My name is Jennifer, and this is why I don’t want my miscarriage to stay secret.
I thought my first ultrasound would go like this: My doctor would point out the baby and I’d turn to my husband Brendon. He’d tear up, and I’d whisper, “Can you believe it?” We’d finally see our burrito, one of our favorite foods and our nickname for our unnamed fetus.
Instead, I saw a fuzzy gray screen.
My obstetrician told me there was no evidence of life, just a gestational sack. She asked me to come back two weeks later. If there was growth, we were in business. If my uterus was still empty, I would miscarry.
I worried every day that nothing was growing inside of me. Still, I religiously read mommy online forums where other women saw the fetus at their second ultrasound. This gave me hope. But the second ultrasound showed there was no baby.
Talking to my doctor, I was completely calm asking when we could try again. “Everything is going to be okay,” Brendon said. It wasn’t until later that I curled into a ball in our bed sobbing. My very first pregnancy became my very first miscarriage, the budding belly I had grown fond of and now hated.
No one I knew ever posted to Facebook, “I had a miscarriage today.” I told a few close female friends, and that’s when the story started coming out about their own miscarriages.
One friend was going through a miscarriage at the same exact time I was. Another suggestion I checked out, #IHadAMiscarriage. I thought I was alone, but it seems so many women had miscarriages. Many of us were still grieving.
Meanwhile, in subsequent check ups, I was still pregnant even though my body was slowly bleeding. A month later, my OB/GYN scheduled a D&C to remove what was inside of me.
[Text on the screen reads “A D&C (dilation and curettage) is a surgical procedure some [people] receive after a miscarriage to clear out the uterus. There were some major complications with Jennifer’s D&C.”]
When I woke up in the recovery room, the head of OB/GYN came in. He demonstrated with his hand how my uterus was inverted. When my doctor went in to dilate me, she accidentally punctured a small hole in the top of my uterus. They had to go in and stitch me up, leaving me with small scars on either side of my stomach.
A group of medical workers were walking through the maternity ward. “Congratulations!” one woman said to me. I shook my head. “No, there’s no baby.” She frowned, then left. At home, I spent two days in bed. I didn’t cry. I just wanted to not exist anymore.
After the surgery complication and an awful phone call with my doctor, I started a frantic search for a new obstetrician. There were friends recommendation I saw a new doctor. She answered my dozens of questions. My new doctor mainly felt comfortable, whereas my old doctor didn’t seem to care and even dismissed my concerns.
When the miscarriage finally happened, I welcomed the cramps and the tissue that finally came out. Now that the physical part was over, I could finally move on. I told more friends via e-mail, and that pouring of support and love was tremendous.
Two months later, Brendon and I were shopping at Target. I accidentally wandered into the baby section with rows of cribs. Suddenly, my heart raised, tears were coming, so I ran out of the baby aisle and found Brendon.
All I had to say was, “I went into the baby section.” He pulled me into a giant hug.
What I’ve learned is that there is no “getting over it.” The grief of my loss is part of me but always will be.
Now, instead of being ashamed to tell anyone on Facebook, I’m going to break the bad news barrier and say it: Last fall, I had a miscarriage.
[Text on the screen reads: “To learn more about Jennifer’s story, check out: www.jchenwriter.com/books.”]
