After a Miscarriage

Carrying On After a Miscarriage

By Lisa Schrader
Web Exclusive

I was eleven weeks pregnant when I miscarried, just about the time when experts agree that your pregnancy is "safe" and you can spread the good news. I'd already done that. I don't do well with delayed gratification. Besides, things like that didn't happen to me.

After I "lost the baby" (a phrase that reminded me of the nightmares I'd had during my first pregnancy, about forgetting the baby in grocery carts or at the mall), I learned how common this experience is. One in every four pregnancies ends in miscarriage, although many experts say the rate is even higher. To my surprise, I found out that several close friends and my grandmother had had miscarriages, sometimes several. As they shared their stories, I wondered why I hadn't known. Or had I known, but never understood? I wondered why, if so many women miscarry, we don't talk about it. There are many reasons, I discovered as I went through the healing process, which eventually, and surprisingly, lead me to a place of gratitude.

The spotting began on a Monday, after a weekend when nothing seemed to go right. I could feel the fear entering my bloodstream, like shots of some corrosive drug. I brought in reinforcements of denial and affirmations. The pregnancy books I spent the morning reading confirmed that spotting was "not abnormal." I told myself not to worry, reminding myself that this was my perfect baby, growing inside a body fit from exercise and fortified with whole grains and organic produce. What could possibly go wrong? I chased the negative thoughts away with positive ones and sat quietly, visualizing my peaceful, healthy baby awash in a sea of golden light.

The cramping began the next day. The fear got stronger, harder to silence. By late afternoon the cramps had become painful, then rhythmic. I got a stop watch. The pain came every two minutes, with its own Swiss timing. I'd felt this before, with my first child. These weren't cramps, this was labor. Acknowledging this brought a flood of grief that finally broke down the thinning wall of my disbelief. The contractions continued to open me up, my body working hard to release a baby that my mind and heart were desperately holding onto. I realized that what I wanted mattered very little here. Operating on a wisdom greater than my own, my body, my baby, and the universe had clearly made plans without me.

As I fully surrendered to grief, to the will of this baby to leave, my water broke. With a rush, it felt like the inside of me emptied. Then my body quieted and the pain vanished. The baby was no bigger than the very end of my pinkie; and yet it had dark eyes, tiny arms, and signs of fingers. It was our child, probably about nine weeks old, our midwife said, when it stopped thriving. My husband, Rick, and I held each other as we gazed on this miracle of life, marveling at his unworldly beauty, feeling a rush of love, an instinctual claiming of him as our own: "You were loved. You were wanted. You will be remembered."

For another day, my body continued to cramp and bleed, releasing the intricate support system created to nourish the baby. I felt so physically weak that my head spun when I walked across the room. I grew so tired of the blood--tired of its shocking brilliance on white, tired of its elemental smell. Grief saturated the air, and I found myself sobbing without warning, as if bumping into invisible pockets of it.

Friends came quietly, bringing flowers, books, and tapes. I felt grateful, though I was glad they didn't stay too long, so I could go back to my grief, my communion. I didn't want to talk, but it comforted me enormously to have them check in and tell me how much they cared. Someone brought me a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies, still warm. Cookies had never tasted so good.

I felt a kind of loneliness that only women who've had the companionship of life within can understand. With the baby inside, I felt a cozy and peaceful union, a little like pressing up against my husband's warm back while sleeping. The baby had been my constant companion, part of my thoughts with every action; every decision about what to eat, drink, or do shifted through love and concern for him. The emptiness inside me seemed bottomless, the silence deafening.

Two days later, when I'd regained some strength, Rick and I buried the baby. On a drizzly fall day, we walked in silence on the soggy trial along the American River. The river seemed quiet and melancholy, as if longing for the swell of winter rains. We came to an old oak tree, a carpet of green mjoss covering a thick, strong trunk. It reached out a fat arm, low and to its side, as if to say, "Lay your little one here beside me; I will protect him for you." As we laid our tiny one to rest, I felt part of me go with him into the dark earth. Rick sang a prayer, and the ancient Hebrew words that I did not understand comforted me immeasurably. We held each other under the loving embrace of the ancient oak, crying in the rain. These moments with Rick were now sewn forever into the quilt of our journey together.