the lost Secret

If you’re cautious, you don’t tell anyone that you’re pregnant until you reach the 12-week “safety zone.” What that means is that you’re living with this incredible secret for like, three months (!), before you let the world know that your life is about to change.

Three months is a long time to sit with that kind of secret. You inevitably begin to make plans in your head about what your life is going to look like moving forward. Internal questions like,  “How pregnant will I be when (fill in the blank)?” and “The baby will be (X) old when (fill in the blank),” follow practically every conversation that you have about work priorities, personal ambitions, holiday travel plans…

And then it happens, and then it’s gone. Lost. All of that time. All of that planning. The hopes. The excitement. The Secret.

*****

It was 10PM on Thursday, October 3, 2013.

After about a week of feeling a little off and worrying that something might be wrong, we decided to go to the Emergency Room to make sure that I was just being paranoid. Blood tests, an ultrasound, and seven hours later, the doctor pulled his chair up next to my bed and said it.

“Unfortunately, I have some bad news.”

These are words that no one wants to hear in a medical setting (or anywhere for that matter). The words that followed are just a blurred memory, or maybe they just got lost like all of that time, the planning, the hopes, the excitement, the Secret.

The next morning we made heartbreaking phone calls to family members who didn’t know that we were pregnant, and to friends who did. We went in for a follow-up appointment and learned that I needed to have surgery to prevent the risk of infection. Apparently the placenta kept growing even though our baby did not. Completing the miscarriage would have been a long process; it would also have been both physically and emotionally taxing.

The whole experience of learning that we lost the baby was very surreal, and even up until the minute that they put me under anesthesia, I couldn’t believe what was happening. And then, I woke up.

*****

I learned that one in five pregnancies end in miscarriage. We don’t talk about this publicly or on social media and I get it. Some people don’t want to share these losses because they are just too painful. Some people are regretful that they shared their secret before they reached the “safety zone,” only to lose it before it could become a reality.

It’s okay not to share these things; it’s perfectly normal not to want to. But we shouldn’t feel that we can’t talk about it, and that’s kind of how I feel right now.

We had an incredible, miraculous, exciting secret. But it’s gone now; it’s been lost, almost as quickly as it arrived. Because my body hadn't yet disclosed my Secret, telling people that I had a miscarriage isn't something that can be brought it up in conversation. That would be awkward. For everyone. 

And now, I feel like I have another secret. This one is dark and sad, and no one really wants to know it.

I had a miscarriage.

I have to act like my life is normal, like nothing traumatic has just happened. In reality, I am holding back tears on a daily hourly basis, still grieving over what was lost. I don't want this to be secret, so I am purposefully releasing it now.

*****

Will I be able to become pregnant again? Maybe (It's likely.). Will I be nervous if I do? Probably. Will I have faith that it’s going to work out how it's meant to? Absolutely.

But it still hurts. I can’t imagine that this kind of soul-wound ever really goes away. But I know that the grieving gets easier; it already has.

I also know that the circumstances of our loss could have been much more difficult than they were, and for that, I am thankful.

*****

I share what happened to us because I want women (and men!) struggling with secret losses to know that they are not alone.

I want you to know that it’s okay to talk about it (if you want to). I hope that you can find comfort and peace, as we have, through friends and family, through your church, or through an organized group supporting those who experience pregnancy and infant loss.

“How lucky I am to have [had] something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” 

– A.A. Milne