Editor’s Note: This article was written by a contributor and not by Maman Caféine.
I waited so long for you, my sweet little baby. After several long months of dealing with the disappointment of my period cramps returning, I’d finally gotten that little “+,” and I was literally over the moon. I was already starting to picture you, thinking about how your dad and I would redecorate the room so it would be comfortable for you. You already felt so real to me, because I had wanted you so badly.
Of course, I was aware of the statistics. Depending on the website, the rate ranges from 1 in 4 to 1 in 5 pregnancies. Between 20% and 25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage. I tried not to stress too much about it. After all, I still had a 75% to 80% chance that everything would go well, right? Why would my pregnancy—more than any other woman’s—end so abruptly? I celebrated every week that passed, bringing me closer to the much-anticipated three-month mark; I was confident, resolutely looking forward to the happy future that awaited us with you.
And then, on a perfectly ordinary afternoon, I got a stomachache. I tried to rationalize my emotions as much as possible: stomachaches can happen during pregnancy. Except that I started bleeding… and the stomachaches got worse as my uterus emptied. You left on your own, at about eleven weeks into the pregnancy, just a short time before I could see you for the first time. Maybe it was for the best.
Credit: Anthony Tran/Unsplash
When you left, you took a piece of my heart with you. I don’t think it’s possible to get it back, even a year after you left. Even after a new baby has made a cozy nest in my belly. That piece of my heart belongs to you forever, and the emptiness it left behind reminds me of the fragility of life.
When I told people around me about my miscarriage, I was bombarded with statistics, with comments like, “It was for the best—your baby must have had genetic abnormalities, and that’s why it was rejected,” or “Just imagine—you could have lost it at 32 weeks; that would have been worse”… Phew. How can I put this…? Losing a child at 11 weeks of pregnancy or losing one at 32 weeks is never easy. Can we really quantify the pain of a parent who loses their baby? No matter when the loss occurs, the suffering and grief are real, and I wish my feelings hadn’t been trivialized so much. Let’s just say it didn’t help me through my grieving process.
I was lucky in my misfortune—I encountered a wonderful medical team when I went to the emergency room after my miscarriage (it’s always recommended to go to the hospital after a miscarriage, no matter when it happens). They listened to my grief and reassured me about what to expect next: a miscarriage won’t prevent me from getting pregnant again; I’ll just need to be patient.
Credit: Lina Trochez/Unsplash
And patient I was. I waited the recommended number of days after a miscarriage before trying to get pregnant again; I took the time to mourn you, my little angel, and after a few months, I was ready. Since then, your brother or sister has taken root in my womb, and it fills me with joy. Of course, I’m also stressed, but I try not to think about it too much. I try to enjoy every moment we have together, because I know how easily it can all come to an end at any moment.
You’ll always be in my heart, my little angel. You honored me by making me your first and last home, and I’ll never forget that.