Miscarriage is an ordeal that can barely be explained in words. If I had to choose a few, they would be horrifying, sickening, heartbreaking, devastating and at times debilitating. I have had more than 4 miscarriages, each one different and bringing a new kind of pain into my life. Some were harder than others, but each affected me in unique ways. I remember feeling so alone every time, even though I knew I was not. I remember each time hearing the stories of what other women before me went through made me feel connected and gave me hope. My hope and prayer is that by sharing part of my story with you, you will gain some hope for yourself, or understanding and compassion for a loved one.

This particular series is about a little one I lost before my husband and I were married. I think the loss was made that much worse because when I discovered the pregnancy, and when I lost it, our relationship wasn’t what you would call sunshine and rainbows. Although the Father kept us together, at the time I was all the more alone because of the strained relationship we had at the time.


When Ian and I first started dating, we fought all the time. I now realize that much of the arguing was because of my insecurities and a lack of understanding of the other person worked fundamentally on both sides. I had gone through a rough divorce after years of abuse and I was a disaster. Regardless of the reason, we ended up only dating for a couple of months before things ended. We tried to be friends, rather unsuccessfully, but I stayed in touch with his family who loved me and had adopted my daughter as their grandbaby regardless of whether their son and I were together. After we stopped seeing each other, I had a very hard time letting go and found myself stuck in a vortex of emotions and lethargy that followed me everywhere I went.

The first period I missed, I tried not to be overly worried. I took an pregnancy test, but it came back negative so I kept ignoring the nagging feeling that I was pregnant. Whenever the thought surfaced that I might be carrying a baby, I banished it and buried it deep in a blaze of activity. As it happened, I was spending the holidays with his family and that week happened to be right around the time of my second missed period. I was throwing up and overly emotional about everything, feeling extremely sensitive and defensive over every little thing…I knew I was pregnant. I didn’t need a test, but I could’t let myself face the reality. So I allowed myself a few more days until I got home to finally take the test. The test was still negative, but because the same thing had happened with my daughter, I knew better than to go against my instincts  so I went for a blood HGC test, which came back positive.


I was terrified. My first pregnancy had been Hell itself, not because of the morning sickness (although that was terrible), but because of the chaos in my life and my marriage to my first husband. My abusive ex-husband had spent most of getting high or fighting with me, while blaming me for our financial situation as he funneled money from our budget to pay for his drug habits. I was horribly sick the entire time and remember many nights of laying languidly on the couch or snuggling with my best friend when my husband was gone, working or getting high. I ate an endless stream of popsicles, saltine crackers and sucked on more Jolly Ranchers than I could count to keep myself from getting sick. It wasn’t ideal, but it was what it was. When my husband wasn’t there, my best friend was.

This pregnancy, I was alone. Sure, his family was here for me, but I couldn’t even imagine how I would get through another pregnancy with a father who wasn’t there to share in the middle of the night cravings, back rubs and snuggle time when the insomnia kicked in. A man who wouldn’t hold me when I was emotional for no reason other than the hormones surging through my body and the stress surrounding this little one’s coming. No one would be there to rub on my baby bump lovingly and tell me how beautiful I was while carrying their child. I realize all of this sounds very selfish, but I couldn’t imagine a pregnancy that wasn’t shared with someone that I loved, and that loved me back every bit as much. The prospect was devastatingly lonely. My best friend had moved away and so I felt like there was no one to be there for me.

Throughout the several weeks before I could get into my doctor, I was unsure if the baby was healthy or not. This pregnancy felt different, and despite the assurances of others, and even myself, I knew something wasn’t right. I had this sense of being surrounded by a emotional mist. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something told me that I wasn’t going to have this baby. I couldn’t accept that, so I kept burying the thought and trying to be excited and to get over my fears. I told myself I was needlessly worrying and that the baby was fine, and I would find out at the appointment that he (everyone was convinced it was a boy) would be healthy and would grow up strong.

At the doctor’s appointment, everything looked perfect. I tried to convince myself that everything was okay up until the day I started miscarrying.

This is the first post in a series of three. Part 2 talks about the miscarriage, while part 3 deals with the  process of grieving afterwards.