When our 17-month-old son, Jack, passed away in 2013, it was a tragedy that drew the attention of both local and national media. Our neighbors even reached out to a community access channel, seeking support for our family during that unbearable time. We received heartfelt messages, cards, and notes from strangers who reached out to share their love and compassion. In those dark days, the overwhelming support from our community reminded us of the beauty and strength of the human spirit.
Losing Jack meant that all of our dreams for his future and our family were shattered—it was devastating. About a year later, we found out we were expecting our “rainbow” baby. I discovered those two pink lines on our wedding anniversary, and despite my fears, I felt exhilarated at the thought of hope returning to our lives.
For the first time since my son’s passing, I had something to dream about. The world around me felt brighter; the birds sang louder, the sun shone more brightly, and the flowers seemed to emit sweeter scents. I began to emerge from the fog of grief, realizing that life still continued in its beautiful chaos.
However, that joy was short-lived. I started spotting and, although I reassured myself that it had happened during my first pregnancy without issue, I still had tests done to check my hormone levels. The back-and-forth trips to the lab were exhausting, and I found myself anxiously waiting for that phone call.
In stark contrast to the outpouring of support I had received when Jack died, my miscarriage felt isolating. By the time the nurse called, I already feared the worst. Hearing her say “not viable” and “low hCG levels” was like a punch in the gut. I frantically searched online, desperate for a glimmer of hope, convinced that surely I couldn’t be facing another loss after already losing my son.
The emotions were overwhelming—anger, sadness, anxiety—but above all, I felt incredibly alone. Very few people knew about my pregnancy, and this loss felt so different from the first. There were no supportive cards or comforting words this time around.
October is pregnancy and infant loss awareness month, and I’ve grown weary of keeping my miscarriage a secret. I refuse to feel isolated any longer. I lost not only a child but also the hope for a brighter future. I was plunged back into darkness, reminiscent of losing Jack, but this time, it felt like a silent suffering. Society often shies away from discussing miscarriage, expecting us to keep quiet about our pregnancies until we reach the so-called “safe zone.” I understand the reasoning behind this but it doesn’t make it any less painful.
I usually only mention my miscarriage in passing at my midwife appointments when they ask how many pregnancies I’ve had. So here it is: I have had five pregnancies, one of which ended in miscarriage. I have brought four beautiful children into this world. One of them is now an angel, while three are thriving at home. In an ideal world, untouched by tragedy or statistics, I should have five children. But alas, this world is far from perfect. Miscarriage rates range from 10 to 15 out of every 100 pregnancies, and if you’re reading this and have experienced a similar loss, know that you are not alone.
No one should have to grieve in silence. We are mothers, partners, daughters, and friends, navigating the challenges of motherhood together.
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In summary, the journey through loss and hope is a complex one, filled with emotions that can often feel isolating. However, acknowledging our experiences and sharing our stories can help create a supportive community where we no longer have to suffer in silence.
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