You are not a failure, you have a voice, and you will get through this. It’s okay to feel vulnerable and it’s okay to feel hopeless. Surround yourself with love. Stay hopeful, stay positive, and stay strong. We will move on.
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I’ve experienced loss three different times. That’s three times of feeling like a failure and three times where I have felt completely alone. I’ve been told chemical miscarriages are common and that I’ll be okay. Being told this does not make it any easier and it sure as hell doesn’t make it hurt any less. It means nothing. I feel invalidated. I feel like my body has failed me and I feel completely hopeless. It still hurts. I’m still alone. But I have to move on.
When the third test came back positive, I smiled but I knew not to get too excited. I’ve been here before. But saying it out loud made it feel more real though. So I told my husband but held back my fear. I told loved ones but I remained hesitant. I knew my next step was to see a doctor, but I reminded myself that nothing good came from these visits. But I went anyway. And as I waited for the results, I tried to stay hopeful. I finally got the phone call hours later and I held my breath. It wasn’t good news. I was told it wasn’t a viable pregnancy due to declining numbers. I was devastated. I felt so alone. But I knew I needed to move on.
At first, I was in denial. Maybe the tests were wrong? But I’ve been through this before and I knew what was about to happen. I waited for the bleeding and I waited for the contractions to start. And they did. The physical pain eventually went away but the emotional pain stuck around for the long haul. For the next week, I was reminded of my loss every time I went to the bathroom. I was reminded of my loss every time I felt a cramp. I was reminded of my loss every second of every day. It hurt so much. I ignored my pain. I tried to pretend it never happened. I kept asking myself “How do I possibly move on?”
To this day, I feel hopeless, tired, and sick. I feel angry, moody, and irritable. I feel pessimistic about my chances of ever getting pregnant. Maybe I’m not supposed to be a mother? My body has failed me and it has failed my husband. Many offer unsolicited advice. They tell me it’s okay and to push through it. That it’ll happen when it’s supposed to happen. So I suppress my feelings, I push it under the rug, and I force a smile. I listen. I nod. I move on.
