Miscarriage: A Chapter in a Childless Story
Trauma is a complicated topic but what matters in the context of this story is summed up by trauma researcher and therapist, Peter Levine, who says “trauma originates in the nervous system, not in the event.” So, what one person experiences as a trauma will not necessarily be a trauma for another. The event is not inherently traumatic. Early pregnancy loss is now widely understood to be common, however, that language bypasses the complexity of the experience. As if a loss earlier on that is also experienced by many, makes it less traumatic and painful.
Through a great deal of work, I learned that my miscarriage resulted in trauma that I would carry through my entire fertility journey and not resolve until years after I had reconciled with becoming permanently childless. I went through 7 years of trying to conceive; my traumatic miscarriage was the foundation of what I would carry with me along the way.
After over a year and a half of trying to conceive to no avail, I finally mentioned it to my family doctor. I was quickly referred to a fertility clinic and through routine scans and tests, an 18cm fibroid was discovered. The doctor told me the fibroid was preventing pregnancy and that everything else indicated I was fertile. He said that once it was removed, I was sure to get pregnant. So, I named my large fibroid, Myrtle. Fertile Myrtle.
After several hours of surgery and three months recovery, as soon as we were allowed to try again, I became pregnant. This was about two and half years after we started trying. The doctor was right, I was fertile and it was such a relief and so exciting! Nearly 3 years of trying but we finally made it through infertility.
I was amazed at how quickly I experienced pregnancy symptoms. I was unprepared that I would feel them to the extent that it did. I was nauseated, hungry all the time, exhausted, my breasts had doubled in size, and a flight of stairs winded me like I was climbing Everest. (A metaphor that strikes me now; at the time I had no idea I was still only in the middle of my ascent.) We began planning logistics of our jobs, where a crib would go, how we would make our life work now that we got to stop trying to make it happen. IT WAS HAPPENING!
Then came the day that my world crashed in on me. At the ultrasound clinic the protocol is that the pregnant person goes into the scan room alone and later the partner will be called in. The technician had trouble locating my baby externally. I have a retroverted uterus, so I am very used to this and wasn’t surprised that she needed to do an internal scan. She lubed me up and dug around for a considerable time.
Then I saw tears come to her eyes.
She excused herself to fetch another technician. How dare she have her emotions and leave me alone with mine, without an explanation? She and another returned and a second person also dug around, nodded at the first, and exited. The original tech told me that she was sorry but she couldn’t find a heartbeat. She said “clean yourself up and go get your husband and bring him back to this room. I’ll send a doctor in to discuss your results”.
“Clean yourself up.” Words that stung and rung in my ears for years to come.
She left and I began sobbing as I wiped away copious amounts of lubricant from my tummy down to my inner thighs. I got dressed and went to the waiting room to retrieve my husband. This was such a painful moment. To show up in that room with a face that had obviously been crying, in front of a dozen visibly pregnant women and their partners, just so I could bring my husband back and tell him what he already knew. He had watched many couples come and go in the time that I was in there. To be forced to do something my body was saying no, this isn’t safe right now. I had just found I had a missed miscarriage, I was left alone, then I had to show up in a public waiting room and reveal myself, then I had to break the news to my husband. My body experienced this as a trauma.
We went home and I had to wait another week to be certain it was truly a miscarriage and if I didn’t miscarry on my own, I would need to decide how I wanted to proceed. Fortunately, I already had a midwife that helped me navigate the system and this process. She helped me bypass the standard of returning to that same ultrasound location because I physically couldn’t bear it. I eventually had to throw out the clothes I wore that day because I was unable to look at them without associating them with the painful loss of my baby. Driving anywhere near that location had me panic stricken with flashbacks for years. All I could see was me standing in front of a room full of pregnant women while I just found out my baby died. Now I feel outrage for anyone who comes after me that this is standard protocol.
Thanks to my midwife intervening, I was sent to another location a week later when some amazing health care professionals specializing in reproductive health tended to me with great care. It was confirmed that my baby had died. Ultimately, I decided to take a drug that would induce labor. I couldn’t wait any longer carrying around death inside of me. It had been weeks at this point. I wasn’t prepared for what would come which I believe is a failure from medical professionals yet again. The day I took that, I had the most severe side effects that had me pass out on the living room floor in pain.
I had been asked to preserve any remains of the pregnancy for testing in bags that looked like they belonged at a crime scene. I was unable to do so because I was so severely sick. At the time I just thought, what’s the point, they are going to just tell me what I already know. What I would do to turn back time and just stick my hand in there so I could have had something to burn, bury, honor. Of course, I didn’t have any guidance, I was doing this alone in my home. Most women get to labor with midwives, doctors, and nurses to tend to them. I had my husband sitting helplessly there for moral support, in his own emotional pain, who was only instructed to call 911 if I hemorrhaged.
They weren’t sure if it worked because I was unable to save any tissue. So, I had to do it a second time. I had to psych myself up to go through it all over again. Fortunately, the second time around it was less painful and dramatic. I had a follow up at the hospital and there was no “product of conception” remaining. Now I was to get on with my life. Try again because it turns out I was fertile. No support provided, just assurance that now we know I can get pregnant and there is little to worry about.
Fast forward, that was the only time I would be pregnant, and I would move on to many more years of trying and fertility treatments, none ever resulting in a pregnancy. I was most definitely not fertile and would never have an explanation as to why not. The experience of pregnancy loss is often layered with nuance and details beyond ‘it’s really common’ and ‘at least you know you can get pregnant.’ The experience can be overwhelmingly traumatic. It was for me.
Tanya Hubbard, RTC (she/her)
Therapeutic Counsellor and Coach
