Miscarriage is a terrible thing. It doesn't respect your hopes and dreams. It doesn't respect your right to grieve.
Even if you're very open about your miscarriage, which I have been, there is no space for your grief in our society. My friends and family have been enormously supportive, and they have and will continue to hold me up, but it's still never going to be enough.
You see, our fetus, who never stood a chance at becoming a baby scientifically speaking, had two possible names. A due date. A nursery theme. A mother and a father and a big brother. A whole life to live.
Just because I know intellectually that with no heartbeat, this fetus would never amount to more than a tiny cluster of tissue and a few weeks of mild morning sickness and food cravings, that doesn't change the fact that, for one month, I was pregnant. I dreamed about my baby, made plans for him or her. Prayed for him or her to grow big and strong and become a beloved child of God. I bought maternity clothes and fantasized about getting round. I thought about purchasing a new breast pump through insurance, and whether or not we should spend money doing at 12 week NT scan, since it wasn't covered on our insurance. I started to plan my maternity leave and who would be my long-term substitute.
Now, I'm bleeding. I know it's the end. There is no more hope for those dreams.
What do I have to show for it? 10 pounds and a heart full of grief.
How do I get to say goodbye? By disposing of my dreams, one way or another. Take your pick: The baby and all of that hope will likely either be flushed down a toilet or thrown in the trash, waded up in a sanitary napkin. I likely won't even know when to say goodbye.
That is miscarriage.
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