You Were Almost Mine: The Incomparable Grief That Is Miscarriage

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I never felt you kick, but somehow felt your presence all the same. You were so small, and you were gone so soon, but you were so very, very real to me.

Losing you shook me to my very core. One moment you were there, and we had a beautiful future ahead of us. The next minute, despair. Disbelief. Denial.

“Miscarriage.” It’s a nebulous concept, before. It’s that scary story that happens to other people, people in pamphlets and on TV shows, but never to me. To you, my sweet little what-if.

Four Children

When my oldest daughter was almost five, she told me that when we go to heaven I will have four children, because her little sister is waiting for us there.

My third pregnancy brought us so much joy. I had had perfectly normal pregnancies and quick deliveries with Samantha and Tanner, and I felt invincible. Miscarriage was just a word. My body knew its job and performed it beautifully.

Even once the bleeding started, I refused to believe it could actually happen. I’d had kidney stones during my first pregnancy, so this must just be that kind of bleeding again.

My family was visiting. It was the day before my husband’s and my eighth wedding anniversary. Three-year-old Samantha was telling anyone and everyone who would listen that Momma had a baby in her belly.

The bleeding got worse. My OB told me to come in the next morning, but long before dawn I woke up to go to the bathroom. I think I knew what had happened, on some level, but I kept praying for God to save my baby. Over and over I said, “I want it! I want it!” If I prayed hard enough, it would happen, right?

I cried, sitting in the bathroom, and knew that I was losing more than blood clots. It felt so helpless. Why was this happening? Why wouldn’t my body obey me? How could God let this happen?

Ordinarily I don’t ever stick my hand into the toilet, but I had to see it. It wasn’t a goldfish, to be flushed. I wasn’t even positive it was the baby. I was only 9 weeks pregnant. It wasn’t even an inch long.

During a membership class at my church, I remembered our Pastor talking about how baptism is just water and prayer, and how anyone can do it in an emergency. I held that tiny baby in my hand, still wet, and I offered it to God.

The lost possibilities haunt me. Songs that are supposed to be about the love that got away, every country song on the radio, every Alison Krauss song ever, they are all about Coco. Baptisms make me cry every time.

Who Are You?

Numbly, I focused on wanting to know who it would have been. I knew they could do a DNA test to find out its gender, and maybe what had happened, so I put my sweet little one in a Ziploc bag. What I didn’t realize is that the test costs thousands of dollars and of course isn’t covered by insurance. They didn’t tell me this at the hospital. They took my bag and I didn’t think anything of it until later.

That may be my biggest regret. My third baby didn’t get a loving burial. It ended up in a biohazard bin at the hospital. If I had known, I wouldn’t have taken it with me at all.

Everyone who dealt with us at the hospital was very kind and gentle. My darling husband tried to console me. We are a team and he is my other half and I adore him. But I felt so alone. He couldn’t help me and he couldn’t understand how deep this sense of loss was for me, or the feeling of failure.

They had to do an ultrasound, but my bladder was empty. So on top of everything else, they catheterized me, which I believe is one of the most horrible sensations possible. Then, when I stood up after the ultrasound, desperate to get to the bathroom, I passed out. My heroic husband caught me.

Then I needed the first surgical operation of my life, a D&C (dilation and curettage), to reduce risk of infection. I was terrified. The only time I had ever been “put under” for anything was in a dentist’s office to get my wisdom teeth removed — certainly never in a hospital, for a big procedure. Dan couldn’t stay with me. My baby was gone. I have never, ever felt so alone.

Coco

Leaving the hospital wasn’t the end of the nightmare. When we got home we had to explain to two tiny, trusting faces that we weren’t going to have another baby, after all. Samantha informed us immediately, with absolute certainty and authority, that our baby was a girl and her name was Coco.

Going public with a pregnancy is so exciting. Going public with a miscarriage is excruciating. And nonsensically, later on, once the loss becomes part of you, it is almost as excruciating to know that very few people want to hear you talk about it. I guess it makes them uncomfortable. Where should they look? How should they act? What should they say? Do they say “it” or “he” or “she”? Should they say nothing at all? Others would rather not think about it. But I think about that child every day. The lost possibilities haunt me. Songs that are supposed to be about the love that got away, every country song on the radio, every Alison Krauss song ever, they are all about Coco. Baptisms make me cry every time.

I will never know who that sweet little spark would have been. If Samantha is right (and she usually is), it would have been a sweet little girl. But I will never hold her tiny hands as she learns how to walk. I will never snuggle her close when she’s teething and needs some TLC. She won’t bicker and giggle with her siblings. My husband will never walk her down the aisle. She might have cured cancer. She might have written a beautiful symphony. Maybe she would have figured out a “cure” for miscarriage. But we will never know, because she wasn’t meant for this world. I got to hold her, but not closely enough.

Thinking about her is a little easier now. When I miss what could have been, I look at my beautiful, happy, incandescent baby girl, Emmaline. She would not be here if I hadn’t lost Coco. Emmaline was born three months after Coco’s due date. She is bright-eyed and alive and full of joy and love. She makes an unbearable loss a little more bearable. If I hadn’t endured that horrible experience, I might never have known this glorious little girl, and that, to me, is an unbearable thought. Emmaline is my silver lining, and I thank God for her every day.

Contributing Sister Site and Author

About {Mary}

Hi there! I’m Mary. When my plans for rock & roll superstardom didn’t pan out, I decided to pursue other avenues. Now I’m a rock star in the eyes of my husband of 10 years and our three groupies (ages 5, 3, and 1). I am also a big fan of Jesus, words, anything Disney, and sending text messages with correct grammar and punctuation. You can usually find me studiously ignoring the full sink of dishes, geeking out when my children use multisyllabic words, or coordinating my local MOPS group.

Mary is a contributor for Genesee Moms Blog, one of our Sister Sites.