contacted NHS 24 (the telephone health advice and information service for Scotland). I was looking more for reassurance than anything else. I just wanted someone to tell me what was happening.

A couple of hours later, I was phoned back and told to go to the local out-of-hours emergency medical service.

There, a nurse asked why I was crying. I said it was because I thought I was having a miscarriage. She did a pregnancy test and announced breezily and confidently that it was positive and suggested I just had a urine infection.

I told her it can take up to nine weeks for the pregnancy hormone hCG to leave the system following a miscarriage (I’d read that on one of the websites). With a scowl of disapproval, she passed me over to a doctor. He was far more sympathetic and explained that I was almost certainly having a miscarriage.

He said they were extremely common – about 25 per cent of pregnancies do not go to term, with half of first pregnancies ending in miscarriage, mainly before 12 weeks.

But it is rarely talked about. Unfortunately, there was little that could be done, he said, other than to let nature run its course. He advised me to get some painkillers. But on the way to the chemist, I began to experience the most agonising pain I’ve ever had in my life.

Somehow, I managed to drive myself to a shopping centre with a branch of Boots. After I parked, in a numb haze, I tried to lower the car seat and lie down. But I was in too much pain. I desperately needed help. I stumbled, doubled-over, across a road and collapsed outside a shop.

The first man who passed me must have thought I was a drug addict or alcoholic. He hurried by with his head turned away.

A second man stopped and asked if I was OK. I shook my head and told him I thought I was going to pass out. He helped me walk the 30 yards to Boots, where the staff called an ambulance. (If that man reads this: thank you! I think of him as my good Samaritan, but I was in far too much shock and agony to thank him at the time.)

In the ambulance, I was given gas and air, which took away the pain.

At A&E, I lay on a trolley for a while feeling guilty for taking up time because the pain had disappeared. But a bigger shock was to come. Once I was in a cubicle, I was asked to give a urine sample.

That was when I passed what is known clinically as the ‘products of conception’. I tried not to, but I wanted to stare. I even had an irrational urge to take a photograph. But I was too traumatised to do anything.
Even now, I have occasional flashbacks of what was the beginning of a human life. My partner arrived a short while later and we just cried and hugged each other.

Back home, I slept through the next two days. I didn’t want to get up. I was still too scared in case the pain returned and of facing the world with this secret, private loss.I didn’t want to see Lennart Nilsson’s book, which was still lying on the living room floor.

I didn’t want to open my fridge and see all the healthy food I’d been buying since I’d found out I was pregnant. I didn’t want to switch on my computer and be reminded of all those pregnancy and parenting websites. But I knew I couldn’t hide under my duvet for ever.

I knew I had to get up and get on with it. The first thing I had to do was have a scan to make sure the miscarriage was complete.

I went through this procedure, which is carried out at an early pregnancy assessment unit, in a daze.
Two of the women in the waiting room were gazing adoringly at the pictures of their unborn babies. One had six images on a strip and kept holding them up for all to see.

A nurse asked if I’d mind letting a third pregnant woman nip in before me as she had to pick up her other child from nursery. I nodded and then turned my head away in an attempt to hide my tears. Talk about feeling like a third-class citizen.

I wanted to scream at those women and ask them to show an ounce of sensitivity. But I knew I couldn’t do that. I knew it wasn’t their fault. It’s hard to describe the feeling of lying down in the examination room, knowing that the three women before me would have been oohing and aahing and full of joy, while I was looking at the black emptiness on the screen.

The midwife said it was ‘good news’ because it was completely straightforward and there was no need for any further procedures. I stumbled through the next few days.

I was acutely aware of losing something, but it didn’t feel like a son or daughter. It felt more like the loss of hope, optimism and excitement for the future.

And there was a massive feeling of disappointment at not being able to share the news with our families on Christmas Day. I threw myself into work and told myself I’d coped remarkably well.

My partner kept asking if I was really OK. He was worried I wasn’t dealing with it. I thought I had dealt with it.

In fact, I felt proud of the way I’d survived the pain. I felt strong – stronger than I’d ever felt in my life. But it was all a false sense of optimism. In mid-January, it hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks.
Two of my friends had given birth and sent me pictures of their cute, adorable baby boys. I went shopping for gifts of toys and baby clothes. Then one night last week, I was having a bath when I started crying harder than I’ve ever cried in my life.

I didn’t think I was going to be able to stop. It was uncontrollable, child-like sobbing. I had a horrible, but strong feeling of being poisonous inside and of being a worthless person, incapable of doing anything right.

Because I hadn’t told friends or family about the pregnancy or miscarriage, I had been avoiding people in case I broke down in front of them. I moped around the house, feeling unable to do anything – even washing my hair felt like an insurmountable task.

I found myself sinking into the depths of despair. I went back to those websites and read about women who’d had two, three or more miscarriages and I wondered how on earth they coped.

But I know that humans are amazingly adaptable beings. I know that we do cope with whatever life throws in our path.

My partner and I will try again for a baby, but probably not for a few months. We need to grieve properly for this loss first.

Reposted from The Daily Mail