Call When You Start Bleeding
I miscarried in a little one room airbnb during a weekend getaway with my husband. It wasn't a surprise. I had been spotting for a week and was waiting for the bleeding to start.
Did I miscarry October 10? Or did I miscarry on the day in September when our little embryo stopped growing, unbeknownst to me? Did I miscarry the day we had the ultrasound and learned that Baby stopped growing almost two and a half weeks earlier? Or did I miscarry October 14, when I finally passed the sac?
'People' think miscarriage is a singular event, or at least that's the assumption I made before I had one.
They don't tell you it'll take weeks before your body no longer thinks its pregnant,
weeks for your hCG levels to be negative, 'not pregnant.'
They say to call if you bleed through a pad an hour for more than two hours. They don't say that it'll be a maxi pad that feels like a diaper and the clots will be large enough to feel them passing.
They barely warn you about the cramps. They prescribe ibuprofen 600mg q6h for the pain, but they don't tell you that will barely touch it. That you'll be in so much pain, puking and bleeding and feeling like you're going to pass out.
And they don't warn you about the emotional pain of watching your pregnancy and your dreams of your little one being flushed away in the toilet of a little airbnb.
It was September 29 and I had my first prenatal appointment, a day shy of 9 weeks. I did my urine sample, I got weighed, blood pressure taken, and was sat down in a clinic room to meet with an NP. She talked about nutrition, testing, symptoms, etc. All the things of a normal first pregnancy. What to expect. And then it was time for the ultrasound.
My husband joined us in that little room. The wand inside me, ready to give us our first peak at our little one. She said she was doing some measurements of my ovaries and the sac. I was waiting to see an image on the screen that resembled all the ultrasound pictures that people share with their announcements. She said something about the radiologist will take a look and confirm viability. It didn't register that something was wrong, that she was too quiet, that I should be asking if there's a heartbeat until she was already leaving the room. I asked my husband if something was wrong. He didn't think so. But this wasn't the happy moment I pictured. They sat us back down in that little clinic room and as soon as the NP starting talking, I started bawling.
"You're measuring behind. There's a sac with a little something in there. It's too early to say it's a miscarriage....check hormone levels...I know this isn't what you want to hear...call if you start bleeding."
Crying, answering covid screening questions at the lab. Registering for bloodwork. Through tears, explaining that I don't have a SSN, answering questions about insurance. Crying, my face behind a mask. They call my name. "How are you doing?" Still crying. "Is this your first pregnancy?" Yes. "Congratulations!" Crying harder. Watching 8 tubes of blood leaving my arm. "Have a good day!" As tears stream down my cheeks and soak my mask. Blood trickles down my arm as I walk away. Did she forget to see if the bleeding had stopped as well as forget to look me in the eyes and see my pain?
Call if you start bleeding.
hCG 28328
Another draw in 2 days. 27451. Phone call: your hCG decreased. Call when you start bleeding.
I started spotting and called twice, 24 hours apart. The nurse left messages with the NP. And I never heard back.
Ultrasound a week later to confirm miscarriage. It looked the same as the week before. And any remaining shred of hope disintegrated in that moment. Yes, I'm having a miscarriage.
The doctor gave us three options: 1) Wait to bleed (up to 8 weeks). 2) Take medication to start the process. 3) Have a D&C. We picked option 2. I couldn't imagine waiting 8 weeks to bleed when the last week felt like eternity and option 3 felt too medical. I wanted to bleed and grieve at home. Call if you bleed more than a pad for more than two hours.
And then you're on your own.
I bled and cried and felt each cramp in the bed of that little airbnb. I started bleeding on the drive there, before taking the medication. I 'planned' to miscarry the following Monday, at home, after our little grief getaway.
It was Canadian Thanksgiving and I felt anything but grateful, except for the selfless, kind, and supportive husband beside me.
The bleeding slowed after 24 hours. And I thought it was over.
At home, we planted a tree, a lilac that blooms in May in honor of the little one we never got to meet.
October 14. Cooking supper at home with my husband. Smoke alarm blaring, our oven is smoking. I'm opening windows and he's fanning the smoke detector. I feel a gush and know the bleeding is back. I go to the bathroom and look down to see the remains of this pregnancy. The doctor didn't warn me, but the TTC community did: You may want to save the sac. I didn't flush. I washed my hands and left it there, sitting in the toilet water. I told my husband. And I felt like I wanted to save it, but felt shame and silliness as I figured out the logistics. We buried what remained under the lilac tree.
And then we discovered water in our basement and the sadness of the moment was stolen away as the need to deal with our house overwhelmed.
Weekly blood draws continue. 641. 95. 15. 6. Don't start trying again until you're negative so we know if it's the old pregnancy or the new. Finally on November 20, hCG 4.
You're negative. Unpregnant.
There was a rainbow in the sky on the morning of the last blood draw. To me, a promise of our future healthy rainbow baby.
Did I miscarry October 10? Or did I miscarry on the day in September when our little embryo stopped growing, unbeknownst to me? Did I miscarry the day we had the ultrasound and learned that Baby stopped growing almost two and a half weeks earlier? Or did I miscarry October 14, when I finally passed the sac?
'People' think miscarriage is a singular event, or at least that's the assumption I made before I had one.
They don't tell you it'll take weeks before your body no longer thinks its pregnant,
weeks for your hCG levels to be negative, 'not pregnant.'
They say to call if you bleed through a pad an hour for more than two hours. They don't say that it'll be a maxi pad that feels like a diaper and the clots will be large enough to feel them passing.
They barely warn you about the cramps. They prescribe ibuprofen 600mg q6h for the pain, but they don't tell you that will barely touch it. That you'll be in so much pain, puking and bleeding and feeling like you're going to pass out.
And they don't warn you about the emotional pain of watching your pregnancy and your dreams of your little one being flushed away in the toilet of a little airbnb.
My husband joined us in that little room. The wand inside me, ready to give us our first peak at our little one. She said she was doing some measurements of my ovaries and the sac. I was waiting to see an image on the screen that resembled all the ultrasound pictures that people share with their announcements. She said something about the radiologist will take a look and confirm viability. It didn't register that something was wrong, that she was too quiet, that I should be asking if there's a heartbeat until she was already leaving the room. I asked my husband if something was wrong. He didn't think so. But this wasn't the happy moment I pictured. They sat us back down in that little clinic room and as soon as the NP starting talking, I started bawling.
"You're measuring behind. There's a sac with a little something in there. It's too early to say it's a miscarriage....check hormone levels...I know this isn't what you want to hear...call if you start bleeding."
Crying, answering covid screening questions at the lab. Registering for bloodwork. Through tears, explaining that I don't have a SSN, answering questions about insurance. Crying, my face behind a mask. They call my name. "How are you doing?" Still crying. "Is this your first pregnancy?" Yes. "Congratulations!" Crying harder. Watching 8 tubes of blood leaving my arm. "Have a good day!" As tears stream down my cheeks and soak my mask. Blood trickles down my arm as I walk away. Did she forget to see if the bleeding had stopped as well as forget to look me in the eyes and see my pain?
Call if you start bleeding.
hCG 28328
Another draw in 2 days. 27451. Phone call: your hCG decreased. Call when you start bleeding.
I started spotting and called twice, 24 hours apart. The nurse left messages with the NP. And I never heard back.
Ultrasound a week later to confirm miscarriage. It looked the same as the week before. And any remaining shred of hope disintegrated in that moment. Yes, I'm having a miscarriage.
The doctor gave us three options: 1) Wait to bleed (up to 8 weeks). 2) Take medication to start the process. 3) Have a D&C. We picked option 2. I couldn't imagine waiting 8 weeks to bleed when the last week felt like eternity and option 3 felt too medical. I wanted to bleed and grieve at home. Call if you bleed more than a pad for more than two hours.
And then you're on your own.
It was Canadian Thanksgiving and I felt anything but grateful, except for the selfless, kind, and supportive husband beside me.
The bleeding slowed after 24 hours. And I thought it was over.
At home, we planted a tree, a lilac that blooms in May in honor of the little one we never got to meet.
October 14. Cooking supper at home with my husband. Smoke alarm blaring, our oven is smoking. I'm opening windows and he's fanning the smoke detector. I feel a gush and know the bleeding is back. I go to the bathroom and look down to see the remains of this pregnancy. The doctor didn't warn me, but the TTC community did: You may want to save the sac. I didn't flush. I washed my hands and left it there, sitting in the toilet water. I told my husband. And I felt like I wanted to save it, but felt shame and silliness as I figured out the logistics. We buried what remained under the lilac tree.
And then we discovered water in our basement and the sadness of the moment was stolen away as the need to deal with our house overwhelmed.
Weekly blood draws continue. 641. 95. 15. 6. Don't start trying again until you're negative so we know if it's the old pregnancy or the new. Finally on November 20, hCG 4.
There was a rainbow in the sky on the morning of the last blood draw. To me, a promise of our future healthy rainbow baby.
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