Our Miscarriage Story
I lost my baby and my Poppa within a few days.
I started writing this on November 2nd on the car ride home from the hospital. Our story came to me in bits and pieces, written in the notes app of my phone when I couldn’t sleep, or scribbled in my journal.
Nothing about grief ever feels neat and tidy, so I’ve mainly left the thoughts as-is. I always knew that I would share this story, if only to get it out in the open. I never wanted to keep Her a secret.
My brother was born one month before my 3rd birthday. And I think that’s about when I decided that one day, I was going to be a Mum.
By the time my sister was born, I was a pro Big Sister. So much so that I genuinely thought that I was going to help my Mom in the delivery room. I was five, and I remember taking the subway and streetcar to my Mom’s midwife appointments. Pregnancy and childbirth felt like magic to me. And anyway, why would I have spent so much time going to those appointments if I wasn’t going to deliver the baby? I packed a hospital bag and left it beside Mom’s in the hallway by the stairs, ready to go at the drop of a hat to bring my new sibling into the world.
Unfortunately, I did not deliver my baby sister. But I do remember the first time I held her. She was so small. Small enough that she fit in my little arms like a doll. Small enough that she basically fit in my dad’s palm. I was so proud to be a big sister that I brought her to show and tell at school.
In high school, when my friends were planning Big Careers and choosing universities that would help them achieve their wildest dreams, I had two things on my mind: I wanted to live in Halifax, and I wanted a career that was flexible and would enable me to work from home (even though this wasn’t a thing at the time) so I could raise a family.
I wanted the space to have the kids I’d been thinking about my whole life, and something that was just for me. My friend told me I was nuts when I explained that taking journalism at King’s was the perfect choice for the life I wanted to live. She said I wasn’t a feminist since I was picking a career “solely” based on my longing to be a Mother.
When I saw the second pink line on the pregnancy test in September, it felt like everything I’d ever wanted was within my grasp. I was so shocked and thrilled that I could barely cry or think. I ran to tell the only being that was home, my dog Westley, because Adam was at work and saying “I’m pregnant” out loud felt important.
My body started to change immediately. I had weird symptoms in the days leading up to the pregnancy test that made me wonder if I was really pregnant, but once I saw the two pink lines (on at least 7 tests, because I’m thorough), I felt different. With every symptom, every change, I felt a vital piece of myself click into the space that I have kept open and ready for this version of me. I was going to be a Mum. We were going to be parents.
Telling our friends and family was the best feeling in the world. My sister screamed with the force of her entire body when I told her with a pair of socks that read “Auntie Bella.” My brother immediately started talking about how he loves buying baby clothes. My Mom picked out their first outfit while on a trip to France. My dad started talking about flying to see us around the 10-week mark.
My friends were so full of love and joy for us.
It felt like this baby was for everyone.
I spent all of October in bed, completely exhausted and amazed by the fatigue and the changes to my body. My body was doing so many things that I’d never experienced, and even when it was hard, painful, and exhausting, I was happier than I’d ever been. I would end client meetings and fall into bed smiling because I felt so lucky to be doing work I loved while growing our baby.
My dreams were full of Her. We hadn’t had a scan yet, but she was always a She in my dreams. She came to me and showed me the small, mundane moments we would experience together. Like buckling her tiny body into a car seat. Or, aggressively kissing her chubby cheeks and hearing her giggle for the first time. My mouth still waters thinking about kissing those cheeks. I see them so clearly in my mind.
I talked to her all day long. And then Adam would come home and say, “How are you two doing?” and everything felt right in the world.
Till it didn’t.
When I started spotting, I panicked. Adam was out of town, so my sister came over to take care of me. To hold me while I cried all day, begging and pleading with my body and the universe that my baby was okay. And when I calmed down enough to pull myself out of the haze of anxiety and fear, I had a very clear feeling that I was okay. That we were okay. My body felt safe. I wasn’t in any pain; I still felt pregnant. It was just a slight bit of spotting.
But the spotting continued for a week or so, and finally, Adam suggested we go to the ER to check on things. I was 9 weeks.
We spent 12 hours in the ER waiting for a doctor, hoping for news about fibroids, old period blood. We were worried that something was wrong, but we didn’t think that our baby was gone.
By the time we saw a Doctor, they were so gentle with us. They told me my HCG levels were too low, and my heart sank.
Then they did a first ultrasound. My uterus was small. Practically empty. Nowhere near the signs of a 9-week-old pregnancy.
They sent us home for a few hours of sleep, then we were back to the hospital for more ultrasounds. We waited for over 9 hours, sitting in the common waiting room with everyone else, knowing how impossible it was that the Doctor’s assessment last night had been a mistake. Finally, it was confirmed. The baby I had been talking to was gone. The pregnancy had stopped progressing around the 5-6 week mark, but my body didn’t know.
During the ultrasounds, I could feel myself slipping away. All I wanted to do was run away from the truth of what I could so clearly see in my nearly empty womb. It would have been so easy to dissociate in those moments, but I knew from my training about trauma and from working with a therapist that I needed to stay present. To be with the pain. To feel it all.
One of the first things I noticed leaving the hospital was that I still thought the world was beautiful.
It was golden hour, and we were driving home, weaving our way through the city. A storm had blown through a few days before, knocking most of the colourful leaves off the trees, but more than a few leaves lingered.
The whole drive home, while I clutched Adam’s hand, I stared out the window at the changing light, noticing the types of trees that were managing to hold onto some colour and the way the evergreens seemed more pronounced. I realized halfway home that this miscarriage, losing my baby, was the worst thing to happen to me.
And yet, I still saw beauty in the world.
I still noticed the way the stream in the ditch on the side of the road sparkled in the light. How the homes and Halloween decorations looked straight out of an early 2000s comfort film. Noticing beauty, appreciating beauty, and creating beauty have always been parts of me that feel innate and infinite. And here I was, having lost the most beautiful and beloved thing in the world to me, and I still saw beauty all around me.
Just noticing this made me feel like I was going to be okay. Knowing that the worst could happen, the world could still be beautiful, and I would still notice it… made me feel so grateful.
My mind kept trying to distract me from what I was feeling, so I deleted all of my social media apps. We told our loved ones, and they held us in so many different ways. Flowers and meals showed up at our door. Care packages were dropped off. I made a list of all of the ways we were loved and felt grateful.
The pain and bleeding helped to keep me present. I wrote in my journal that I would rather feel the physical pain of losing our baby than to feel nothing at all: “I can’t stop telling the blood how much I love it. Each cramp, every pain is a reminder that She was real.”
Five days after leaving the hospital, my Dad told me that my Poppa Joe was in the hospital again. This time, there was nothing they could do to help him. I jumped on FaceTime and then organized a Zoom for our whole family to tell Poppa how much we loved him. To say goodbye. My sister and cousin came over so we could be with each other while he passed, knowing how much joy it brought him when the cousins came together.
My Dad flew to Ottawa immediately to be with his Dad, and in Poppa’s final hours, my Dad told him about our baby. He told him to look out for Her in heaven, and I felt so much comfort in knowing that my strong and loving grandfather would be with her.
My Poppa Joe died the next day, surrounded by family. And the day after, my pain went from keeping me company in constant waves to a deep ache that wouldn’t go away. When I described the experience of passing the pregnancy to my sister, she said it sounded like a birth.
The pain in my body went away immediately. So did the bleeding. And I wanted it to come back because it felt like my body should be bleeding as my heart was breaking.
A few days after we left the hospital, one of my friends sent me photos to announce the arrival of their baby. I was so worried I would feel jealous and desperately upset at the announcement, but aside from a little pang, I felt so happy for them and their new addition.
Grief is not a single state of mind. It’s a wave of pain that ebbs and flows, and at least for me, does not negate the beautiful moments I still get to experience. Like wishing a friend and her baby well, knowing that I just lost my own daughter.
I can feel both at once.
My Mom keeps affirming to me that I am a Mother, even though some days it doesn’t feel like I can lay claim to the word.
I’m a Mother who has never held her child in the physical world. But I have held my daughter in my dreams.
I needed her to unlock something so true and deep within me, something I thought I had already accessed. My pregnancy changed me. I felt myself morph into a new version of myself. A version of myself that I have been waiting my whole life to be. Except that it only lasted 9 weeks.
I will miss her for the rest of my life. Our future kids will know Her name, know Her as their sibling up in heaven.
I will miss my Poppa forever, too. The way he called me Princess, how he smiled when all of his grandkids were together. I can picture him making me toy soldiers for breakfast, reading the paper in his chair. How he loved talking about Ireland, listening to music, and watching his favourite team play football. He told the longest stories, often about his patients. I know he thought about Adam and me every time he watched curling, and more than once told me that I was marrying a ‘good man’. I know he’ll keep Her safe.
I feel better when I imagine them together, with my Grandpa Paul, my Aunt Paula, and my Uncle Jamie. Surrounded by love.
I know that so many people feel like they can’t share their miscarriage stories. But hearing from other people who have been through this experience meant more to me than I could ever express. I felt less alone writing this. And I hope that if you are experiencing a miscarriage or know someone who is going through this experience, this story might help you, too.
