sharing your stories and remembering your children
By: Emily Carrington EPLA Founder
I have lost three babies in early pregnancy, and I have had one healthy pregnancy. When I was pregnant with my daughter the first trimester was plagued by when. My thoughts were consumed with things like: when I miscarry, when this baby dies, when they can’t find the heartbeat… Loss had been my only experience, and I could not believe this pregnancy would end any other way.
Fast forward three years and I have a healthy two year old, and I am pregnant again. This time I am not so bleak, but I am still haunted by my reality. I can now imagine a full term baby and a pregnancy ending in a successful birth because I now believe that pregnancy can end well. But everything is haunted with an *IF.
When I was pregnant with my daughter I couldn’t even imagine these things. I couldn’t think about holding her or bringing her home. It all felt impossible. Now that part is better. I can imagine this baby, but every dream comes with an asterisk.
Maybe we will announce the gender at Christmas.*
*IF I am still pregnant.
I need to get some maternity clothes from my sister.*
*IF we make it out of the first trimester.
I can’t wait to enjoy spring with my newborn* and three-year-old daughter.
*IF this baby comes.
The baby can sleep with us, then in the playroom, and then the kids will share a room.
*IF we have a baby.
I was surprised by the *IF. I thought I would either sink into my previous fatalist mood of all doom or I would be completely okay. I was not expecting this middle ground, oscillating between my previous realities: the baby will die and the baby will live.
But here we are and I am trying to give myself space to feel all of my feelings, the happy, the sad, the scared, and the unsure.
Emily Carrington is a freelance writer, wife, mother, and founder of the EPLA.
By Maria Servold EPLA Editor
After a miscarriage, it often feels like nothing will help - nothing will make the pain go away and nothing will bring joy back into your life. While those feelings are valid, there are ways to find hope and healing after a loss.
Previously, we have talked about the importance of sharing your story, relying on friends and family members, and even attending support groups.
There are also printed resources that mothers may find helpful - this blog included!
“Loved Baby - 31 Devotions Helping you Grieve and Cherish Your Child After Pregnancy Loss,” by Sarah Philpott, Ph.D., is a lovely book that you may find helpful in your healing journey.
Philpott is a wife, mother, and author. She founded the Loved Baby support group and the #HonorAllMoms Mother’s Day movement, according to her author biography.
Published in 2017, the book features themed devotions and reflections, each ending with practical ideas and a prayer. The reflections take on different issues and themes surrounding pregnancy loss, like “When your Mind and Body Remind You of Your Loss,” “Celebrating the Baby: Creating Rituals,” and “Dads Hurt Too.”
The reflections are well-written and personal and the helpful topic-based index allows readers to find the reflection that they need that day.
We encourage grieving mothers, or those who know one, to use this book as a resource during pregnancy loss.
Maria Servold is an Editor at the EPLA, Assistant Director of the Herbert H. Dow II Program in American Journalism, and Lecturer in Journalism at Hillsdale College.
By: Nick Carrington EPLA Editor
I kept the door shut. I felt like an impostor and the less I interacted with others, the less likely they would find out. Sometimes, I would keep the lights off; if I slouched behind my computer, maybe no one else would know I was there. Teaching college kids humbled me, and my anxiety didn’t go away even after a few months of doing it full time.
Knock Knock Knock
I couldn’t hide for long. My mentor was at the door, checking in on her first-year colleague. I couldn’t let her know. What if she thinks she made a mistake in hiring me? I was young, scared, and alone.
“How’s it going,” she asked.
Convicted, I couldn’t outright lie.“Not bad…but I feel like every day is a struggle, like I’m learning along with my students.”
My mentor, who had taught for more than 30 years, smiled and said something that acted like a balm to my troubled heart: “I know exactly how you feel. My first year of teaching, I stayed one day ahead of my students. They never knew.”
We laughed over stories of jotting down notes moments before class started and struggling to answer questions with confidence, even though we knew the answers. She had experienced my fears and come out on the other side. I wasn’t alone; in fact, I wasn’t even that unique.
Sharing our stories can be cathartic for us, but it also comforts others who have fresh wounds or have inadvertently opened old ones.
Sometimes, we feel alone and too scared to tell anyone about it. In reality, other people have probably been through something similar. But hearing their stories helps us deal with our own emotions, whether feelings of grief, fear, anxiety, or pain.
On October 15 of last year, we launched Hope Blooms, our digital publication meant to share your stories and remember your children. In almost a year, we have cried, grieved, and rejoiced together. One thing we know for sure through this process: if you have struggled with miscarriage and all the emotions that come with it, you are not alone.
You need to know that all the guilt, emotional turmoil, pain, anger, confusion, and grief you feel are not unique to you, and you need not shoulder that load by yourself. It’s likely your family, friends, and co-workers have experienced something similar and are willing to help.
Sharing our stories can be cathartic for us, but it also comforts others who have fresh wounds or have inadvertently opened old ones. Your stories have taught us a lot about miscarriage and grief, and our community of care continues to grow.
In year two of Hope Blooms, we want to hear more of your stories. We know that not everyone is a writer. That’s OK; our editorial board will help you express yourself in a way that accurately reflects your experience. Your story matters, not just to you and your family, but to others who have wrestled with miscarriage grief.
If you have miscarried or are a loved one of someone who has, we encourage you to write your story. We want to hear it and would love to share it with our community. If nothing else, let us remember your beautiful children who may be gone but will not be forgotten.
Send your stories to firstname.lastname@example.org or send us a message on Facebook.
Nick Carrington is an Editor for the EPLA and Assistant Professor of Professional Writing at Cedarville University.
By Rachelle Williams
We were ecstatic. We had been trying and scheduling and planning. Baby number three, our final baby and the missing piece in our family. We were screaming with excitement when the Dollar Store pregnancy test was positive, though I knew I was pregnant before I saw the lines.
Our love for this baby was huge and overwhelming. She was immediately included in conversations about the family and had a solid place in all of our lives, even though she was a tiny peanut growing in my womb. She was so very wanted and already a sister, granddaughter, and niece. I, being ridiculously Type A, was already thinking logistics, how to fit three car seats in the van, and when to find a midwife for my first visit. We were so happy.
I was super sick as usual, as I had been with both of my other pregnancies, and knew that everything was normal. I felt exactly the same. When I finally came out of the fog and started keeping down food around 11 weeks, I was so relieved. At 12 weeks, I had a dot of spotting and thought nothing of it, but as the day progressed it continued. I nervously cried to my husband, “I think I’m having a miscarriage. This is impossible.”
But then it started, the cramping, the contractions, the bleeding, and there was no denying it. It was So. Hard. It was labor, and hard, and messy. I was moaning through each contraction just like birth. It was a birth. Except I knew my baby was dead. I hovered over the toilet sobbing and moaning with my husband. My sister came. It was all fog. My body pushed. I panicked and flushed the toilet. I flushed my baby down the toilet. I was crying and the contractions kept coming and I pushed out a few more pieces of tissue before it finally ended.
I am a birth doula, and have helped many women through pregnancy and childbirth, but nothing prepared me for this. I sent a message to the only midwife in the area that I knew (we were new to the area and didn’t yet have a regular care provider) and realized I needed a rhogam shot because I’m RH negative. My husband has a positive blood type, while I’m negative. There was a chance that my body would see a positive blood typed fetus as a foreign body, and make antibodies against the baby. The rhogam shot would protect future pregnancies from harmful antibodies. She connected me with a midwife with hospital privileges in Jackson who could help.
My mom came. I was a mess. She was only 12 weeks old but she was ours, we were ready, she was our third.
I think I bled for around three or four weeks, and, to be honest, I didn’t want to stop bleeding because that meant she was really gone. We tried our best to explain it all to our other two children, but we were at a loss. After some time, we named her, and that helped, but like any death, grieving is messy and long and confusing.
I still cry sometimes, four years later, and it always catches me off guard with the intensity of my feelings. The older kids still talk about her by name every now and again, about the baby who died in mommy’s tummy. They still ask questions. We have since had two more children, twins, perfectly born just shy of a year after our loss. Our family is full, complete, and so crazy loud! I wear a slim band of rose gold on my right pinky with her name and birthdate engraved inside, and I know in some way she will always be remembered and loved.
July 4, 2015
Rachelle has four kids and is raising them along with milk cows, goats, and a barnyard full of mismatched chickens on a dirt road in Hillsdale County. Her passion is childbirth, and is a Doulas of North America birth doula, though she’s taken a break to stay at home with her children and support her husband, who is currently active duty Michigan Army National Guard.
By: Stephanie Gordon EPLA Editor
Hello! I’m Stephanie Gordon, and I am a new blog editor for the Early Pregnancy Loss Association! I am a resident of Hillsdale, Michigan. I am married to my husband, Matt, who’s a chiropractor. Together we have two young girls, Eloise (5), and Flora (3). I am also one in four. I experienced miscarriage in 2012, and it shook me to my core. After experiencing miscarriage, I continuously told those around me that I needed to be a voice and to get involved. No one was talking about miscarriage, even in 2012. Not long after my miscarriage, the EPLA was developing, and I reached out to Emily during the early years of the organization and exclaimed my interest of getting involved. I wanted to be there, even in some small way, for other women. I helped design and publish the organization’s website, and I am now here sharing my stories, and stories from others. Here is my miscarriage story.
None of this was planned – or part of the plan at that moment in time. Life happened quickly, and I remember seeing that positive pregnancy test. Honestly, the plus sign made me nervous for many reasons, but I knew it’d be OK. Days and weeks passed, and I quickly fell in love with the idea of becoming a mom and growing a human inside of me that was formed out of love. Matt and I were going to enjoy the next 10 months of just us. We knew life was going to change a lot, but we were excited.
I wasn’t ignorant to the fact that miscarriage was a possibility, as it is with every pregnancy. I took great care of myself. I ate healthy. I continued to CrossFit and made my coaches aware of my condition. I took my prenatal vitamins every day, and limited caffeine intake. I was doing everything right to grow a healthy human.
I was about nine weeks along when one day I remember going to pee and noticed blood. Oh, no... It’s OK, spotting is normal. I knew deep down something wasn’t right, but I tried to ignore it and went about my day. I shared the news with Matt, and he wasn’t too alarmed. Spotting during pregnancy is completely normal (I actually spotted with both of my girl’s pregnancies, too). A few days passed, and the amount of blood I was losing was increasing. Matt and I made the decision to check on myself and the baby. I called my doctor at University of Michigan from bed, and they asked me to come to triage immediately.
I sat cold and silent the whole way to the hospital. I was scared, and I saw it on Matt’s face, too. We arrived at U of M, and I was wheeled to triage. I filled out some paperwork, and was admitted to a room. I changed out of my clothes and into a gown. As I got undressed, I noticed I was losing more blood. I sat in a bed and waited for the doctor. They took my vitals – all was well – or so they made it seem. They also took a sample of blood to measure my hormone levels. The young doctor asked routine questions like, “when’s the last time you peed? When was your last period? Is this your first pregnancy? Do you have a history of miscarriages?”
The doctor reassured me that everything was going to be OK, and nurses kept asking how I was feeling. I was honestly sliding into a deep depression. Here I was sitting on a white pad, bleeding. Losing my baby. After three hours, I was told I needed a vaginal ultrasound.
The tech turned the lights off as I laid on the table. She inserted the wand, and there was our baby. I saw Matt’s face and his facial expression. He knew, but he tried to put on a hopeful face. She took lots of pictures and she didn’t say a word, nor did she answer any questions. She was silent. She removed the wand… so much blood. Tears ran down my face. I was wheeled back to triage and waited for the doctor to come back with results.
My doctor came in and sat down. I could tell she was a little nervous to share the news. There was no smile. She started by saying my hcG levels were barely at 7,000 – when I should be at a minimum of 10-20,000. I was hit with immediate sadness even though I was already expecting the worst. Tears started streaming, again. I remember her putting her hand on mine. “This pregnancy is not viable. Let’s make an appointment with your doctor on Monday morning to talk about options,” she said.
There’s something really hard about letting go of something you love so much. I knew as soon as the pills were inserted, that was it. I would no longer have my baby.
She left the room and Matt and I lost it. He just held me. I remember putting on my clothes and my dirty underwear – another horrible reminder. I don’t even know how I got to the car; I was so numb. I called my parents as we left to tell them we lost the baby. The drive home was full of silence, quiet tears, and broken hearts. My baby was dead inside of me.
Monday slowly came, and I met with my doctor. We got one last ultrasound to confirm the miscarriage. Our baby was measuring eight weeks, so it hadn’t been long since the baby died. We talked about options as far as how to “take care of the situation.” Since my pregnancy wasn’t too far along, I was given the option to take what’s called Misoprostol. This option allowed me to insert four pills into my vagina, and my body would go into labor about 4-5 hours later. The other option was a D&C – dilation and curettage - which means dilating the cervix to remove all contents of the uterus. My doctor recommended taking the pills at home, so it could be a private experience that I could do with Matt by my side. I decided to take the Misoprostol at home.
I wanted to wait until the weekend to take the pills. I wasn’t ready to let go of my baby that was inside of me, even though it wasn’t alive. There’s something really hard about letting go of something you love so much. I knew as soon as the pills were inserted, that was it. I would no longer have my baby.
We both said a long prayer and hung on to those last moments. I tried to insert the pills myself, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t let go. Matt, bless his heart, was able to do it for me, both of us crying the entire time. We laid in bed and waited. All I could do is cry and hang on to my belly. After three hours, I started having cramps, but nothing too major. I was starting to feel almost ill, and my stomach hurt. I laid on Matt’s chest and he read me books.
Four hours in, I felt sick to my stomach – a side effect of Misoprostol. After emptying my bowels, I had strong uterine cramps coming on, and I was quickly losing everything from my uterus. It was all happening so fast, and it hurt. Going into this, I knew I couldn’t flush anything down the toilet. I saved everything that exited my uterus. I was determined to give my baby a proper burial. There was a point in time that I fainted on the toilet. Hours 4-6 were torture. I hated every second of it. I was hot and sweaty. I was dizzy. I had just lost my baby. I wondered why I had opted for this option. Never again, I thought.
No one really tells you how it’s going to be or how it’s going to happen. I think because it’s different for everyone. My experience with the Misoprostol had its ups and downs. I was happy to go through the procedure at home. I was happy I was able to keep my baby, and I was happy I wasn’t in a hospital. The downside is that I experienced major side effects. I hated how it felt. I had zero control – basically I was giving birth over a toilet, which just sounds sad and depressing. I hated that it upset my stomach. Also, I had to get multiple blood tests afterwards to make sure my hCG hormones were slowly declining. It wasn’t just a one and done thing. I think that’s what made it so hard: weekly blood tests to make sure I was officially no longer pregnant were utterly depressing.
The following Mother’s Day, Matt bought a crab apple tree to remember our baby. He also wrote me a beautiful card that read, “Yes, you are a mother. Yes, you lost like a mother. Yes, you loved like a mother.” Those words will always stay with me. That day, we planted the tree and buried the baby underneath the tree. It was beautiful, and I finally felt like I had some sort of closure.
I had a long, hard year after that miscarriage. I cried a lot. My sadness turned to anger. I despised every other mother I saw, especially those who got pregnant and didn’t care for their bodies. Essentially, I was jealous, and that also made me mad. It’s not like me to feel that way. It’s hard to explain the emotional torture from miscarriage. But, after that one year anniversary, something changed. I was OK. The sadness never really left (I don’t think it ever does), but somehow I came to terms with what had happened.
After that anniversary, we were ready to try again. I was scared and worried we would have a hard time conceiving or keeping a pregnancy. That first pregnancy after miscarriage is terrifying – as I think they all are after experiencing miscarriage. I spotted during Eloise’s pregnancy – and even Flora’s pregnancy. But, I birthed two healthy, beautiful girls.
I am forever grateful for the baby I never met. That baby showed me what a mother’s love truly is. It is beautiful, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I always dream and wonder who they were and who they would’ve been.
Essentially, I was jealous, and that also made me mad. It’s not like me to feel that way. It’s hard to explain the emotional torture from miscarriage.
Whenever I feel a little sad, I go visit the crab apple angel tree, and tell my baby I love them so. I don’t ever wish miscarriage on anyone, and I hope more mothers share their experiences with miscarriage. I hope that if you are going through a miscarriage, or have experienced one, that you’ve had someone to turn to – to lean on. It’s not fair. But, know that you are loved. You love your baby, and you will get to meet them one day. Isn’t that a beautiful thought? It will all be OK - eventually. You are strong, and absolutely no less of a woman or mother.
Stephanie Gordon is a paleo food enthusiast, wife, full-time SAHM, marketing professional, and blogger.
By: Rachel Bulgrien
Only a few days ago I heard the words. Pointing at the screen, she said, “Here’s your baby, but I’m so sorry, there is no heartbeat.” In my gut I had already known. This was my third time after all; I knew the signs. It was eerily similar to the first but with one BIG difference.
The most common emotion we associate with miscarriage is grief - the horrible, heavy feeling that something precious and irreplaceable has been stolen from us. A piece of ourselves is suddenly missing. Our empty arms ache along with our cramping belly. We weep and we bleed. Our body feels broken right along with our heart.
After my first miscarriage in 2008, despite many reassurances and the doctor’s confident words to the contrary, I convinced myself that my unhealthy body betrayed my child, that his death was somehow my fault. After all, I had three living sons. The only thing different this time was my extra weight and the fact that I was still nursing our third child (only 8 months old). In my state of grief, it seemed clear that my body could not support feeding two babies. Why didn’t I wean the baby right away? So guilt heaped on top of the grief.
The next year we had another child, our first girl. Due to early onset preeclampsia, she was born at just 26 weeks gestation, weighing only 1 lb, 5 oz. The first three weeks we didn’t know if she would live. This only served to reinforce the notion that my ill health contributed to or even caused the harm to both children.
Though our daughter lived, a second miscarriage in 2011 sent me even deeper into guilt. Why could I conceive but not carry to term? Were we acting recklessly by risking another pregnancy that would only end in the death of yet another child? Fear and shame added to grief and guilt. But these thoughts were not ones I could speak out loud. I carried my shame in isolation.
It took much research, spiritual counseling, and time (so much time) to work through this false belief that, had I been healthier, those children may have lived, and our daughter would not have suffered such terrifying complications early in life. Though the guilt, shame, and fear are gone 10 years later and have been replaced by forgiveness, healing, and trust, the grief still lingers. Every time a friend, family member, or acquaintance shares her miscarriage story, whenever we take family pictures, the time my husband bought a lovely mother’s necklace for me, there was the old ache, the sadness, the longing. It’s still there.
But God always works things out to our good! We welcomed another daughter in 2013 and twin girls in 2014. Seven beautiful, living children and two in the arms of Jesus. We love having a big family! We celebrate every child knowing what a precious gift each one is. But there is more sadness in our story and more guilt and shame because it happened again.
This year (2019) my husband and I both turned 40. Our twins are almost five. We have moved out of the baby, toddler, potty training, up-in-the-middle-of-the-night years into teens, tweens, and school-age children. A new and exciting season of life for all of us, living out the life we’d dreamed of as newlyweds. My husband landed his dream job two years ago. In February, we moved into our dream home on our dream property. God provided beyond our wildest imagination! Though still homeschooling the four girls, I decided to go back to school and pursue the Master’s degree I’d been considering for several years. Everything was falling into place.
Then it happened, so unexpectedly. Just six weeks after my birthday - a positive pregnancy test - utter shock and the seeming death (or at least delay) of our future plans, especially mine. Truthfully, we didn’t want any more children. We didn’t want to go back to the baby days. We thought we were much closer to being grandparents than parents of a newborn.
Shame returned. We were guilty of not wanting this precious life. We know, truly know, the gift that each life is, but in our selfishness we didn’t want to be responsible for this one. Shock, disappointment, anger at ourselves that we weren’t more careful, frustrated by this change in plans, fearful of what others will think or say behind our backs and even to our faces.
“They’re 40. What are they thinking!”
“They already have seven. How many more do they want?”
“I thought you had that taken care of.”
“You ought to know how that happens by now.”
But we love children. We’re already raising seven. What’s one more? Forty isn’t so old. We’re financially stable and in better health now. God’s timing is not our timing. His ways are not our ways. We must continue to trust. He will provide again. All the layers of emotion were suddenly present - love, fear, doubt, excitement, pride, anger, uncertainty, confidence - so many opposites. How can one person feel such polar opposites at the same time?
As the weeks went by, the pleasant emotions grew and the unpleasant ones began to fade, but they still lingered quietly in the background. At 11 weeks, 5 days, I was hit with a terrible migraine, the head splitting, light sensitivity, nauseating kind. The same kind I get with big hormonal shifts.
The kind I had just a few months ago that was the first indication of pregnancy. The next day brought light spotting, but I still had hope. I rationalized. Spotting isn’t that uncommon in early pregnancy. I’ve had it before, and things were OK. But the next day, 12 weeks exactly, came with more blood, more than just spotting. A trip to the ER and the dreaded words.
“Here’s your baby, but I’m so sorry, there is no heartbeat.”
Tears and GRIEF, that tightness in my chest, holding my breath to keep back the sobs, not wanting to embarrass the poor ultrasound tech. After all, I had known before she said it. Then SHAME. I hadn’t wanted this child. I didn’t receive the news of his existence with joy or love him right away.
As I arrived home to share the news with the other children, there was also a great sense of RELIEF. We could go back to plan A; the next four years just became far less complicated. I can enjoy a glass of wine with my girlfriends as we celebrate turning 40 together this fall. JUDGMENT.
What kind of mother feels relief when her child dies and then thinks, well at least I can do the things *I* want. GUILT, again. This time it’s different. The grief is tempered by relief. I don’t know HOW to feel about that.
That afternoon passed quietly. Still in shock, we shared the news with family and close friends one by one. In the evening, when the quiet house felt so oppressive, I went out to the lakeshore to pray, to cry, to ask forgiveness, to feel all the things again, to question God. Why? Why does He give what we don’t think we want, then take it away when we realize He’s right and we do want it? What was the point of this three-month rollercoaster?
Questions unanswered, emotions raw, I tried to sleep. The contractions began at 3:30 a.m. They brought vomiting, diarrhea, blood, indistinguishable masses of tissue, clots, tears, groans. I spent all day in labor moving between recliner and toilet. I shared a small part of my experience on Facebook, grieving my child and grieving for all the other mothers who suffer this same loss, this same pain. The messages poured in - prayers, offers of help, sharing our grief, thank you messages for our courage and openness, other women sharing their story - human connection.
And that’s the gift - Human Connection. When we share our stories and our true emotions, we find out we’re not alone. Human beings are created to live in relationship. If we hide our unpleasant emotions from one another, we hide a piece of ourselves, we cannot be truly known by others, and we keep ourselves from the human connections that help us heal. We all have ugly parts that we think cannot be loved. Nothing is further from the truth.
In recent years I’ve learned the importance of sharing unpleasant emotions. When we say them out loud to another human being, telling it like it is, that's when healing begins to happen. We learn to navigate the unpleasant together. We move THROUGH the pain, shame, guilt, judgement, and grief instead of avoiding, covering up, pushing down, hiding, and isolating ourselves. Our suffering becomes a gift to others, an invitation for them to share their hurts, or to simply stand with us in the brokenness of our shared humanity.
This child, our tenth, the third that we will not meet until heaven, the one we didn’t want at first, this child has touched so many lives. His existence forced us to examine those old, unpleasant feelings, forced us to relive them at a time that would bring healing to our family and comfort to so many others. God brought him at just the right moment and numbered his days perfectly. We are so grateful for that gift.
Rachel is a wife, mother, and women’s transformational mentor working on a master’s degree in deaconess studies. She’s passionate about helping women uncover their unique identity in Christ while confronting their shame and self-judgement in exchange for human connection and genuine relationship. Rachel loves Jesus, her huge family, coffee, dark chocolate, CliftonStrengths, essential oils, and barefoot walks.
By: Emma Moseley
Recently, I had my second miscarriage in five months. Numb is the only word that comes to mind when I read that sentence. My first miscarriage was on March 16 of this year. We had conceived our little angel during our honeymoon. We decided to tell my son, who is 9, that he was going to be a big brother. Our journey to becoming a happy family of three, soon to be four, was going just as planned.
When I had my oldest son I was young, confused, and got into an unhealthy marriage because I thought it was the right thing to do. Now I was married for love, older and completely head over heels at the thought of becoming a mother of two and seeing my new husband become a father. I told myself things would be different.
I questioned that pregnancy so many times. I wasn’t sick, wasn’t tired. It just did not feel like my first pregnancy. When I saw the blood, my heart sunk because I knew. What I didn’t know was that the process to figure out if our baby would survive would take more than a week and a half. It seemed like an eternity. I’ve never known a greater sadness or fear until that time. The night before our ultrasound I didn’t sleep the entire night. We didn’t say anything to each other on the ride to the hospital. When we looked up at the ultrasound screen and saw an empty womb, the silence was stifling.
The next couple weeks were a blur. I spent my days at home with my husband and son, went back to work, and took care of my company, but I was just going through the motions. Life was moving on, but my body felt empty, my heart was sick, and I felt like I had never left the ultrasound room. I missed my baby.
It’s interesting how different people in your life act after they find out about a miscarriage. I was brutally honest about what had happened to anyone and everyone. The thought of keeping our child a secret made me sick to my stomach. So many people would say, “ you can always try again,” “you are so young,” “everything happens as it should.” The thought of trying again for another baby had not even occurred to me. How could I love another baby while I was grieving the one I just lost?
I’m pretty sure I read everything available on Google about miscarriage: how to cope, what caused it, the chances of having another miscarriage. It wasn’t until I stopped driving myself crazy and gave into my grief that I felt like I was beginning to heal. That’s when we ended up pregnant again.
I was shocked, I had just dealt with the death of two family members the week prior to the positive pregnancy test, so the last thing on my mind was another pregnancy. The day I saw the two lines, my husband asked if I was OK probably 100 times. That night we cried together and gave into the excitement of having a sweet baby on the way.
A week and a half, again. That’s what it took to lose our second baby. A week and a half of dreaming of new memories, planning on nursery decorations, thinking of baby names. It was taken away so quickly and hurt just as bad as the first. I am the 1-2 percent of women with recurrent miscarriages. I’m not sure if it will ever get easier, but I do know how grateful I am to already have had the chance to become a mother of a beautiful boy and now to two sweet angels. I know someday it will get easier, but today is not that day.
My name is Emma Moseley, I am a singer-songwriter and business owner. Also a mother to a beautiful 9 year old and wife to an amazing man.
Emma Moseley is a singer-songwriter and business owner. She is also a mother to a beautiful 9 year old and wife to an amazing man.
By: Rebekah Slonim
“I don’t believe that grief passes away. It has its time and place forever. More time is added to it; it becomes a story within a story. But grief and griever alike endure.” —Wendell Berry
I think about my two pregnancy losses every single day—the miscarriage three days after Christmas in my first year of marriage, the ectopic pregnancy on a beautiful fall day in my second year of marriage. Time, many supportive conversations with friends and family members, and a living baby have eased the pain and ache. The miscarriages no longer actively hurt me.
But the grief remains. After my first miscarriage, I struggled mightily with the idea of “moving on.” The perception I found lurking in my own mind and in some comments that people made to me was that, in order to grieve in a healthy manner, I had to “move on.” “Moving on” seemed to suggest “moving away”—to bury and ignore my horrible sense of emptiness, both physical and emotional.
Eventually I opted for the phrase “moving forward.” I came across the above Wendell Berry quotation and began to envision my grief as a chapter in the book of my life. I would not always be in the chapter of crying in the shower, sleeping in late to avoid the yearning, cringing at every pregnant woman in the grocery store, trying to change the topic if anyone was talking about baby-rearing.
Still, that chapter would always be part of the book. It was essential to the story. It would never be removed.
Grief shapes my life.
As a teenager, I remember rebelling against the idea in L. M. Montgomery’s “Rilla of Ingleside” that there would be “a little patient ache . . . in [Rilla’s] heart until she died” after her brother Walter was killed in battle in World War I. Yet now I live with a similar patient ache, most of the time submerged and not really a part of all the thoughts flitting through my mind about sleep training and dishes and my work as a copyeditor.
Still, that grief shapes my life. It’s always in the background, and it comes to the surface every now and then. A sense of loss attends me when I mark down my son’s family tree in his baby book, feeling like he is not really the first or only child, but knowing that in practice he is. The patient ache returns when I remember, acutely, how painful it is to see a dark expanse on a ultrasound screen rather than a tiny body with a tinier, pulsating heart. And every single time someone asks me how many children I have, or if I have children, I wince just a little. Barbara Crooker writes, “How many children do you have? / Two, we answer, thinking three, / Or three, we answer, thinking four; / They are always with us.” And so I answer one, thinking three.
Grief reflects a true sense of the way the world is.
To live with a sense of loss is not improper. We shouldn’t try to scrub it away. We live in a world full of loss. To have a particular loss imprinted upon us enables us to understand ourselves, other people, and the world around us better.
While in my grief I initially closed in upon myself, I also found that—gradually—the world began to open up to me in a new way. Before my miscarriages, I had never had a great loss—the kind of loss that turns your life upside-down, makes you confront your dreams and expectations, and makes you wonder what happiness and contentment will look like. But great losses are a near-universal human experience. Now when a friend or acquaintance talks about any type of loss, I lean in and listen carefully.
My pregnancy losses have opened a door into a different kind of experience. I live life differently because of them. And I am grateful to have been molded and transformed by two tiny unborn babies with brief but meaningful lives.
Grief gives me gratitude and perspective.
As Michelle DuBarry explains, “Grief is exactly as painful as you think it will be, but with time you will learn to love your sadness because of the tiny shoots of joy and gratitude that sprout around it, like new growth on scorched earth.” I do love my sadness. I love how it gently instructs me. It causes me to notice when another woman seems uncomfortable with talking about babies. It helps me to delight more in everyday pleasures. And it is the necessary backdrop to what my son’s life and birth mean to me.
The cliché that grief is the price of love is true. I hold onto my grief as a reminder—a sign and symbol of my love. It’s the only way I can love the babies that I lost.
My grief is of course not the whole story of my life. It cannot be—that would be wrong and misguided. There are other chapters in my life, other stories being told and yet to be told. Yet I do not wait or wish for it to go away. It has its time and place. I remember it and return to it and learn from it and hold it close.
Rebekah Slonim, a 2016 graduate of Hillsdale College, is a freelance copyeditor, proofreader, and indexer. She lives in West Lafayette, Indiana, with her husband and son.
 Wendell Berry, Jayber Crow (Berkeley, CA: Counterpoint, 2000), 148.
 L. M. Montgomery, Rilla of Ingleside (New York: Bantam Books, 1992), 189.
 Barbara Crooker, “The Lost Children,” Verse-Virtual.com, 2016, https://www.verse-virtual.com/barbara-crooker-2016-march.html.
 Michelle DuBarry, “When Sturdy Love Is What You Need,” The New York Times, October 19, 2018, https://www.nytimes.com/2018/10/19/style/modern-love-when-sturdy-love-is-what-you-need.html.
By: Stephani Francl
I've had a couple of bad days in the last week. Days spent mostly in tears or teetering on the edge of tears, fighting to maintain enough normalcy to keep my kids from asking too many questions; nights praying for sleep to come in it's forgetful relief.
Today was a good day. I have lots of good days - days where life is normal, and I get to just live. But in this season, some days are really...
In the first sentence, I called them "bad days," but I don't think that's quite the right word. The word "bad" can mean lots of things - of poor quality, not to be desired, putrid, not appropriate, unwelcome, naughty, etc. I don't mean I've had bad days in any of those ways.
I'm not sure what a more appropriate word would be. Sorrowful? Heavy? Necessary? Hard. I'll just go with hard.
From today, a "good" day, I can look back on the hard days and know that they are necessary; I can even be grateful that I've walked them. Imagine losing something of value but never acknowledging the loss. Imagine someone empties your bank account, hacks into your IRA, snatches your life savings, and steals your inheritance, and your response is merely to shrug your shoulders and say, "Que sera, sera." ("What will be, will be.")
No one would actually do that. You'd call the police, you'd hunt down the thief, you'd hire lawyers and private investigators if necessary to get back what was rightfully yours. And let's be real, by the time you get all those people involved to help bring justice to your case, you've spent a TON of time dealing with merely the logistics of the situation, let alone the emotional upheaval.
I look at the hard days kind of like that. Grief requires an investment of time; it must be dealt with; it must be faced. Those who don't stare it down are somehow not facing the reality of what they've lost.
Now, that's not to say that we all deal with grief the same way - far from it!
Some need solitude, some need lots of people; some read books, some escape to the outdoors; some carry on with normal life, some need a major change. There is no right way to grieve, though we can often recognize wrong ones when we see them lived out in others.
So, some days are hard, but they can be good too.
...which I suppose means I need to revisit my labeling of normal days as "good days." Calling them "good days" implies that the days spent doing the work of grief aren't good. And while I suppose in some ways that's fair to say, I would counter that the days I spent deeply grieving this week were good days, too. Necessary, healing, part of the process, and validating my loss.
So I guess I have normal days and hard days, and not good days and bad days.
One of grief's biggest schemes is to make me feel isolated. Feeling alone in what I'm facing is just miserable. I mean, it's true. I don't know anyone else who has lost one twin in-utero at 15 weeks. I have friends who have friends who have gone through something sort of similar at 11 or 20 weeks, but not exactly what I'm facing. And let's be real - I don't want friends of friends to understand me - I want my friends who I already have to understand exactly where I'm at.
But they don't, and they can't, and I pray that they never will.
Oh God, that no one would ever face this.
It's true. My situation is unique in my circle, but so is yours. I don't live your life. I don't carry your burdens. You can tell me about the skeletons in your closet, and you may even let me peek in once or twice, but they live forever in your closet. And I have my own hidden away in mine.
The lie grief tries to convince me of is that I'm the only one who has ever experienced this, the only one who has ever felt this way, the only one who has ever faced my future. And I could easily agree and say to grief, "Yes. It's all true - I am alone. No one understands. Poor me." And perhaps I'd be right.
But the reality is, if loss hadn't happened, if Thomas (my son, a twin, lost at 15 weeks gestation) was still here, if Chet (my older brother, who died at age 17) had never died, if a few of those skeletons didn't haunt me from my closet, the same would still be true. I would still be the only one who has ever experienced exactly this life, the only one who has ever felt exactly this way, the only one who has ever faced my future.
We are all unique, living unique circumstances, facing unique challenges. I can always find someone facing what I think is an easier or harder road than I am. In seasons like this for me, it's helpful to look to the harder roads for perspective. The story behind the song "It is Well with My Soul" comes to mind. Or Corrie Ten Boom (I reference her a lot, but it's because The Hiding Place is in my recently read pile). Or the main guy in Unbroken. Talk about hard roads. Holy cow.
Their stories don't negate my own struggles nor minimize my loss. But they do help me to be grateful for the countless blessings I have and provide me perspective to have hope for the future. Because out of crushing circumstances, heartbreak, pain, torture, starvation, and so much more, God brought about beauty in their stories.
We still sing "It is Well with My Soul" nearly 150 years after it was written, because the truth therein is so profound. The author of those words would much rather have had his children live, than to have me singing the hymn he wrote today. But, because his children did die, he wrote from the abyss of grief, and those words have carried a legacy of truth to Christians for over a hundred years.
Corrie Ten Boom's story challenges me every time I think of it. To forgive her Nazi captors? To (spoiler) build a place for their restoration and healing after the war? That is un.be.lievable. And the main guy from Unbroken - a book, and two movies made of his life that was so difficult. I would have died on the life raft a couple of weeks in, but his will to live, and his forgiveness of his torturer...
I don't understand why bad things happen. I really don't understand why bad things happen to good people, though many books have been written, sermons have been given, and wise people have tried to answer that question. I don't get it.
But what I do get is that beauty can come even from hurt. On the hard days I faced grief. Normal days are the days of grace in the midst of the hard. And hope springs new every morning.
By: Emily Carrington EPLA Founder
If you haven’t already read Meghan McCain’s miscarriage story in the New York Times, do yourself a favor and read it.
In her intimate first person account, the co-host of The View puts politics aside to articulate the burden of miscarriage. Her words serve to legitimize the grief of so many families who have suffered the same loss, and she frames the difficulty of walking through loss alone.
“Because even to this day, the subject of a miscarriage carries so much cultural taboo. Miscarriage is a pain too often unacknowledged. Yet it is real, and what we have lost is real. We feel sorrow and we weep because our babies were real.”
Her story is painful yet uplifting for all of us who have walked this dreary road before. Her reflections on her love for her baby give a glimpse of joy in the midst of suffering.
“I had a miscarriage. I loved my baby, and I always will. To the end of my days I will remember this child — and whatever children come will not obscure that. I have love for my child. I have love for all the women who, like me, were briefly in the sisterhood of motherhood, hoping, praying and nursing joy within us, until the day the joy was over.”
And she reminds us of a very important truth.
“You are not alone.”
We hope that Meghan’s words bring you comfort. But we also hope she emboldens you to speak up, too, if you need to. You do not need a daytime talk show or a platform like the New York Times to be heard. You can follow her example in your own community, you can start your own blog, or you can even send us your story for this blog. We are hear to listen! The more we raise our voices together the more we can change the culture.
Emily Carrington is the founder of the EPLA and mother to four children.