The Painful Truth

Weeks after my miscarriage, my MIL called and asked how I was doing. Yes, weeks- not days. The belated phone call was semi-welcomed but seemed to me, hardly needed. I thought to myself, “if she didn’t care enough to call sooner, I don’t care to talk much about it with her.” I quickly changed my tone. It turns out that she needed to hear what I had to say. She had a misconception of miscarriage and seriously needed some clarification.

During the phone call, my MIL was surprised to hear that I was physically and emotionally not well. Still not well? Yes, still not well. Why was she surprised to hear that? Would someone actually expect a grieving mother to push her feelings away?

When surprised by my lack of well-being, I explained to my MIL that I went through a very traumatic experience. We talked about my hospital visit and the horrendous care I received, the bleeding that wouldn’t stop, and the literal physical pain of the entire process. In great detail I explained to my MIL what a miscarriage feels like- or at least- what it feels like to me.

My miscarriage started late in the afternoon, around 4pm, on April 10. I called my doctor about some light spotting and was instructed to go to the hospital if the bleeding got worse or cramping began. For hours the bleeding progressed but the cramping did not. I did not think I was miscarrying. My DH was at work 45 minutes away from our home. With the exception of my two dogs and one cat, I was completely alone.

As the bleeding continued, my fear grew. I managed to fall asleep only to be woken up by the arrival of a nasty Texas-sized thunderstorm and some severe cramping. I stumbled to the bathroom at 12 in the morning and passed my first large clot. I looked down to find blood on the floor and toilet seat. I called DH and told him that the miscarriage was starting. He told me to call 911. I told him I was too scared.

“Kristin we’re losing precious time!”
“I know.”

I managed to call 911 and DH made the long trek home. The paramedics arrived at my house. I could barely stand because I felt sick. They helped me gather my purse, turn off the TV and made sure my dogs and cat were OK. "Please leave a light on for them," I yelled as I was being wheeled out my front door. I called my mom from the ambulance, then I called DH.

I waited to see a doctor and miscarried alone for most of the time. Finally when the doctor came in to examine me, I heard her say “the bleeding is severe, hand me the suction.” I was on the table, holding the nurses hand, in the worst pain of my life, all while the little life inside of me was being forced out. I watched my blood go through the tube and into a big container. I felt like I was going in and out of consciousness. I remember the nurse putting a wet towel on my head and telling me to hang on and to keep squeezing her hand. The suctioning stopped; I was cleaned up and left alone. I was on the bed, sobbing and in tremendous physical pain. The door finally opened after what seemed like hours. It was my DH. He finally made it to the hospital. We cried together. He sobbed and said a prayer. He asked that our child return to Heavenly Father in his perfect form and that he wanted him to know that we love him very much. It was the most tender prayer I have ever heard.

That was, in a very small nutshell, my miscarriage.

“Oh my, I didn’t realize miscarriages were so bad. I’ve had women tell me that they’re nothing, just a little bleeding. Maybe they didn’t really want to tell me how bad it was.”

You think?

April 11

"Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation"
— Khalil Gibran

My name is Kristin and on April 11, 2011 I lost my first child to a grueling, traumatic miscarriage. Very few people want to know the details of my miscarriage and many people cannot comprehend what I went through. Few people, after finding out about the miscarriage, offered their condolences and expressed a genuine concern for my well-being after the death of my child. Some people even offered these "words of comfort":

“You will have another kid”

“You will be a mother some day”

“These things happen”

“These things happen for a reason”

“I didn’t realize it was such a traumatic ordeal for you”

A large number of individuals that know I miscarried did not say one word to me. Why did they not say anything? Were they afraid to hear about my miscarriage? Did they not think my child was a “real baby”? Were they afraid of offending me?

What is more alarming to me is the number of women that shared their miscarriage story with me after my miscarriage was said and done. Miscarriage stories came out of the woodworks. About half of the women with miscarriage stories DID NOT tell and still HAVE NOT told their friends or family about it. Their miscarriages are a deep, dark secret- A secluded secret that was not meant to see the light of day. I was saddened to hear their stories then and my heart breaks for them now.

My heart breaks for the mothers and fathers that silently grieved their baby and for the children that are nameless and unknown because of the silence. Our babies were real, they were important to us, they had heart beats. They were uniquely designed and created; they were our future and our family. By choosing not to speak about our miscarriages we overlook the child that we loved, nurtured and longed for.

I think of my child often and miss him dearly. I wanted everyone to know that he existed. He deserves to be recognized as my first child. Miscarriage should never be taken lightly by anyone- it is a loss of life. We should mourn openly without fear for our babies that had to endure the horrific experience of miscarriage.

Let us remember the children that we lost- from weeks, to years old. If you would like to share your miscarriage story on this blog, please email it to me at kpenter@hotmail.com

Blessings of peace to all.