When Amanda from Burnt Toast Life emailed me asking for a spot to guest post, I admit, I squeed. This girl is a great writer. She’s beautiful. I have a shameless girl-crush on her. I read her post last night, tearing up, and nodding my head along. We both experienced a miscarriage within days of each other. Amanda explains so clearly what it is like experiencing loss. It has been one month since I said goodbye to my first baby. How fitting for this to be my first guest post on that anniversary. So leave a little comment love to this fabulous blogger!
Amanda from Burnt Toast Life
When Risa put out the call for guest bloggers, I knew immediately that I wanted to write about miscarriage, and also that I wanted to attempt to describe the profound emotions that go along with it. For one thing, Risa and I just suffered this same sad fate within a few days of each other. Our friends in the blogging community reached out to offer words of comfort to both of us simultaneously, which makes me feel like our losses are inexplicably yet undeniably linked together. Here is my best effort at describing what it feels like.
Please don’t take this the wrong way, and I hope that I don’t sound condescending, but it’s impossible to understand the tragedy of miscarriage without going through it. I’m not saying you can’t be sympathetic or feel sorry for your friends or loved ones. I’m not saying you can’t be compassionate. But to truly grasp the indescribable pain, the haunting loss, and the vast feeling of emptiness that defies the confines of written words, you have to feel it. I pray that anyone reading this never has to know what it’s like. If you do, my heart goes out to you more than you know.
In this lifetime I have suffered two miscarriages after years of extraordinary efforts to make a baby. First, my husband and I suffered from infertility. After testing, it was determined that his contribution was to blame for our lack of conception. We dreamed of IVF, that financial behemoth beckoning in the distance, luring us in with promises of a happily ever after. Fortunately, we found and were accepted into a clinical trial which allowed us to pursue this opportunity free of cost. We got pregnant – with twins! – on our first try. I didn’t worry; not really. I figured we had overcome the hurdle that was keeping us from starting our family. I was so wrong.
I miscarried our twin girls at 8 weeks, 1 day. It was the single most devastating day of my life. All that I wanted, at that moment and in the following weeks, was to be pregnant again. We tried IVF a second time and once again, it worked. This time I was more cautious, but still so hopeful. It seemed like everyone I talked to had one miscarriage and went on to have a healthy baby. Not many people had two losses in a row. But I must not be like most people because I lost the second pregnancy at 7 weeks, exactly three months to the day after my first miscarriage.
I’ve been trying to figure out the best way to explain it to someone who has never gone through it. I thought maybe I’d compare it to losing a loved one, like a parent or a grandparent or a friend. That’s when I realized it’s nothing like that. When you lose a loved one, you have memories. You have photos and videos and places you can go to that make you think of him or her. There are moments when someone says a certain phrase or you hear a song that inspires you to conjure up a fond memory of that person’s smile, or their laugh or the way it felt to hug them. Miscarriage makes you miss someone you never even met.
It’s not just the death of your child; it’s the death of that potential, yet there’s no concrete image to mourn. You can imagine all these things – the way your baby would look and the way his or her skin would smell after a bath. It would make it worse to have known that baby and it would also make it better. If you had met, you’d have a face to miss. The way it is, you only have your imagination. You are restricted to the limits of what your mind can picture. And you know, deep down, that the baby you lost is so much more beautiful than you can possibly imagine.
When you’re first told you can’t have kids, you can’t help but picture what your kids would be like. They’re far away and hazy in your daydreams, but they are there. They are a combination of yours and your partner’s most significant and unique traits. Miscarriage is even more than this. The baby is there. The dream comes true. It becomes easier to picture because that soul now inhabits the space within you. It’s no longer a matter of picturing your future children in the abstract because your child is a real being that exists. The proverbial finish line is within reach.
But then…the dream dies. The future happiness you’ve been yearning for gets ripped away from you, no matter how badly you want it, no matter what whispered promises you make in the middle of the night to make it stay. You are completely helpless to stop this force. You are at the mercy of fate, or of God, or of whatever cruel hand is at play in this. You collapse. You crumble. And while you can’t even picture the face of the one you mourn for, still, you mourn.
Some people don’t understand this kind of loss, or worse, don’t consider it be a loss at all. “You’ll have more kids,” they say. That was my BABY, is what you want to scream at them, but you can’t. You nod sadly; you cry silently. You try to suffer in a socially acceptable way when all you want is to break down wailing in the middle of the grocery store, in front of a crowd, in the middle of the street. You want to cause a scene and prove that your loss is just as real as anyone else’s. Because that was your baby.
With infertility, it’s even worse. There’s a finite number of chances. You have a limited number of options. Maybe you can only afford treatments for a short time, or maybe your fertile years are winding down to a close. Whatever the reason, miscarriage after infertility is insult on top of injury. It’s one of the shittiest hand to be dealt in the lottery of life.
I don’t want to end this on a sad note, not in the least. Because one thing that miscarriage does is that it makes you stubborn, steadfast and tenacious. It makes you more determined than ever to become a mother by any means possible. To have your life’s dream dangled in front of you and then taken away is to want that dream then more than ever. Even when you’re out of options, you find a way. Even when you feel like you’re losing faith, you dig deep into the recesses of yourself and find a stubborn flame of hope that flickers and refuses to die.
We should all take the time to mourn because our losses are real and worthy of grief. We should find a way to honor our lost children that is real and tangible to prove that they existed. I used to dream of getting into heaven in a conceptual way, but I didn’t really worry about it too much. Now I know that I simply must get there if for nothing else, to finally see the little faces that I never got to see. I need to get there and hold those little ones in my arms the way that I wanted to from the moment they were conceived. No matter how many children I eventually have and no matter how many memories I make in the coming decades, I will never—never—forget my precious unborn babies. And one day, God-willing, I will see them again.
Amanda, I think you portray the feelings very well. You have amazing determination and courage and I know that one day you will be able to see all of your babies together with you and your husband. Prayers to you and your hubby during grieving and next step planning.
Okay I boohoo'd. One day we will all have a happy ending, someway, somehow!
Amanda you truly have a wonderful way with words. Im sorry you have been dealt this hand. Sending prayers and well wishes to you and hubby always.
Great guest post Amanda, and you are right on in describing the feelings of a m/c.
Beautiful and soo true. It is SO hard to mourn the loss of someone you never met, and someone who a lot people consider insignificant.
My cousin lost her child at 19 years old, and she never really recovered. She was always grieving, and commenting on how short those 19 years were. Right after I lost my last baby, she went on a particularly lengthy rant about her loss, and in my silent grief all I could think of was how much I would give for 19 years of memories with my child. Her loss is incredible, and horribly sad, but it's so different from a miscarriage. Not any more or less sad, but just different.
Thanks so much Amanda for sharing what is such a heartbreaking post. After my m/c I heard my RE, My OB/GYN colleagues and fertile BFF all tell me "well at least you can get pregnant" yes, but I wanted to shout, "do you have any idea how hard it was for me to get pregnant and how unlikely it is that I'll conceive spontaneously again?" It's the worst consolation prize in the world. Also no one outside of the ALI community recognizes your would have been due date. No one did for me. Not my colleagues or friend who heard me mention how difficult August 5th would be for me. Even my husband didn't remember the exact date. To the outside world, it seems as if your pregnancy never occurred, but the memories will never leave you.
This was beautiful. I imagine your pain and it floors me. You're both amazing women, and I so appreciate everything you two share with the blogging community.
Wow… Tear. I'm so happy you and Risa have one another!!
Thinking of you both.
Amanda, this is beautifully written and so heart-breakingly accurate! I have described miscarriage after infertility in the exact same way. I am so sorry for your losses!
I've often said that if I had a choice between never getting pregnant and getting pregnant but miscarrying, I'd pick option number one every time. It just seems so unfair to think you've finally overcome this horrible hurdle of infertility, only to be face with a fresh new hell. I hate that it's happened to so many of us and I can only send virtual hugs and sympathy.
The combination of infertility and miscarriage is so mind-bogglingly crushing; you describe it well. "You'll have another" – MAYBE, did you know that unprotected sex does absolutely nothing to further my goal of being a mom, random fertile lady? I think we have all earned major awards for getting through – with humor and grace – the incredibly shitty deck we've been dealt.
Miscarriage, coupled with infertility or not, steals so much from us. I wish that as I start on this very new, second pregnancy (look ma, no kids!) that I were more joyous and less terrified. Thanks for writing so eloquently about this personal tragedy.
Beautiful. This describes it perfectly. I love the part about our unseen children are in our dreams, although a haze, they are there. I went through a miscarriage last winter, very early on, and the pain was so shocking (I somehow hadn't processed that if IVF worked I could still have a miscarriage). It was horrible, but we keep fighting. You are right, it makes you more determined. Thanks for sharing!!
This is such an accurate description. I'm sorry for your losses. Even though my losses were very early, I hated that people didn't see that I saw them as "my babies." My almost-babies, my future, my dreams that died inside of me. Instead, they said things like "if you hadn't been trying, you would have just thought it was a late period." Obviously they've never miscarried– it was nothing like a period. I felt like people tried to reduce something very important, heartbreaking, and life changing to "just a bad day."
There are so many feelings I had, and still have, about my miscarriages that I could go on forever. You beautifully touched on some of the most significant ones. I hope for smoother days ahead for you.
Death of potential…that's exactly it…
Wow, thank you for writing this. It is beautiful. I am so sorry for what you have had to go through.
I am one of those people that have never been able to get pregnant after trying for almost 10 years. It is devastating to know that there is just something wrong that you are just not able to get pregnant and have a baby in your arms. I also have to admit that I have thought about people that have miscarried, "at least you can get pregnant". I have never even experienced the joy of knowing, even just for a brief moment, that I was pregnant. Never had the hope, not even a potential.
However, I also know that miscarriage is devastating. I have never known that pain, and as some people say, I am fortunate to never have known it. Still I know it is a silent pain, and not many people know how to deal with being a friend to those that have gone thru a miscarriage. And I know that I will never truly understand. Until and unless that happens to me. With a FET coming up, I also carry the fear of miscarriage with me, even if I do become pregnant.
I have a friend that has had 6, yes SIX miscarriages. I feel really bad because I will never understand what she went through, and feel like I was not a good enough friend to her when she had those miscarriages. I just tried to be there for her as she has been for me.
Thank you for writing this. It has given me a glimpse of the turmoil of miscarriage.
You truly have a gift with words Amanda. This was so eloquently written. It is difficult for anyone to have a miscarriage, but I do believe that a miscarriage after infertility is insult upon injury. I'm so sorry you've had to go through this, and I'm also so sorry Risa has had to go through this, as well as anyone else who has suffered a loss. I unfortunately know the pain.