I want to scream and yell and kick the world. The pain is so all-consuming that it swallows me whole. I am too weary to fight. I can't even cry.
This post was published on the now-closed HuffPost Contributor platform. Contributors control their own work and posted freely to our site. If you need to flag this entry as abusive, send us an email.

Miscarriage, I hate the very word. There is everything and there is nothing in that moment of delivery. I am shocked and stunned, as my soul quietly hoovers above my own body. I watch detached as my world falls apart, as my heart is ripped to shreds. I want to scream and yell and kick the world. The pain is so all-consuming that it swallows me whole. I am too weary to fight. I can't even cry. In moments of excruciation, I often find myself silent; too wounded to even muster a whisper. Afraid that the sound of my own voice will make it all real. I don't want this to be real. It can't be. Why, God?

I want to scream but I can't. I cannot even form a complete rational thought. All I can do is choke back tears and pray this is some vivid nightmare.

This beautiful, unexpected blessing that shocked and terrified me when I saw the two pink lines, this baby that I didn't deserve, is now gone. Vanished from my arms before I even got to hold him close; look into his eyes as they gazed back up to me as if to say, "This is love."

I can't breathe. The air has been sucked from my lungs and left me choking on shattered dreams and a broken dam of emotions. I can't speak. I sit silently as the tech holds my hand and tries to explain why God has forsaken me. I hear nothing above the sound of my world crumbling and crashing down on top of me. The world is moving in slow motion; the air heavy and thick like maple syrup on a hot summer's day. I can't breathe. This is not happening.

I went in to the obstetrician's office because of slight spotting; no cramps, no heavy bleeding; nothing. This has happened both times before ,but I always go in just to confirm that my worries are unfounded. But not today, today they mean everything. I expected to walk out of there reassured. I expected everything to be OK. It wasn't. It isn't. I never will be again.

My body failed my baby and I. There was a major malfunction and all I could do was take one step at a time and try not falling to the ground and crying forever. The world looks different to me now. When you lose something so monumentally profound, like a child, you are changed forever. You will never fully recover. You learn to live in this new reality with half your heart missing. I can't eat. I can't sleep. All I can do is cry.

My legs were shaking uncontrollably, my mind racing, spinning out of control and I was all alone, more alone than I had ever been in my entire life. I needed to hear my husband's voice. He had to be told. I was the only one who could make that call. He knew I was at the doctor's office. We'd been here before. We worried for nothing.

I was in shock. I hadn't spoken a single word. I sat silently, staring blankly off into the abyss as she explained to me my options. But when he answered the phone and I heard his voice loving and comforting from across the state, a crack turned into a flood.

I dialed the number through my blurry vision, I heard his unsuspecting voice on the other end, "How's our baby?" I was silent. I couldn't bear this betrayal that I had to deliver. "Is everything OK?" his concern was palpable. I started to speak, but it didn't sound like me. It couldn't be me speaking those words. I opened my mouth and the words came out like a death sentence, " We had a M --." and then I began to sob in an uncontrollable and animalistic way, as I have never experienced before. I could not finish the word. It was choking me dead. I could not say it out loud because then it would be real and then my baby would be dead. The promise of our baby would be broken. Life would be different. I would be different. It would all be less. I would never get to hold my baby in my arms because my baby was gone.

We hadn't told anyone, not even our little girls, who had been begging for a baby brother or sister. For just a few weeks, it had been the most magical secret just for the two of us. I'm always afraid. Afraid that I'll say something too soon and something bad will happen. Well, something bad happened; the very worst-case scenario. I can't speak. I can't be. All I can do is cry the sad, never ending howl of a wounded animal. I am broken beyond repair. I am changed forever.

I felt numb. I wanted to crawl up inside myself and be still and never move again; frozen forever in that moment just before they delivered this fatal blow. My baby was a promise of giggles, coos, gassy smiles and tiny fingers clutching to my hand in the middle of the night. He was a promise of one last chance to give heart-bursting love and experience the milestones of motherhood. The promise has been broken and I feel empty. I feel betrayed and let down by life. I am weak and weary. For a brief moment, I was nearly too exhausted to move past it.

I can't talk. I can't breathe. I am empty. Miscarriage.

Popular in the Community


HuffPost Shopping’s Best Finds