I’ve thought about writing this blog many times in the last year. When I reached 12 weeks, 20 weeks—and found out I was having a little girl—when I neared my due date and finally again after my little one arrived. But the timing was never right. I was never ready to share my story with the greater world, to let my walls down and lay my emotional journey out for the public. Which is kind of funny considering I write novels doing just that.
But the fact that I had a miscarriage before I had my daughter, while not a secret, is also not common knowledge. It took me a long time to realize that there isn’t—or shouldn’t be—a stigma around miscarriage, that it wasn’t something I caused, and that sharing the information wasn’t placing a burden on the recipient. Now, at early 12 weeks postpartum, with a happy, healthy daughter, I realize the importance of sharing my story. It might help someone going through the same thing. It might, even for a moment, make their journey easier. Because the truth is, my miscarriage changed me and the fear that it instilled in me altered my pregnancy experience forever.
I found out I was pregnant on January 15, 2016. We were ecstatic; we literally conceived our first month trying. We anxiously awaited that first appointment at just before eight weeks. And then there she was. A tiny spec on a screen. Our little peanut measured a week small, making it just too early to see her heartbeat. We were told to come back in two weeks, and not to worry. So I did my best not to worry. I talked to my baby, I planned, I took pleasure in the mild morning sickness that had started to kick in. I loved the hope and joy of being pregnant. We wished for it, and it happened.
February 23, 2016. We stared at an image on the screen, still a tiny spec, but this time in a large amniotic sac, and still no flickering heartbeat. A missed miscarriage. Our baby had died before it ever really lived. There was never a heartbeat; my body hadn’t figured that out yet. On March 2, one day before my thirtieth birthday, I went in for a D&C. It was quick and mostly painless, at least physically. The week leading up to the procedure was one of the worst I’ve had in my life. The devastating pain of loss mingled with a fear of being in the hospital, kicked my ass. I cried heavy, body-shaking tears for days. How did I make this decision? But my body wasn’t cooperating, and I needed it to be over. Knowing that my dead baby sat inside me every day, while no one else knew, was awful. That week and making that decision broke something in me I’m not sure I will ever be able to fully fix. It’s a loss of the innocence of pregnancy and trust in my body.
Without much effort we found ourselves pregnant again by July. I suspected when I had no PMS systems, and when the faint pink line showed up I was mildly excited. None of the glowing excitement of the first time. I simply walked downstairs and asked my husband what he thought of an April baby. Those first few weeks waiting for our appointment were torture. I was wary and excited, and the only saving grace was the horrible bout of morning sickness and food aversions that hit me. After the mild case the first time, it was a welcome sign that things were probably going well in there. Seeing—and hearing—that little flickering heartbeat at 10 weeks was exactly how it was supposed to be. Our little nugget—I couldn’t use peanut again—was alive and growing.
With each week and milestone that passed it became clearer that things were progressing well. The baby measured on time at each ultrasound, her heartbeat was strong and consistent. And I had my moments of excitement: when I found out we were having a girl or that first definitive kick. But the truth was I hated being pregnant. I didn’t enjoy it in the least. Instead, I felt distant from both my pregnancy and my growing baby. This distance was protective; it kept me from freaking out over every little thing and from recognizing the paralyzing fear that my body would fail me again. It wasn’t a logical tactic. A loss would’ve been just as devastating as if I let myself enjoy and engage with my pregnancy, but my mind was doing all it could to protect my heart.
The closer we got to my due date, the more I allowed myself to feel. I setup the nursery, put together all her toys, washed her clothes and burp clothes and sheets and bibs, and carefully picked out her going home outfit. I studiously avoided thinking about the actual labor to keep my mind at ease. Despite my growing belly, the doctor’s warning that she could come any day, and the completed nursery, I couldn’t really believe she’d arrive, my beautiful rainbow baby.
And then, rather suddenly, at 38 weeks, my water broke. Ten and a half hours later Hailey Elizabeth arrived. Our tiny little bundle of joy. Of course, like most new mothers, I’m sure, I didn’t sleep for the next 96 hours. No amount of classes or babysitting could’ve prepared me for life with a newborn. Like how on the second night of her life, Hailey would want to be held ALL NIGHT; or how babies sleep a lot, but most of that sleep will occur in your arms. Sleep when baby sleeps, yeah right.
Baby blues hit me hard after the birth. All that distance I’d created during my pregnancy did little to prepare for the overwhelming emotions of birthing and holding your child. I would cry and cry, and when my husband asked why, the only answer was that I just loved her so much. For ten months, I’d held back most of my fears about losing the baby. I hadn’t shared them with anyone. I just complained about being pregnant, the aches and the pain and the weird sleeping positions—and in the last few weeks the uncontrollable bladder—but all those complaints hid the fact that I hated being pregnant because I didn’t trust my body or myself to keep this tiny baby safe, and now that baby was here. My fragile newborn daughter had only been an idea, and now she was in my arms day and night. My rainbow baby had made it, and I didn’t know what to do with such an explosion of love. So I cried, for weeks.
Things eventually got better. I slept; my hormones balanced; my husband held me close when there was nothing else he could do. He even got me to tell him how I’d basically been a nervous wreck for 10 months. Now, at 11 weeks, Hailey is quite the personality. She loves sitting up and looking around, kicking her legs, and most of all snuggling with Mommy and Daddy. My husband and I make a pretty good team of figuring her out and helping to keep each other sane. I go back to work next week—which I need more than I care to admit—and I know it’ll be a whole different life than the last 11 weeks. But we’re here—me, my husband, and our rainbow baby—and each day is its own miracle.