It’s the little things.

It’s amazing. The smallest things that went unnoticed before my miscarriage now carry the power to reduce me to tears.

A baby’s laugh. A commercial featuring chubby-cheeked, wobbly little toddlers running around a living room. A mother planting a gentle kiss on her newborn baby’s forehead.

These images, these sounds can catch me completely off guard, and make me feel like my world is tumbling in around me. In these moments, I look down at my belly, which should be swollen to the point of discomfort. I should be waddling like a duck. I should be wincing as my baby gouges me in the ribs, kicks me in places that I never thought I could be kicked before. I look longingly down at my belly which is, by no means a flat thing, but is not round as it should be.

My due date is next weekend. Next weekend. How did it get here so quickly? How did it get here at all? For the past 9 months, it’s been so far in the distance, I suppose I never really thought about dealing with it before. But here it comes, looming ever closer. I wonder sometimes if once it’s passed, the pain will lessen. I wonder if once it is behind me, I will stop looking down at my stomach with a wistful gaze….

I just heard an old man say, “Hope springs eternal” on the TV. I don’t know how that became my mantra, but I find myself using that quote everywhere.

I’m ready to be a mommy. I’m ready to hold my baby, to love my baby, to be a mother to my baby. I want my babies so much. I love them, all of them, and they aren’t even conceived yet.

Sometimes this grief feels like it’s going to swallow me whole. I feel like my heart is so swollen; it’s a wonder that it hasn’t burst. My eyes are so heavy with tears, I am amazed that I can keep them open.

Sometimes, all I can do is hang my head, hug myself, and cry.

Just cheer up already.

I cannot shake this sadness/disappointment I’m feeling. I know AF is coming. I still have dull cramps, and my cervix is slowly starting to open up. I’m out this cycle; I just know it.

I’m so sad. I had such high hopes for this month. I felt like we timed everything right, I’d had a good feeling right from the start; my temps were doing well and I felt like I had some promising IPS. I guess not, though. I know you’re technically not out until AF shows, but I feel like she’s coming.

I wish she’d just show up, and put me out of my misery. I wish that my temps weren’t still high, giving me some kind of stupid false hope. I wish my cervix would open, my cramps would come full force, and she’d just come already. Either that, or I wish the cramps would go away, my cervix would close, and this feeling of AF coming any time now would stop. At least then maybe my hope could be a little more warranted.

I know this is only our 3rd cycle trying and that I shouldn’t be so mopey and let down. Many others have been trying a lot longer than we have. I’m just so sad. I miss my baby so much, and I want to be pregnant. Women all around me are getting pregnant, and I’m left spinning my wheels, wanting our baby. I love my children so much already, and they’re not even conceived yet.

People keep telling me it will happen when it’s meant to happen. Well, when is that? Why can’t it be “meant to happen” now? Why do I have to wait, and want for so long, when others get theirs so easily?

When will my heart stop hurting like this? When will the sadness go away?

I need to stop feeling sorry for myself. I just can’t shake this melancholy, this want to just go home, be by myself, and not talk to anyone. I just want to go home and sleep.

A little time to cool down.

On my way home from work, I blasted some Coldplay, cried my face off, and now I feel a bit better.

I’m just so, so tired of wishing that I was pregnant. It makes me so sad sometimes, that I wonder how much sadness and longing one person can feel. My belly should be gigantic. I should be about ready to pop.

I know I’ve said these things a million times, and saying them doesn’t change the fact that I’m not pregnant. I lost my baby.

I was really holding out a lot of hope for this cycle. I had a good feeling right from the start. I know that I’m not officially out yet, but these cramps I’ve been having all day have been going on too long to be implantation cramps, I think. I think I’m out, and it’s just a matter of days until AF shows her head.

My anger has passed, and has been replaced by sadness, longing, jealousy, and just… I want it to be my turn. I miss my baby so much. I loved him so much.

Hope springs eternal..

In the water

It honestly feels sometimes like every single woman on the face of this earth is pregnant, but me.

I was wandering around Facebook and was looking at some new pictures that the little sister of an old friend of mine had added, and lo and behold, saw my old friend Michelle posing, pregnant, with her husband.

It just seems like everyone is getting their babies but me. Why did I have to lose mine? I should be having my baby shower, I should be getting huge and fat, feeling baby kick.. I should be due in about 6 weeks. But I’m not. I’m not, I’m not, I’m not.

And I frigging hate it. Why did this have to happen to me? I am not one for self pity, but this is just one thing I can’t shake. It’s been 6 months since I lost the baby, and I’m still sad about it. I still think, “Why?” I still get sad when I see pregnant women. When someone I know gets pregnant, it still hurts.

When is it going to be my turn? For REAL this time? Not, “Oh! You’re pregnant. Wait, nevermind, no you’re not. BACK TO SQUARE ONE.”

What Not To Say

“Well thank goodness it was early on in the pregnancy.”

“At least you know you can get pregnant!”

“Everything happens for a reason.”

“I’m sure it was for the best.”

“It just was not meant to be.”

“I’m sure next time will be fine!”

“Just relax. It will happen when it’s meant to happen.”

These are just some of the things that you really should not ever say to a woman who has experienced a miscarriage. While you mean well, and we do acknowledge that and appreciate it for what it is, these words are not helpful, constructive, and they do not make us feel better. Because I guarantee for each of these phrases, our thoughts will protest and struggle against them.

Here are some examples of how the post-miscarriage mind works:

“Well thank goodness it was early on in the pregnancy.”
Yes! Thank goodness, indeed. It’s not like I LOVED the little baby growing inside me as soon as I saw a positive test result, no. Thank goodness I didn’t get attached.

“At least you know you can get pregnant!”
Yes, right! Now all we need to worry about is staying pregnant. Phew! What a relief!

“Everything happens for a reason.”
Really? What’s the reason that this happened? Can you tell me, because I cannot figure it out. I’ve tried, but nothing happens.

“I’m sure it was for the best.”
Hm. Yes. Finding out that my baby was dead, and going through the physical pain of losing said baby was for the best. Thank GOD we didn’t have to go through the alternative. You know, nine months of bliss, the birth of our child, the happiness that followed.. That would have been just awful.

“It just was not meant to be.”
Why the hell not?

“I’m sure next time will be fine!”
Really? Because I’m not. What if next time is not fine? What if this happens again? How can you be so sure?

“Just relax. It will happen when it’s meant to happen.”
First off, don’t tell me to relax. You try relaxing during, and after a miscarriage, and see how well you do. Second, what if it’s never “meant” to happen? How is that fair?

So you see, while you may mean well in saying these things to us, they usually are not received as well as you may think. Sure we’ll smile, and we’ll nod and agree with you, but inside we are screaming these things to you. We don’t want your words of wisdom, or advice. We don’t want to know just how common miscarriages are while you tick off the names of women you know who have had them. In lieu of these phrases, you could try ones such as these:

“I heard about your miscarriage. I’m so sorry. How are you and your husband doing?”

“I’m so sorry to hear about your loss. If there is anything at all I/we can do for you, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“I heard you lost the baby. You must be feeling very sad right now. Would you like to talk about anything?”

“I heard about what happened. I just wanted to let you know I’m sorry, and that this really sucks and you don’t deserve it at all.”

Sometimes, all we need is acknowledgement of our loss, and our pain. I think that a lot of the time a miscarriage is overlooked by many people as a loss that is not valid, because most of the time it happens to early in the pregnancy. For me, one of the most helpful things anyone ever offered me in response to my bad news was a simple, “Man. That sucks.”
Because you know what?

It does suck. A lot. When you are planning for, and anticipating a baby the moment you find our you are pregnant, you are in love. It doesn’t matter if you are pregnant for 3 weeks, 5 weeks, 7 weeks, or 18 weeks. You love your child immediately, and losing that child is traumatic. Not only do your emotions run wild, but your hormones do as well. You have to deal with the fact emotionally that your baby has died, and to top that all off, your body has to deal with it as well. Your pregnancy is supposed to be a time of joy, and of a shared love with your partner. There is, after all, a life growing inside of your body. While I was pregnant, I smiled. All the time. Every time I was at the store and passed a baby section, I would take my husband’s hand, and place my other on my belly, dreaming of what our baby would look like. Thinking of the things that I couldn’t wait to buy him, or her. Waiting anxiously for the days when people could tell I was pregnant, and I could buy all of those cute maternity shirts I had been eyeing.

I would dream of the day that I gave birth, and met my much anticipated little one. I would spend my lunch breaks thinking about what he or she would look like as a toddler, as a child; as a teenager. I dreamed of the endless possibilites that lay before my little baby…

And when you find out that you lose that baby, before you even got a chance to meet them, it hurts. It is like a little piece of your soul is ripped unexpectedly from your body. I never even officially found out if my little one was a boy, or a girl (though I had a feeling that he was a boy). Now, instead of marking off the days of how much longer I have before I meet my little one, I wistfully eye the calendar every Saturday and think, “20 weeks. You should be 20 weeks.”

I should be feeling my baby move inside of me. We would be finding out the gender soon, and be able to call our baby by the name we’d chosen. But none of those things are happening for us now. And that. Sucks.

There is always hope. I have happiness in my life, and I don’t dwell on my miscarriage every moment. But I do think about that little baby that I’ll never get to meet every single day of my life. I still get sad. I still count the weeks that pass that my belly remains the same size instead of swelling. I am back at square one of hoping, wishing, and wanting for my baby. I love my children so much already, and I have not even met them yet. And I am not the only woman out there who feels like this. Chances are that girl you know from work, your sister or your aunt, even your mother, have all felt the same way. A woman who loses their baby before they get to meet them has a special kind of pain. It is a pain that, unless you have experienced it, you cannot understand.

So thank you for trying, really. We do know that people often fall short of what they want to say when faced with someone who has just had a miscarriage. The best thing that you can do, honestly, is to just be there with an open ear, and a dry shoulder for us to cry on.

Because believe me, we’re going to need it.


When your goals seem far away..
When it’s hard to breathe..
When the tears well up in your eyes thinking of your loss, the absence..
Keep your eyes on your goal…
Your health.. Your body.. Your baby, depends on this.
Remember, it will be yours someday.. Someday soon..
To the one that I had… I loved you from the moment I knew you were there. I proudly exclaimed when you were the size of a poppyseed, and excitedly updated when you grew. And then, you stopped growing. I loved you as much then as I would if you’d have taken your first breath… I miss you every single day.
And to my ones that aren’t here yet… The love you will find in my arms, and in the arms of your father will be overwhelming, and amazing. We have not met you yet, and already we love and want you so, so much. I cannot wait to meet you, little ones. However many of you there may be.

Calming down

I feel kind of sorry for anyone who may stumble upon this blog. I probably sound like a crazy woman. Some manic, bi-polar nutcase who goes from posting hysterical blogs about jealousy and anger toward pregnant women, to posting something like this. I apologize if you’re reading this and are frightened. It’ll be ok, I swear.

It’s time for some positive thinking. I’ve been trying really hard lately not only to renovate my body, but my mind and my soul as well. I am trying very hard to not be a negative thinker; and to appreciate the good I have in my life. So, here goes.

  • I am alive.
  • I am married to an amazing, funny, caring, sweet, protective, loyal man.
  • I am loved by him, and so many other people.
  • I have been doing very well in my exercise and nutrition goals.
  • I can feel the beginnings of tightening in my abs. My arms are more defined.
  • I’m about to eat my lunch. Food always makes me happy.
  • I was blessed, albeit briefly, with the presence of my very own personal miracle. I will never forget the joy I felt all the time when I was pregnant. I mean, all the time, I was happy.
  • I am grateful for the opportunity to become a stronger woman.
  • I have a magazine sitting beside me just waiting to be read (I love magazines).
  • The new Stephenie Meyer book is coming out in May.
  • I have a week of vacation scheduled in June, and another in September.
  • Spring is coming.

There we go. I feel better already.


It’s not like me to be this upset at someone’s good news. I’m sure R is thrilled to be pregnant, but this is one case where I cannot find it in myself to be happy for her. This hurts me. Another coworker of mine, C, is around 12 weeks, I think, and I’m ecstatic for her.. She and her husband have been trying for almost 3 years to get pregnant, and she finally is. That’s wonderful..

This girl, on the other hand.. I’m just having such a hard time with this. I wouldn’t wish a miscarriage on anyone, don’t get me wrong. It just seems so unjust, and so unfair that she, who rushed into a relationship, a marriage, and a pregnancy, is pregnant and Josh and I… We waited longer than we wanted to, to make sure we were 100% ready, and we lose our precious baby. I know that our miscarriage was “easier” than a lot of others.. It only took us one try to get pregnant, we didn’t struggle with infertility. I lost the baby early, at 7 weeks, and I miscarried naturally and completely, without any complications. Sometimes I don’t feel like I have a right to complain about my miscarriage, but damnit, this hurts. I feel like stamping my feet, and declaring to the world how unfair this is, like a child.

I feel guilty for having these feelings. Who am I to say she is undeserving of a child? It’s not my place to have these feelings. But I just cannot help it. I miss my baby so much, I wanted that baby for so long. I still want that baby. I’m trying so hard to focus on my weight loss, to think about my body and how good it feels right now; how good it feels to be getting back into shape. Thinking about the muscles that are becoming more prominent in my arms, in my abs.. The fact that my pants are almost falling off of me. But right now, my brain is stubbornly wanting to cling to this girl being pregnant, and I just cannot stop crying.

I know that most likely, no one ever reads this. And that’s okay. Sometimes, I just need to vent, to write, to be angry and sad, and jealous without judgement. It’s not like me to feel like this. I try so hard to be happy, to be grateful for what I have and not what I don’t.. But this is just hitting me really, really hard.


I know I’m posting in this a lot today. Maybe it’s because this is the first blog I’ve had that I know my family (specifically my mother) doesn’t read, so I feel free to rant and post, etc.

I belong to a group on iVillage known as Trying To Conceive After Miscarriage. The women there are awesome, and have been a source of comfort for me through everything.

Well, this one girl Sharon just posted that a fellow member of her Expecting Club (and TTCAM Graduate) had a miscarriage. This is her third.


Why does this happen? Why is it okay for a woman who smokes crack, drinks, and does other drugs to get pregnant without complications, while women like me, and all the other women on this board have to suffer loss, after loss, have fertility problems, and just.. It’s so unfair. I hate it. I hate that anyone has to go through this pain, and this suffering. I’m a believer that every experience in life is worth something, but this is so painful.

*sighs* I just hate it, especially when it happens to a woman who has already been through it once.


I have confessions to make about my miscarriage.

When I got pregnant, the only regret that I had was that I wasn’t a healthier weight, and more in shape. I remember vocalizing this. And I confess that there is a part of me that wonders if someone heard my lament, and decided to give me that chance to lose weight by taking away my baby.

I confess that I wonder if I am too negative, and that I don’t treat others with enough positivity. I have wondered if that negativity came back around and was a cause for my miscarriage.

I confess that I feel guilty that my body couldn’t support my baby.

I confess that I wonder if my baby could feel the love that I had for him. I confess that I wonder if he felt pain when my body rejected him.

I confess that I feel immensely guilty for flushing my baby down the toilet when I miscarried him. Like a fish. I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want to save the “products of conception” as people so eloquently put it, because I couldn’t bear the thought of keeping my baby in the refrigerator like a science project.

I confess that I wish I’d have been able to look at my baby when I miscarried him for longer. I couldn’t stand to look.

I confess that sometimes I feel like I hurt worse than anyone else that’s suffered this kind of loss. I know that I don’t, but sometimes I feel like I do.

I confess that I worry that I won’t be as excited the next time I get pregnant.

I confess that I get irritated with pregnant women who complain about how horrible being pregnant is. You think that throwing up, swollen feet, sleepless nights are bad? Try seeing your baby’s heartbeat, and then three days later, suffering horrible cramps, accompanied by huge clots of blood and tissue, and then wiping when you go to the bathroom only to find the embryo on your toilet paper. Nausea and weight gain doesn’t seem so bad now, does it?

I confess that I feel a twinge of jealousy every time I see a pregnant woman. Every. Single. Time.

I confess that I don’t want advice, words of wisdom, or any of that shit from my friends who are pregnant, have been pregnant without complications, or have new babies. I don’t want to hear any of that crap from women who have not been in my shoes before. If you have not ever lost a child, or had a miscarriage, then don’t tell me “Everything happens for a reason,” or “It will happen when it’s meant to happen,” or, “God doesn’t make mistakes”. I understand that your intentions are good, but honestly, just keep it to yourself.

I confess that I worry if I am physically able to carry a healthy baby to term, even though I’ve only suffered one miscarriage, and really have no reason to worry that.

I confess that I miss you every single day. Every day. You were only with me for a few weeks, but I loved you just as much as if you had been there the whole nine months.