Miscarriage: One Year Later

One year ago today, my husband and I suffered the miscarriage of our first child at 9 weeks, 5 days of gestation. You can read the details of the loss here, but in summary, let’s just say that in a few short weeks we had already completely fallen in love with the child we were going to have. We did not yet know her (we did not know the gender, but have always referred to the child we lost as her because…well… “it” just seems very wrong and “her” just seems very right), but we already knew that we would love her dearly and cherish her with all of our might.

But things don’t always work out the way that you are taught that they do in sex ed class. Sometimes that egg and sperm meet, make a baby, that baby implants, grows, develops a heartbeat and…doesn’t make it. Miscarriage and pregnancy loss can happen at any stage of pregnancy, and I unfortunately know women who have suffered at every stage, from chemical pregnancies that were lost so quickly to women whose little ones were lost in childbirth. No matter the number of weeks or months, a loss is a loss, and nothing can fill the space in your being that is removed when you miscarry.

I remember that day one year ago so vividly. We had already had the ultrasound that demonstrated that the baby no longer had a heartbeat, but this was just the follow up appointment, the confirmation to go in and verify that the “tissue” (see also: human being) hadn’t passed out of my body yet. When we went to the doctor, I stood up off the examination table and miscarried directly into my hand. There was so much blood that I couldn’t see much (and at 9 weeks, 5 days, there probably wasn’t much to see), but even in the utter horror of the moment, it’s nice to know that I held my baby once, if only for a moment. She was gone, and she would never get to see us or smile at us or hear our voices, but I would get to hold her, feel her miniscule weight in my palm, and maybe she would know how dearly she was loved in so brief a time.

But this post isn’t about that day. It isn’t about how hard it is to pick up and move on, or how impossible it is to stop the “if only” thoughts from flooding your brain. This post is about every day since then, and where we are 365 days later. I still cry all the time about it. I know many people might think that’s overly emotional. Heck, some people might not think a 9 week, 5 day old ball of cells is even something to miss, but most women who’ve been through it understand how much emotion is attached to even so small a thing.

However, even though I still cry all the time about it and I still miss her so badly that it aches, I’m also glad that she existed at all. We went through months trying to conceive the first time, and there were so many “ifs” that never even were. She WAS. She might not have been for a very substantial amount of time, but for a few weeks she existed. She was celebrated and dreamed about and applauded by us and by our close friends and family. She was the subject of a lot of dreaming and laughing and conversation. She had a name, and…bittersweet as it was…Dylan Rose had a birth date. It wasn’t in August 2012 like it should have been, but January 17th was the date of her birth even though she was too perfect and innocent to walk among us.

I have mourned her death, the death of what might have been, so many times and I don’t think I’m going to stop mourning it any time soon. But today I will be celebrating her life. It was short, but it was beautiful. And I know that she was loved. In celebration of her life and in recognition of the pain that many women endure in silence as the result of miscarriage and pregnancy loss, I encourage you to share your miscarriage story (if you unfortunately have one) with others. It might be painful to talk about, but to not talk about it allows other people to feel just as alone as maybe you once did. Today I am celebrating the life of the child we lost, and I am sharing her story with you in the hopes that it might give others strength if they should be so unfortunate as to have to experience what we did. 365 days later my lost little girl has two beautiful little brothers. They were her gift to us, and we are celebrating her birthday together, even if she can’t be here to take the first bite of the cake.

Happy birthday, Dylan. We love you so very very much.