In my life, I’ve had 3 miscarriages. Two after my son Asher and one after Declan. I woke up this morning with an urge to write about it.
I had the personality type that would think nothing wrong could ever happen to them. Yes, people got a divorce or had children die but those things didn’t happen to me.
I was wrong. In 2010, when I was 8 weeks along with my fifth baby, I went to the Dr. for a check up. This was a baby we had been hoping and praying for for the past two and a half years. Finally I was pregnant and beyond thrilled.
At the first ultrasound, the nurse informed me that there was no heartbeat. I was in such shock that I did not believe her and became very angry that she would lie to me like that. I didn’t know that anger could come so soon in the grief process- a twin with denial.
When the Dr. came in and asked me if I wanted to come in the next day for a D+C, I was livid. Who was he to make a decision so quickly (this was a Dr I had never met before and I felt uncomfortable with). I told him that I was getting a second opinion. He asked where. I replied the hospital next door and left for another ultrasound there.
We hadn’t told anyone of our pregnancy yet and I had to make a few phone calls and let people know that yes, we were expecting and no, it didn’t look like it was going to happen. I felt a calm sense of peace but was still scared and nervous. I had become so attached to that baby.
The Hospital was on my side and said it was too early to tell anything. I felt supported yet still doubtful. A visit to a recommended Dr. a week later revealed that I did have a miscarriage. And I went through the steps needed.
It broke my heart and I realized something. If that could happen me, anything. I could be a victim in the Holocaust. My family could get die in a car accident.
And I realized. Life is short. Too short to take anything for granted.