This week, we had our first appointment with our Fertility Specialist since this happened. I’ll go into more detail about the appointment soon, but one of the most significant things that Dr D said to us was: ‘You had a miscarriage at five weeks’. I can’t tell you how important it was to hear that. It wasn’t a ‘failed cycle’ or a ‘chemical pregnancy’.
Hello. My name is Bunless, and I had a miscarriage.
In hearing the words from an expert, I feel validated for mourning. And to be told we were actually pregnant – that is something in itself. It doesn’t stop the hurting, of which there is still truckloads, but it does ease the grieving a little.
I feel a lot better than I did almost a month ago. Which isn’t hard. What has replaced that sharp, stabbing feeling of bitter loss is something that is maybe even more difficult to manage.
It’s the white-noise of fear. A low hum of anxiety that sits behind the rolling pace of everyday life. ‘What if we never do this?’ ‘What if we are childess forever?’ I can’t shake this rising feeling of panic and loss of control. Every month that goes by seems to be another month we’ve missed out. It sounds melodramatic, I know. Yet I feel like everything else is on hold just for a baby. This is all we want. And we can’t get it. It feels like there’s nothing we can do.
My mother put it well: we’re running and running along the platform trying to catch that train. We never quite make it. And the only thing we can do is just keep running. It’s starting to feel like our own quiet purgatory.