Photo by Marcus Ganahl on Unsplash
It’s quiet here. Eerily so. I sit in the dimming light, feeling the coolness of the bathroom tiles against my legs. For the past few days, everything in my life has slowed to a crawl. Now, it’s ground to a halt. It’s an unnatural stillness, as if only once this pill is swallowed, activity might begin again.
Pregnant at 40. That hadn’t been part of my plan, but once the shock wore off, I found myself getting used to the idea. We’re gonna have a baby! I had seen that silly, lovestruck look on Jason’s face too, the one he was trying to hide.
What had started as a new course for us had pitched and swirled into an unexpected storm last Tuesday. That was the day I had my first appointment with the obstetrician.
Initially, everything had gone as expected. I waited nervously next to a stack of old home renovation magazines until I was called into an examination room. A brusque nurse checked my vitals with a tight smile. More waiting. Finally, the doctor came in, asking the usual questions about my health history and family.
Then came the moment for the ultrasound. I hadn’t even realized the obstetrician could do that. Pretty convenient, I thought, as I lay back on the crinkly, impersonal paper. The doctor applied cold jelly and began moving the wand over my abdomen. As he scanned, his expression shifted. He measured and frowned. Measured again. I read concern on his face.
The embryo was small. Too small. Nearly a week behind in expected size, at a time when every cell counts. I was referred back to the hospital immediately for a more thorough ultrasound.
I left that first appointment and cried in the parking lot. Too small is a big problem.
A restless evening left me pale and nervous the following morning as we waited at the hospital, trying to distract ourselves from the weight of the situation. Once I was finally led to an examination room, I got partially undressed under the watchful eyes of the Paw Patrol, their excited faces gazing down at me from the ceiling. As the technician applied more jelly to my stomach, I couldn’t help but ponder the whimsical decor. Who was this room decorated for? Were these decals added to cheer the parent or to please a blind foetus? I kept my questions to myself, as the technician performing the ultrasound remained quiet and impassive. I tried to read her expressions anyway. Was that focus? Sadness? Concern? I searched for clues.
Post-ultrasound, we were allowed to leave, but still unmoored from any kind of answer. We were assured the obstetrician would be in contact soon to review the results.
I returned to work, attempting to distract myself from my growing anxiety and the rudderless feeling that had taken hold. Jason took care of household chores, periodically checking on me and ensuring my phone was nearby. The weight of waiting settled upon us, each minute stretching into an insufferable eternity.
Finally, around 7:45 PM, the phone rang, breaking the oppressive silence of the evening. After an entire day of worry, the doctor’s voice began with the dreaded word, “Unfortunately…”
The test was conclusive; there was no heartbeat. No more growth. Death where there was supposed to be life.
I thought I was prepared for a miscarriage. Given my “advanced maternal age” (an entirely loathsome phrase), I had forced myself to give the possibility some thought.
The reality still hit me harder than expected.
These last few days, I’ve been quiet. I spend time alone, just breathing and trying to function, more or less. It feels as though my soul is disconnected, adrift in darkness while I navigate the mundane tasks of daily life. There is no baby. This collection of cells was never destined to become a person in this world.
To keep the storm of thoughts at bay, I convince myself that the loss is alright. There are even perks. I need no longer follow the rules of pregnancy. Espresso is back on the menu. A sip of red wine is ok. I can feel my physical energy coming back. My fancy fitness watch tells me that my energy level is nearly back at full capacity. The technology reads: 90%. A couple of weeks ago, 40% was a Herculean effort. As my physical body rebounds mutinously, feeling better brings its own brand of guilt. How dare I enjoy the return of energy? How could I?
Since I’m having a ‘silent’ miscarriage, there have been no symptoms and little discomfort. No cramps. No blood. This seems a mercy, but I think it is the opposite. It means that my body isn’t working to expel what is no longer viable. As you can imagine, it still has to come out.
Relatively terrified and not knowing what else to do, I’ve been reading up, building a protective wall of words, and studies and normalcy. I have learned that while miscarriage is scary, it’s also extremely common. A loss happens in 10-20% of known pregnancies, and in countless undiagnosed ones. So many end before anyone is aware of them.
I made it almost 8 weeks. I was definitely aware. In cases like mine, there are three options. Each with drawbacks and benefits:
The simplest action is to take none. To wait it out. The benefit is that this is natural and doesn’t typically require medical intervention. However, you could be waiting weeks for the blood and cramping to start. There’s an uncomfortable thought.
The second option is to take medication to bring on a medical miscarriage. This way, you can control approximately when it happens, but this may not always go to plan. (According to my reading, sometimes this option just doesn’t work, even though it will almost certainly make you sick.) And then there are the logistics; you have to physically take a pill knowing it will make you feel terrible. A literal ‘hard pill’ to swallow.
The third option is to have an operation called dilation and curettage (D&C). This is a procedure where you are put under anaesthetic and have the contents of your uterus suctioned out. Although it’s a quicker option, there is a potential risk of injury. (Also, to be quite honest, this sounds most terrifying!)
Now, while all of these sound like the makings of an extremely pleasant weekend, I have chosen the second option.
That’s where you find me now, writing these words, and navigating the storm; about to take the blasted pill, and to launch into a vast sea of the unknown. The pill on the table promises relief with a side of nausea and pain. A paradox – longing for relief while dreading the discomfort. I’ve been writing to memorialise this moment at the edge. It’s my way to make sense of chaos. It’s my way to connect to an immense shared experience, one that’s been whispered for millenia.
As the medication takes effect, I brace myself for the physical and emotional turbulence ahead. It’s a tumultuous process, and the tendrils of sorrow wrap around my heart. Yet, within chaos, resilience emerges. Grief’s rawness and the darkness within are not the end but a chapter.
Choosing the medical route was a decision grounded in practicality, yet the emotional toll is undeniable. The pill sits on the table, a harbinger of the discomfort to come. As I prepare to take it, I grapple with conflicting emotions. It’s a paradox—longing for the relief it promises while dreading the nausea and pain it guarantees.
This journey feels like an odyssey through uncharted waters, and I navigate it with a mix of courage and trepidation. I appreciate the warmth of Jason’s presence, his silent support a beacon in the darkness. We share a sorrow that binds us closer.
I invite you, dear reader, into this intimate space—a space where vulnerability meets strength, and the human experience unfolds in its raw authenticity.
As the night unfolds, I find solace in the written word, a companion in this solitary journey. I share my pain openly, not seeking pity but understanding. Miscarriage is a chapter in my story, one that shapes my narrative but does not define it. I reclaim my voice from the silence of societal stigma, inviting others to join me in breaking the chains that bind our stories in secrecy.
Wednesday dawned with hope and apprehension as Jason and I navigated the hospital corridors.
A “silent” miscarriage offered no symptoms, no cramps, no blood. A merciful façade, masking the inexorable reality: the nonviable must still be expelled. Three options emerged, each fraught with drawbacks and benefits.
As I navigate the path ahead, a road unexpectedly veering into the unknown, I carry the weight of this profound pause. Life’s complications don’t always unfold neatly, and grief doesn’t adhere to a predefined script. In the silent echoes of what could have been, I find fragments of resilience. There’s strength in acknowledging the messy truths, in facing the darkest corners of loss with a touch of grim humor. So here I stand, in the aftermath of a complication that rewrote my narrative. As I confront the choices ahead, I embrace the shadowed humor that dances in the chaos. Life, after all, is a series of complications; it’s how we waltz through them that defines our story.
In this poignant juncture, I embrace the gallows humor hidden beneath the weight of my reality. A whisper of laughter escapes, challenging pain’s dominance. It’s my way of flipping fate the middle finger, a gesture of rebellion against the unfairness that life occasionally deals.
I’ve learned that strength isn’t just about weathering the storm; it’s about dancing in the rain, even when the world feels like a tempest. As I confront the choices ahead, I channel the resilience that has been my constant companion through trials and triumphs.
This is not a concession to defeat but a declaration of endurance. The echo of laughter, however dark, reverberates through the corridors of my soul, reminding me that even in the bleakest moments, I possess the power to find light within the shadows.
In the end, life’s greatest punchlines are often delivered in the face of adversity. And as the curtain falls on this chapter, I find solace in the unwavering truth that, no matter how twisted the plot, the story is uniquely mine.
So that’s what I’m doing today. I’m not sure how much of an update I’ll give. I can honestly say that I never thought this would happen to me. I was wrong. Thank you to everyone who has been so kind and supportive so far. I know that I am surrounded by love and support.
And so, with resilience as my compass and laughter as my armor, I face the unfolding pages, knowing that within the complication lies the seed of a narrative yet to be written.
Life, in all its twisted sense of humor, throws complications our way. Yet, as I choose the medical route, facing the discomfort and the unnerving reality of it all, I can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of this ‘pleasant weekend’ I’ve unwittingly signed up for. Perhaps, in the midst of this grim ordeal, finding humor is my rebellion against the gravity of the situation.
In the silence that follows, there’s a whisper of life’s paradox—a blend of sorrow and the audacity to find humor in the midst of despair. The complication, as it stands, becomes a testament to the indomitable spirit within, ready to face the complexities that life unfolds.
And so, with each passing moment, as I walk through the shades of grief and recovery, I am reminded that life is a tapestry woven with threads of both sorrow and strength. The complication, once an unexpected twist, becomes a part of this intricate narrative—a narrative that I continue to write, embracing every nuance, every challenge, with a pen held firmly in my hand.”.
Given my “advanced maternal age” (how I loathe that phrase)
To keep the storm at bay, I convince myself that that’s alright. There are even perks! I no longer need to follow the rules of pregnancy. Espresso is back on the menu. A sip of red wine is ok. I can feel my energy coming back. My fitness watch tells me that my energy level is now back at almost full capacity. The technology tells me that I’m at 90% of my maximum capacity. 90 friggin’ percent. A couple of weeks ago, 40% was a Herculean effort. So much goes toward growing a baby; there’s not much left for you. I feel like a wreck, but my physical body is rebounding mutinously; ready to take on the friggin; world.
Relatively terrified and not knowing what else to do, I’ve been reading up. Turns out that while miscarriage is scary, it’s also common. A loss happens in 10-20% of known pregnancies, and in countless undiagnosed ones. It’s far more normal
than we realise. Many pregnancies end before anyone is aware of them.
Since I made it almost 8 weeks, I was definitely aware! In cases like mine, there are three options. Each with drawbacks and benefits:
The first and simplest action is to take none. You wait it out. The benefit is that it’s natural and doesn’t typically require medical intervention. However, you could be waiting weeks for the blood and cramping to start. That’s an uncomfortable thought!
The second option is to take medication to bring on a medical miscarriage. This way, you get to control approximately when it happens, but this may not always go to plan. (According to my reading, sometimes it just doesn’t work.) Also, you have to physically take a pill knowing that it will make you feel very sick. This is a challenging prospect to me. A literal ‘tough pill’ to swallow.
The third option is to have an operation called dilation and curettage. This is a procedure where you can be put under anaesthetic and have the contents of your uterus suctioned out. Although it’s a quicker option, there is a potential risk of injury. (Also, to be quite honest, this sounds terrifying to me!)
Now, while all of these sound like the makings of an extremely pleasant we
So that’s what I’m doing today. That’s where you find me now, writing these words. Doing what I can to memorialize this moment. I can honestly say that I never thought this would happen to me. I was wrong. Thank you to everyone who has been so kind and supportive so far. It would be even more impossible to take this pill otherwise…
And as I stare into the abyss, armed with a pill and a glimmer of dark humor, I prepare to face the storm within. The storm of grief, uncertainty, and the unnerving journey through the echoes of what might have been. The storm that demands resilience, not as an option, but as a survival instinct.
In this suspended animation of life, I find strength. Not in the absence of pain, but in the audacity to confront it head-on. This silent miscarriage, a paradox of stillness and upheaval, becomes the canvas on which I paint my resilience. The darkness may linger, but within it, I discover a flicker—a flicker of defiance, of humor, and of a strength unyielding in the face of life’s cruel twists.
Life’s on pause, but within the pause, a silent symphony of strength plays on. No baby. This collection of cells may not have become a person in this world, but it becomes a testament to the person I am becoming—a person unafraid to navigate the storms, armed with a pill, a pen, and the indomitable spirit that refuses to be extinguished.
r the past few days, everything has felt like it’s on pause. It all began on Tuesday, when I had my first appointment with the obstetrician. Initially, everything went as expected. I waited. I was called into an examination room and a nurse checked my vitals. More waiting. The doctor came in, and asked the usual questions about my health history and family background. Have I had surgery before? (Yes!) Was I taking prenatal vitamins prior to conception? (No!)
Then came the moment for the ultrasound. The obstetrician applied that familiar cold jelly to my stomach and began moving the wand over my abdomen. As he scanned, his expression shifted. He measured, frowned, measured again. I read concern on his face. Everything came to a halt.
The embryo was small. Too small. Nearly a week behind the expected size. (In the initial weeks, every cell counts!) I was referred back to the hospital for a more thorough ultrasound. The obstetrician made it clear that he wanted me to be seen ASAP.
I left that appointment and cried in the parking lot. Too small is a big problem.
Wednesday morning was the earliest I could be seen for an ultrasound. Jason and I went to the hospital and waited until I was called in. Once in the examination room (thankfully, this time the gel was warm!), the technician performed the ultrasound, her face betraying nothing. It’s not their job to interpret the results, so they don’t usually say much. I tried to read her face anyway. Was that sadness? Concern? Just how she looks when she’s focused? I searched for clues.
Post-ultrasound, we were given the green light to leave, with the assurance that the obstetrician would be in touch soon. Finally, the wait was almost over. We decided to make a trip to the grocery store, and I returned to work, attempting to distract myself from my growing anxiety. Jason took care of household chores, periodically checking to see that I had my phone nearby. We waited, the minutes stretching into hours.
The phone finally rang around 7:45 PM. After a day of worry, the doctor’s voice began with the dreaded word “unfortunately…”
There was no heartbeat. No more growth. There was death where there was supposed to be life.
I believe our culture needs to open up about experiences like these. It’s scary, but it’s common. A loss happens in 10-20% of known pregnancies, and in countless undiagnosed ones. It’s far more normal than we realise.
That said, while I thought I was prepared for the possibility of miscarriage, the reality hit me harder than expected. My life is still paused. My soul floats in darkness. There is no baby. This collection of cells was never going to be a person in this world.
And that’s alright—or at least, that’s what my logical mind tells me. There are even perks; I no longer need to follow the rules of pregnancy. Espresso is back on the menu. I can feel my energy coming back. My Garmin watch tells me that my energy level is now at a staggering 90% of its maximum capacity. 90 friggin’ percent. A couple of weeks ago, 40% was a struggle. So much goes toward growing a baby, there’s not much left for you!
Energy coming back should be good, but it makes me feel worse. There’s a certain guilt in even momentarily enjoying its pleasure. How could I? How dare I?
Since I have a ‘silent’ miscarriage, there have been no symptoms. No cramps. No blood. This seems a mercy, but it is the opposite. It means that my body isn’t working to expel what is no longer viable. As you can imagine, it still has to come out.
There are three options. Each with drawbacks and benefits:
You wait it out. It’s natural and doesn’t typically require medical intervention. However, you could be waiting weeks for the blood and cramping to start. That’s an uncomfortable thought!
You take medication to bring on a medical miscarriage. This way, you get to control approximately when it happens, but this may not always go to plan. (Sometimes it just doesn’t work.) Also, you have to physically take a pill knowing that it will make you feel very sick. That sucks.
You can also have an operation/ D&C. Dilation and curettage is a procedure where you can be put under anaesthetic and have the contents of your uterus suctioned out. Although it’s a quicker option, there is a potential risk of injury.
Now, while all of these sound like an extremely pleasant weekend, I have chosen the medical route.
