What does a miscarriage feel like?

Some topics seem too taboo to talk about. Often the most difficult things we go through in life make horrible over dinner conversations. So, they become something only discussed in hushed tones with only a select few if at all. It’s understandable that these tough topics aren’t going to win any popularity contests, but there is also a need for information, understanding, and camaraderie amongst those who experience such hardships. So, while I doubt anybody would have the courage to ask what exactly it was like to go through a miscarriage, I can assure you many are curious. It’s the verbal version of rubbernecking at an accident site.

As always, you know that I will be quite blunt. If you are squeamish, feel free to walk out on this post and drop back by another time when I’m talking about sunshine and daisies. You have been warned. What follows is in rough time frames, because I wasn’t exactly watching a clock.

6 AM:
Uggghhh, every morning my cell pone vibrates and reminds me that it’s time to insert more progesterone. It’s a task I complete three times a day to help my unborn child continue to grow. I hit the end button and it ceases to vibrate as I make a slow saunter into the bathroom to complete my mission. I fall back asleep within minutes.

6:45:
Braden wakes me up and let’s me know that the sun is up so we should be too. He then makes his very predictable request for some chocolate milk. I head into the kitchen and hit brew on the coffee pot.

6:50:
As I am unwrapping Braden’s Prevacid to put in his milk, I feel a warm trickle. At this point, I am quite used to the progesterone burn, but this was different. This was warm and thin. Progesterone is thicker. I am certain I have a look of panic in my face, but quickly regain my composure. I walk quickly to the bathroom.

6:55:
Justin gets the kids settled in our bedroom with cartoons as I start to wipe continuously at the blood that has started to trickle out of me. I do not panic because I had some bleeding with Eve around this same time.

7:00:
Just as I was about to stand up and go put my feet up, a strange pressure builds and my uterus clamps down. The next thing I know, I pass a large clot. Now, I am seriously worried. I give things a few minutes, as there is a few drips here and there that make their way to the toilet.

7:15:
I make a call to the on-call nurse at our doctor’s office. She tells me all the things that I need to hear and instructions on what to do. I elevate my feet, drink plenty of water, and continue my meds. If anything worsens to call her back.

7:25:
Call my mom in tears.

7:30:
The bleeding intensifies and I start cramping. Sitting on the toilet, Justin holds my hand and asks if I’m ok. No, I am far from ok. This is scary. The bleeding is getting much worse, and we both look at each other in fear. Should I go to the hospital? Before I can verbalize it, I brace myself on his arms as a strong cramp occurs and my body does something that is quite natural. It expels a large amount of tissue. It was the size of a deck of cards. It becomes clear that this is not just a slight bleeding episode. This isn’t a small blip on the radar, but a really big deal. I start crying yet again. I pass several more clots consecutively. 

8:15:
I have my legs up on the side of our whirlpool tub and a towel underneath me,and I continue to bleed. The cramps at this point are getting worse. I phone the nurse again. Now we are all concerned. We come up with options and discuss them. We opt to wait things out at home as long as the bleeding slows. Moments later my mom arrives.

8:25:
Justin leaves with the children who are excited to have an outing. Justin does not want to leave, but I nearly beg him. I need the kids out of the house to make it through this.  Braden becomes quite unsure as to what is going on, but leaves willingly. I manage to move to the bed, but I feel weak, scared, and am in some pain. My bleeding slows considerably, but my cramps have shot up to a nine on the pain scale. With Genevieve I didn’t get an epidural until 8 cm, and so I can assure you that I completely know what transition labor feels like. This my friends was just like it. I hurt like hell. I took deep breaths, put myself in yoga positions, and did my best to work through it.

9 am:
The nurse calls to check in on me. She phones in some Tylenol 3 for me and insists that it won’t hurt a developing baby should one still remain.

10 am:
Time starts to blend together. Cramps and bleeding become a hideous cycle. I wonder why the hell I ever thought this cycle would end in a baby. I keep my emotions together, and instead focus on what comes next. We scan on Monday, where I know I will see an empty uterus. Then, I can ask when I can hit the treadmill again.

10:45:
Frustrated I attempt to shower. No such luck. I become dizzy and end up right back in bed. The only bonus is there is no nausea for the first time in weeks.

11:00:
My mother has been folding my laundry and picking up while chatting to distract me. Then, she comes in with some lunch. I eat it, and I feel slightly better.

11:15:
The kids come back home and tell me all about their adventure! Braden comes in with a glass of water and demands that I drink it. None of us sent him to do so, but he said I NEEDED it. He turns into my personal nurse and refuses to leave my side for the next few hours. I fall in love with him all over again, and do my best to not think of life without him. What can I say? My emotions were out of control.

1:00:
I take the Tylenol 3 and start to feel the pain ease down to a four. I continue bleeding, but not to the point where I have to change a pad every twenty minutes.

2:00 – 7:00:
Very long hours where clots continue to be passed, my uterus remained hostile, and exhaustion settles in. I am asleep by seven.

The next day my mom comes over while my husband takes the children to my brother and sister in-law’s house. Ok, she will be my SIL in about a month, but with her dedication to watching my children for the next five days she can so have the 30 day advance on the title. We basically ignore everything on Sunday. We pretend it didn’t happen and talk about celebrity gossip, weather, cooking, and anything else we can come up with. I spend the day in good spirits but utterly exhausted.  I crash and burn again at seven. 

So, in short it was something out of a horror movie.  There was tears, blood, pain, and fear.  I wouldn’t have made it through without my husband who is immensely supportive.  He held my hand, reassured me that I was brave and strong, and he took care of our children when I needed him to the most.  My mom who knew exactly what I needed.  She allowed me to ignore the elephant in the room.  My friends who sweetly dropped off meals and sent emails of support. My brother and his future wife with all their help with the children make the days following so much easier. Perhaps women should talk about this, because when you do, you allow people to be there to support you.  It’s not an easy thing to go through physically or emotionally.  We need to  make it ok to talk about it.  It’s gross, yes.  However, it’s the loss of a life.  That bears a little bit of discomfort.

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