A different nightmare.

I had a miscarriage at work.

This isn’t a story I ever could have imagined would be mine to tell. I’m fully aware that just because someone has already endured a traumatic experience does not mean they’re immune to experiencing any more trauma. Bad things happen to good people for no reason. People can lose more than one baby. This isn’t lost on me. Yet, when I stared at those two pink lines for the third time in my life in back early February, I never thought I would be here today with this story.

Nothing about having children has been easy for me. I don’t say this because I feel like I need sympathy or attention because it’s hard for a lot of people, but it’s unfair. Absolutely every step has been a mental and physical battle, but I desperately want another living child. My desire to have a healthy, living little sibling for Evelyn and Nora has outweighed my anxiety and fear of trying to have another baby. So when getting pregnant was finally easy, it felt like the universe was cutting me a much needed break. I needed an easy pregnancy after the devastation of losing Evelyn and the pure fear I experienced through my entire pregnancy with Nora.

I deserved this.

Things progressed normally. I didn’t feel how I felt when I was pregnant with both girls, so I was convinced this pregnancy was different because it was a boy. We saw the heartbeat on the ultrasound at 6 weeks. I heard it for the first time at 8. I wrote my due date on the calendar and started picking out baby names. I imagined Nora and this new baby together at the holidays this year. I told myself that this pregnancy would be fine and I would celebrate every minute of it and not be consumed with the knowledge that so many things have to go right in order for a baby to be born healthy.

At exactly 9 weeks pregnant, I woke up early to blood.

I checked for bleeding every single day I was pregnant with Nora, right up until the day before she was born. I let my guard down with this pregnancy, and there it was along with cramping. I knew right there I was losing this baby.

We went to the ER on Sunday afternoon. I had prepared myself for the doctor to tell me my baby had no heartbeat. I was already grieving. But my baby had a heartbeat— a strong heartbeat. They told me I had a subchorionic hematoma which was causing the bleeding. It could result in loss, but often it resolves itself and many people go on to have a healthy pregnancy.

I had hope.

I went home knowing I would just keep bleeding. It was scary but manageable. My baby was okay. I would deal with the bleeding. It would resolve itself. It wasn’t ideal, but I had information. I could get through this.

I went to work on Monday even though I didn’t feel great. I was exhausted from being in the ER all day, and I was bleeding and the cramping felt worse. I Googled a lot, all consistent with the diagnosis. I went about my workday.

In the middle of teaching a CPR class I felt a gush, and I just knew. I knew whatever I felt wasn’t something that could happen and everything would be fine. The world around me started to go blank. I grabbed my things and ran out to the bathroom.

I share this next part with lots of hesitation but with a great sense of obligation to tell others who have been there that no matter what you did with your baby, you made the choice that was best for you. Or maybe you didn’t have a choice, and I’m so sorry. Everything that happened to me in that bathroom that day was by far one of the most traumatic things I have ever experienced. I also want people to understand the reality and the horror of pregnancy loss. I’ve said it before and I will say it again here: babies do not just disappear.

Evelyn was much bigger and I had a full hospital labor with her. This little baby was passed in the bathroom while I was at work. I held my tiny dead baby in my hand, sitting in a stall at work while passing golf ball sized blood clots and tissue.

I don’t know how I got from that point to getting myself home, but I made it. I sat on my kitchen floor with my tiny baby who I wrapped in a paper towel and put into a container because I read about it somewhere before. I sobbed and screamed and apologized to my baby that this happened, that I couldn’t keep them safe.

My husband and mom came to take care of me. The nurse at my OB’s office told me I needed to go to the emergency room with the amount of bleeding I was experiencing. My husband drove me the half hour to the ER connected to the hospital where my OB practices so they could have access to my records from that day. I know I needed to be seen, but I absolutely regret going to the ER. I waited for a room to be available in excruciating pain in the waiting room. They finally put us in a room where I laid on a bed with no blankets and no one to check on me, offer pain relief, or even a new pad. The pain was worse than being in labor with Nora. Having to explain my reproductive history over and over again to anyone new who happened to occasionally pop into the room was like reliving the worst days of my life all over again. They didn’t have the right supplies, equipment, or space to do a pelvic exam in the room. Everything felt like a nightmare.

After ultrasounds, tests, and exams, I was given the option of having surgery or going home with medication to see if I would pass everything and the bleeding would eventually subside. I would have done anything to leave, so we opted to go home. I cramped and bled and went home for the second time in my life with no baby. We turned over our tiny baby to the doctors to do genetic testing. Having to make this choice again opened up a vault of emotions that I thought I dealt with already.

I didn’t know this baby. They weren’t with me for nearly as long as Evelyn and it still all felt so new. I just wrapped my mind around the fact that I was going to have a newborn by the time Nora would be 18 months old. I was preparing to move all the baby things into the guest room. I was making plans to reserve another daycare spot. Everything happened so fast. It’s not the same grief as when we lost Evie, but it’s a reminder that I feel like my body failed another child.

I don’t know how much more grief I can endure. I’m angry that I lost another baby. I’m exhausted from the physical and emotional toll that this loss is taking on me. I feel like I was just getting to know my new self in the world I live in after loss and after becoming a mom to a living child. Despite all this, when things have felt overwhelming these past few days, I have to stop and remind myself that I’ve already been through the worst days of my life and I’m still here. I looked back at a post I wrote called “An open letter to my grieving self” which I shared on 8/8/21. It’s a reminder from me to me that I’m going to make it. A week after I shared this post, I found out I was pregnant with Nora. I’m not trying to “silver lining” myself into feeling better, but it’s a reminder that the intense grief doesn’t stay intense forever.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. Writing is always therapeutic for me, but I also have a goal of painting a realistic picture of pregnancy loss and living with grief for those who need to know that they haven’t experienced these events in isolation. Having two different types of pregnancy loss and losing two different babies in very different ways has changed me in ways I could have never imagined. I’m not sure where I want or need to go from here. My worldview is constantly changing and evolving with the presence of loss and grief in my life.

A new grief journey.