Sorry I'm Late—I'm Having a Miscarriage

I fell pregnant both times the same way I fell in love—quickly. It was unexpected, as much as a pregnancy from unprotected sex can be unexpected. We quickly got used to the idea. It had worked out perfectly. We always discussed having several kids. We wanted them close in age. I would go on a new maternity leave practically the next day after this one ended. How lucky. What a gift from the universe.

The more time I spent with the thought, the more I knew I wanted another baby, greedily.

It didn’t even occur to me that it might not work out. When I was pregnant with Bean, I was terrified of everything but my own shadow. I checked the miscarriage reassurance calculator practically daily. I was praying and hoping. With this pregnancy, I got cocky, or perhaps I simply didn’t have time to worry. In my mind, this baby was a done deal.

We had to postpone the dating scan a couple of weeks due to travels, so I was about 8 weeks along when I came with my husband and our 11-month-old daughter to my first appointment. “Look, there is a baby,” he told her, pointing at the screen, happy and excited. Bean smiled. The doctor was quiet.

“It looks smaller than it should,” she said finally.

I knew then.

She suggested I come back in a week. Perhaps I got the date of my period wrong (I didn’t); perhaps I ovulated impossibly late (I didn’t). This false hope was annoying. I know how to count. I know when I had sex. But what was there to do?

A week later, the result was, of course, the same: no growth, no heartbeat, even though she tried to find it persistently.

“No doctor wants to abort a wanted baby,” she said.

I did not know that a body could carry a pregnancy long after it was viable, for months even. I was advised not to take this route, not to let nature take its course due to a risk of infection. The other options were pills or surgery.

Only hospitals with inpatient care are allowed to perform abortions in the Czech Republic, and so I went to one a few days later. I was administered two pills vaginally and given two more to use at home (for free¹ and with zero issues, thought I did have to wait for a couple of hours). A few hours later, I met with a girlfriend and our daughters at the playground. Five minutes later, I bled through my jeans. God, there was a lot of blood, and clots, large as the clementines.

Abortion is physically painful. I did not know that. I also didn’t know that your uterus contracts, you can bleed for weeks, and it might not work the first time. At my checkup two weeks later, I was given more pills as not all tissue had left the body. I am still bleeding, three weeks later, though much less. It hurts much less now, thinking about it, too.

It’s not easy for me to admit, but I was horribly annoyed with my body. Why was it not strong enough to sustain this baby? And if I had to have a miscarriage, why couldn’t I have had a normal one? Why did I have to have a missed miscarriage? Why did I have to abort a baby I desperately wanted? It felt like a betrayal, which is a silly thing to type. It’s just nature. And it is not my fault.

The worst thing about miscarriage, in my opinion (apart from a lost life²), is the lost life - the one you create in your head. I spent weeks imagining what the future would look like, how Bean would react to a sibling, how we would all play together and cuddle and travel, would it be a girl or a boy. How should we call them? What should be their nickname? My husband suggested Bean O2 ( I know, not surprising the baby decided to bail on us.)

I know I am impossibly lucky to have a healthy baby. I feel lucky, in my heart and in my bones. I hope to have more children in the future, if nature permits.

Right now, my heart is full.

I’m writing because miscarriage happens to about 20 in every 100 pregnancies, and yet we talk about it like it’s a secret, because I want every woman to know that this is not a failure, it’s not a punishment, an it’s most certainly not something to be ashamed of. It happens. It happens too often, to some more than to others. It sucks. But a lot of things in life suck royally, and still life is beautiful and precious, and we are all so lucky to be alive.

I’m writing because I need to give this grief a shape, because if I don’t put words to it, it will live in my hips, in my lower back, in the tightness of my throat, because writing is the only way I know how to make sense of the senseless.

You are not alone.

If you’d like to talk, I’m here.

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1. From what I gather, only a medically necessary abortion is covered by the state insurance.

2. I am very much pro choice. I am not religious. In my personal life, however, in a very woo woo way, I quite like the concept of the soul, so I chose to believe this soul had other plans.