WonderBaby was conceived in February of 2005. When those pink lines doubled up on the test stick at the end of that month, I was elated.
Cautiously elated. I tested again later that night, and then again the next morning, and then again that evening, and the following morning, and so on and so forth for about a week. I did this because I knew better than to take it for granted that two lines on a stick would guarantee a full-term pregnancy. I knew this because in December, I had also seen two lines on a stick.
That December – December 2004 – I was pregnant for about a week. Or, rather, I was pregnant for a couple of weeks, but only knew that I was pregnant for about a week. Then, it ended. Just like that. My doctor said that it seemed to have been a ‘chemical’ pregnancy – a pregnancy that almost happened, but sorta didn’t. A pregnancy that just didn’t take. This was supposed to be a comfort, I suppose – the message was that it didn’t really count as a pregnancy, nothing had really happened. The initial chemical reactions of maternal body to the conjunction of an egg and sperm had begun, but the egg and the sperm hadn’t been able to make a go of it, and so everybody called it a day before anything had really even started. Kind of like a relationship that never really starts because both parties realize over their first dinner date that they have no future together. Nothing to lose sleep over, wasn’t meant to be, thank goodness that we realized it before anyone got attached.
Except that – I was already attached. It was only a week, but I was attached. Maybe it was only the smallest kind of attachment, maybe I was only attached to the idea of pregnancy, but still. It was attachment, and it hurt when it went away. There wasn’t much comfort in the knowledge that nothing much had happened yet, or in the knowledge that this ‘happens all of the time.’ (My doctor told me that before early-testing became available, most women would never know that they had had a chemical pregnancy. They would just think that they had had a particularly heavy and painful period. So, really – this was a pregnancy that I might never have even known about. Nothing to mourn then, right?)
All that I knew was, losing the pregnancy hurt. Even at only one week along, it hurt. And that hurt, it was a lonely hurt. My husband shared my disappointment, but he hadn’t had a chance to wrap his head around the pregnancy in the first place, so it remained abstract for him. No one else really understood.
Which is why, now, I think that it is so important that we wrap our arms – real or virtual – around any woman that we know suffers this kind of loss. That we let her know that we understand her pain. That we let her know that we understand that regardless of how long one loves a child-to-be – regardless of whether that child-to-be is only ever a faint promise, regardless of whether that life barely effects a whisper upon our existence – the loss of that love, that promise, that whisper, cuts deep into the soul. It’s so important that we let her know that we know that. That we let her know she’s not alone.
Please, go and give my dear, dear friend Sunshine a warm virtual hug. Surround her with understanding and love. Applaud her as she pulls herself out of the fog. Let her know that you understand. Let her know that in sharing her pain, she helps other women work through their own.
Let her know that she’s not alone.
When I was 36 weeks pregnant with my 2nd, I had an email from a very good friend of mine in another city. She had lost her first baby at 13 weeks. I did not begin to know what to say or do. I felt guilty myself for being pregnant (and by that time, very focused on *having* the baby). In the end, I decided honesty was the best policy. I told her how very sorry I was for her. I also told her that I knew I couldn’t understand because I hadn’t experienced anything like it myself. I told her I was there for her in any way she needed.
Turns out, what she needed most for the next 3 months was distance and silence. It just hurt her too much to live in her own grief and see my joy at a beautiful, perfect, healthy baby girl. She stuck close to her friends who’d lost babies, and within a few months, she was back online with me. Within a year, she was pregnant again and nine months later gave birth to a beautiful, perfect, healthy baby girl of her own.
I know she still grieves the loss of her first baby – I don’t think anything can erase that pain, even the subsequent birth of a child.
Oh, Catherine, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. I can only imagine how much that must hurt – and even the imagining of it is painful. Everything I’ve read has said that we should take care to grieve such a loss as much as we need to, because even if the actual lima bean of a life wasn’t more than a tiny mass of cells, it’s still a loss. A loss of a dream, of possibilities and plans, of a life we were beginning to love already, before we even met. Hugs to you, and a thanks for sending more love and sympathy and empathy to Sunshine, who is a darling and deserves every ounce of support we can give her and more.
I saw Sunshine’s post. It was the first time I went to her blog. I was prepared to introduce myself, but, when I saw what the nature of the post was, I decided not to comment. I didn’t want to impose. I never leave a post without commenting, but it didn’t feel right…. Thank you for giving me the “go-ahead” to offer my sympathies. Because I felt for her. I wanted to say something to her. But, I didn’t know how appropriate it was for me to do so.
As always, thank you for your own honesty. That must have been a very difficult time for you….I’m sorry you had to go through it.
Thank you Catherine for your understanding and your hugs and support. Thank you so much. I don’t have the words.
oh my chest feels heavy with the grief of remembering being in that lost and lonely,heartwrenching space.i have had a few miscarriages.but the last one was terrible.bleeding that wouldn’t stop.2 visits to emergency,one because my family dr.scheduled me some tests they do there.ultrasounds,blood work,etc.waiting for 8 hours to get the results of the bloodwork and being send home to just let my body rid itself of that tiny life still forming.for 13 days after that visit everytime i used the bathroom a part of my baby came out.so when all was said and done i went from the joy of expecting another child to the agony of loss.it’s not important how long you were pregnant,its the expectation of joy and love and promisethat you feel.i am so sorry for the loss of you and your friend.heal fast heal well.
it’s amazing how many people have actually gone through this. i can’t relate….but i have two sister in laws who’ve had several miscarriages and many many close friends.
hugs to all of you who’ve had to fall in love with something and have to mourn the loss all in the same few hours, days, weeks. i imagine it’s incredibly tough.
I have never experienced such a loss, personally, but I have stood beside my two good friends – one who lost a baby at 9 weeks in and one who lost a baby at full term (39+ weeks). I cannot say that my friend who carried her baby all the way to 39 weeks grieved differently than my friend who had a miscarriage in her first trimester. They both grieved hard and long over the loss of a child. It was devestating for each of them and so difficult to watch. I tried very hard to be there for these women who meant the world to me. I stood silently by willing them to know I was there to offer whatever comfort they needed from me. Sometimes I knew instinctively that they needed me to stay away – I knew that seeing me with my healthy babies was too much for them to bear. So, I sent notes and flowers, reminding them often that I was thinking of them and that my friendship was waiting for them when and however they needed it. It was such a difficult time. I’m so sorry for anyone who has to suffer through the loss of a child. My thoughts and prayers are with you and your friend Sunshine.
Joanne
You’re right – the term “chemical pregnancy” isn’t comforting – it’s dismissive. After my miscarriage (which occurred on very much the same timetable as yours), I felt so embarrassed at all the people I had told about the pregnancy. I valued their support, and I did feel that they understood, but I still felt this crippling sense of embarrassment, as if I somehow should have known, as if it had been foolishly optimistic to suppose that I could actually be pregnant.
I had the same experience. I had one day to fall in love with the idea of it before it ended. I have had another child since and have thought about how different things would have been but am so happy with how they are that I realize it all happened for a reason. And that reason is my 3.5 year old daughter.
Lots of love to those of you who have gone or are going through it. You are definitely not alone.