I woke up this morning to my husband’s phone buzzing wildly with incoming texts.One buzz after another after another.
“What is going on?” I asked him.
“Allison had her baby last night,” he said.
I had my baby last night, too. But there were no congratulatory texts. No celebratory phone calls. Just me sitting in my bathroom for three hours in excruciating pain wishing for it all to be over.
I decided to have a natural miscarriage, not real sure what it would entail, but just knowing that it was the right thing for me. I found out on Tuesday I would be having a miscarriage. I went to work on Wednesday, just hoping for a sense of normalcy. But I left after an hour, thinking about it and being scared it would start while I was there.
Later that evening, my husband, Steve, came home. I had been in the house all day and wanted to get out. We decided to go to the Vitamin Shoppe, where I could get some natural vitamins to help speed up the process. We then went to Lowes, where we began to look for stones for a fire pit we were building in our backyard. I was helping Steve take the stones off the shelves and arrange them in circles when I felt the first real pains of the process. It felt like bad period cramps, like the doctor said it would.
We purchased the stones, then brought them home. I asked Steve if we could start building the fire pit right now. I wanted the miscarriage to be over, and I felt that this was speeding up the process. It was about 7:30 p.m. We carefully arranged the stones, making sure they were level. I got through about five stones when the pain got worse, and I went inside. I took three Aleves – the only medication I had on hand.
Steve came inside, and we decided to watch an episode of “The Walking Dead.” It was about 9:30 and 5 minutes through the second episode when I got a contraction. I felt something come gushing out. I ran to the bathroom and saw a huge clot of blood on my pad. I sat on the toilet.
The contractions were coming every two minutes or so. Huge clots of blood were coming out. I stood up in an attempt to go to the upstairs bathroom where there was a shower. Excruciating pain and a sudden gush of blood forced me to sit back on the toilet.
“Breath, just breath,” I said to myself. I took a deep breath in and exhaled. Another deep breath in. Exhale. As long as I focused on my breathing, the pain seemed to subside. Soon, I was given a momentary break from the pain. I used that to my advantage, quickly cleaning the toilet and the surrounding floor, then ran upstairs. I just wanted to take a shower.
But I couldn’t even turn on the shower before the next wave hit me. I sat on the toilet and out came another gush of blood. The pain was getting worse. I focused on my breathing. I prayed. “God, help me through this.” I provided myself with encouragement. “Kelly, you’ve got this. It’s almost over. You’re doing good.” Another wave of pain. “Focus on breathing, Kelly. Focus on your breathing.”
I had read that a miscarriage feels like labor. I wasn’t really sure what to expect. I’ve never had a baby before. I still don’t know if it feels like labor because I have nothing to compare it to. But I do know that the pain was tremendous. I had no doctors by my side telling me the baby was coming. I didn’t have anyone there to hold my hand and help me through. I was on my own. Me and God. I relied pretty heavily on Him to help me through, talking to Him and praying and meditating like I never have before.
Then, for some reason, it hit me. I was giving birth to a baby who would never grow up. I would never see him take his first steps or hear him speak his first words. I wouldn’t even feel him moving inside of me. I was experiencing all of this horrendous pain for nothing.
I began to cry. I just sat on the toilet and sobbed. I told the baby that I loved him. “I’m sorry,” I kept crying. “I’m sorry.”
The cramps were getting worse. I began to feel like I would pass out. I called for Steve and asked him to get me a wet, hot rag. I lay down on the bathroom floor, curled in the fetal position, rocking myself through each contraction. The pain would momentarily subside, and I would breath a sigh of relief. Then it would start again. I would focus on my breathing and just rock myself back and forth, back and forth. This continued until about 12:30 when it finally just stopped. I was waiting for another contraction, but it never came.
I did not think the miscarriage was finished because people had told me I would see a gray sac, which would be the yolk sac. All I had seen were massive amounts of blood. I looked around me. It looked as if someone had been murdered in the bathroom. Blood all over the toilet. A crimson-colored floor. Blood streaks trailing down my legs.
I began to clean up. I took a shower. I felt my stomach. Nothing in there anymore. No hard mass to push down on. That’s when I knew it was over. It was 1 a.m. I was exhausted. I had Steve grab me some Midol PM, and I went to bed feeling numb. The emotions blindsided me the next morning when I woke up to the chirping of the texts. I spent most of the day crying.
For now, the physical pain has subsided. The emotional pain is still there. It will probably be there for some time. But I will pick myself up. I will continue on. I will be okay.
Kelly Isaacs is a special education teacher and currently works with students in an inner-city school. She has also worked with children with autism and used to be a reporter. She still loves to write, finding the process very therapeutic and comforting.
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There is an isolation and desperation that comes with miscarriage, particularly when it’s your first pregnancy. The unknowns, the shock, the pain, the emptiness, which often leaves us struggling to find our words to speak about what has happened. Thank you for finding your words Kelly and for sharing them so generously with us here. The place in my heart and soul that have the the pain of miscarriage are with you in thought and prayer.
Thank you for allowing me to share them. It helps to hear others’ stories and to know that I am not alone. Thank you for your comforting words and thoughts!
Oh Kelly! So difficult. I hear your anguish. I am so sad for the miscarriage of your son or daughter. Your words bring truth and honor to an horrific experience. I wish we still lived across the street from one another. My heart is with you my friend.
Thank you, Mrs. Whitaker. It is difficult, but getting better with the passage of time.
I love reading all of your blogs on here. You are a talented writer and are very motivational! I do wish we still lived close — I would love to talk with you. I have such fond childhood memories from your house. Thanks again for your support!
Dear Kelly, your words invite us into the intimacy of such a traumatic time for you. I was struck with the word “alone” that bounced along your offering of your wounded heart. Knowing the pain and emptiness of miscarriages, I thank you for sharing the story of yours. You are not alone now in your journey to healing. You have encouraged others to remember and share their own stories of the loss of a child through miscarriage and the hole that remains in each woman’s heart for the little one pushed out in a gush of blood and pain.
My dear Kelly…my heart goes out to you in your loss. Your courage and tenderness are woven together with such raw honesty. In the midst of a miscarriage your mother’s heart was so present. I feel honored that you have allowed me into the intimacy of your life and your loss. Know that my mother’s heart is holding yours…know that you are deeply loved…know that your heart matters to God and to me.
Kelly, I’m so terribly sorry for your loss. No words can describe how hard things are afterwards. The things that you think won’t make your chest tighten and struggle to control fighting back tears when you see or hear announcements. The times you want to be happy for your friends, but can’t because you wish it were you. I’m in that boat with you. I’m sorry you had to experience this loss. One day, it will be just a part of your story, but today I know it hurts and I’m sorry. XO
Kelly, I am so sorry for your loss and heartache. Thank you for you bravery in sharing your story! Sending you thoughts, strength, prayers and continued healing. Justine
Kelly, thank you for being so vulnerable and sharing your huge loss. I’m so sorry and my heart aches for you!
Kel – through your initial reluctance to share such a personal and devastating experience, you show such tremendous strength in opening up, reaching out, exposing your closely-guarded vulnerability and making something very personal and traumatic an opportunity to allow yourself to grieve openly and not have to suffer in silence. You did nothing wrong to cause this to happen. Sometimes bad things happen to good people but good things also happen to good people. Good things are in store for you and Stephen. May time help to heal the intense sadness and mix of emotions you are living daily. I love you both and give my most sincere hugs. Aunt Janet.
I too, miscarried a child many years ago. I too, remember the pain, the isolation, the misunderstanding of why… I pray that you heal from your loss by turning to God for comfort. Now the mother of four grown children, and grandmother of two, I cherish my gifts! I will pray for you, Kelly, and your husband, that time will heal and you will someday be blessed with a beautiful healthy baby, all in God’s greater plan for you.
Though lonely in your grief, you aren’t alone. Had we not miscarried last fall, my baby would have been about a month old. I find my ears tuned to little cries in grocery stores. When I see a tiny one, my arms ache in their emptiness. This is my second loss. It does get better. Be gentle with your heart in the meantime. Praying for comfort in your anguish.
Thanks to everyone for their comments and support! I’m so sorry that so many people also had to go through this experience. However, know that your words do bring comfort. I will be thinking and praying for all of you, also. Thank you!
Kelly- I think you already follow my blog too, I recently wrote about my miscarriages. Writing is therapeutic for me. I’m proud of you that you’ve already begun to process that. It’s one of the most difficult things I’ve gone through. I’m so sorry for your loss.
Kelly, I am so sorry for your loss. Loss of your baby, your hopes and dreams for mothering him/her, your joy in sharing this little life with your community. It is so, so hard. I lost our second baby through miscarriage and chose a natural miscarriage as well. The miscarriage happened while we were at the beach on vacation. Your experience brought back so many memories of what I experienced. I am glad now…3 years later….that I chose natural. It really helped me grieve and I am thankful I have the process of birthing my baby to remember, even though it was so, so hard. I hope that will be your experience as well. I also made a photo book that I wrote the details of my experience in, along with our first sonogram picture and pictures from the beach where we lost the baby. I still look back at that and remember from time to time. “Jesus wept.” John 11:35
Wow. Thank you for writing. Your honesty and truth ring out boldly. I had a misscarriage on the same night at the same time. I too felt alone yet in that I also felt a strong connection to the sacred feminine, to the red power, to everything that is strong in woman. So strong with the red theme, that I googled it and found you. Found your story. Miscarriage… The same night. The same time. The feeling alone. The being connected. RED power moving through and showing me her eyes of love, her heart of strength and her ferrocity of wildness.