Coping with Miscarriage

How to grieve for the child you never met

Photo by Mareks Steins on Unsplash

I struggle to express grief in words. Can it ever be expressed that way? Grief is felt in your body, expressed in a sad song; an artist’s blue period. We’re not taught to grieve. Especially not for someone we’ve never met.

I was at work when I lost my first child. My stomach began to cramp and I knew something was wrong. I hid in the bathroom and cried.

“If you need to go, it’s okay.” I whispered, my hand placed over my stomach, the way pregnant mothers do. (Because love too is felt in our bodies, expressed in a protective gesture; an artist’s romantic period.)

I don’t know how, but I knew in that moment. My baby wasn’t going to stay.

I drove home and called my dad, an ex-nurse. He came and sat with me for the rest of the day while I miscarried, and held me while I cried.

I was only 7–8 weeks pregnant — a common time to miscarry, but that fact didn’t make it any easier.

The terrible, true odds

I had been warned. I went to the hospital for an official test as soon as I suspected I was pregnant. I sat in a nurse’s office to wait, alone, for the news.