Opening Up About My Miscarriage | Searra Liggett

It feels like I’ve been keeping in the worst secret of my life. I kept feeling like I couldn’t talk to anyone until I had screamed it from the rooftops, but I also just wanted to keep it to myself. So many things have drawn me to putting it here, in my safe little online space: not having to repeat my story over and over and so my readers know they are not alone if they are going through this too.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way. I had all of this planned, I had been dreaming about this for months (honestly well over a year, but only recently got the green light from my husband). I had lists upon checklists until our due date, and even the first few weeks after. I had already finished 3 pregnancy books and was running through a list of homebirth midwives or doulas in the area. I know, I KNOW, it’s common and it happens, but it was always one of those things that I thought would never happen to me. I mean I’m healthy, eat a whole foods (mostly) plant-based diet, I’m young, and I don’t know of any related stories in my family, so how would it happen to me?

But now I am 1 in 4.

After 4 months of trying (4 long months! we had our daughter on the first try), I screamed, jumping up and down, called my cousin (she’s like a sister, there’s no secrets), and began planning. My daughter and I worked diligently on preparing a scavenger hunt for when my husband came home! That’s a funny story all on its own… I know he was excited, but he had just had a draining day at work and the last thing he wanted to do was a scavenger hunt. Not only that, but I told him his birthday present came early and he fully expected a real present, not a pregnancy announcement.

From there we started planning everything. “Well we will probably call your family around this time for your birthday, so we can tell them then!” “I’ll be visiting my family around this time, so I can tell them too.” Gender reveal would be around our daughters 3rd birthday. Scheduled all my appointments. We were ready.

It was 4 days before our scheduled ultrasound, Monday, March 7th, 2022. I was going to the bathroom before bed and noticed a streak on my toilet paper. “It’s nothing,” I told myself, “just some spotting, it’s common”. Did I have spotting with our daughter? I don’t remember, but that’s okay, it’s normal.

I was already starting to bloat up. My cousin and I were talking about how cute my belly already was (meanwhile I was worried about how hungry I had already become and was worried about weight gain…). Looking back on it now, all of my worries were so silly. It didn’t matter if I was hungrier than normal, meant my body was changing. It didn’t matter if our daughter didn’t want a baby sibling, she’d learn to love it and they’d probably be best friends.

On Tuesday, I had a hunch something was happening. It was more than just streaks, but the color was still fairly dark at this point so I brushed it off again. I was trying to fold the laundry and every bend to pick up an article of clothing was painful. It was just minor cramping pain I told myself, also normal. Desperate to take my mind off of it, I packed our daughter in the car for a solo trip. We headed to the waterfalls and out into nature, my safe space.

By this point, I had confided in our daughter that I too was scared to have a baby. It meant I would have less time with her and I would have to share her. After confessing that, she was ready. Everything was about what she would share with the baby and anything we did, we did with the baby already. I asked her if she wanted to go for a walk and she would say “and the baby too?”

The day before our ultrasound. Wednesday. I filled the toilet 3 times over that morning… I couldn’t get myself off the floor. Our daughter walked in and asked what I was doing. I said I was crying. She proceeded to hug me and attempt to find ways to cheer me up, but mostly just be there for me. How can a 2.5 year old be so empathetic? That’s when I finally called the doctor. My husband was able to call in for an emergency and work the rest of the day from home.

Our appointment was at 1:40pm, the earliest they had, and the midwife proceeded to ask very gentle questions in the beginning. Once I admitted that I had filled the toilet multiple times over, she didn’t ask anymore after that. She said, “I’m sorry, yes that sounds like a miscarriage.” miscarriage. I didn’t need her to tell me what I already knew, but there it was.

Our midwife was amazing in such a dark time, she truly was. The first things out of her mouth was it is common, the woman in the next room just had one too, you are not alone. It wasn’t wasn’t anything you did, this just happens if the baby wasn’t developing correctly.” I know. I know, I know, I know, but this wasn’t how it was supposed to go!

Let me tell you, I’m so thankful for my body. She’s grew a beautiful, strong-willed daughter, she carries me for miles backpacking, and she was able to make a choice I never would have. She was able to grow this baby, even though I know it wasn’t biologically that yet it was to me, and she let it go because there was probably a chromosomal abnormality.

For over a year, I envied every woman I knew or saw who announced a pregnancy. I envied every pregnant belly. I would come home crying some days. But that envy never prepared me for the hate, the anger, or the sadness I would feel after a miscarriage. I know I should be happy for them. I don’t know the stories that got them to where they are, but that was supposed to be me! I don’t even know if it’s worse or better that we didn’t even get to see it, hear it’s heart beat, or get a due date. Now I’ll never know what might have been, but I still have an idea.

I was happy that our midwife left me without any intervention because if I had to choose, I’d rather let it naturally happen than have a doctor cut it out of me. I had read so many stories of woman afraid to flush their babies down the toilet. “Why? it’s not even a baby yet,” I thought to myself. Until Friday, I had just gotten home from a spontaneous trip to see my parents. I called them Thursday after they forgot to talk about said spontaneous trip, tried to explain to them what happened through sobs, we all immediately packed up the car and met at a hotel half way between us. When I returned home, I went to the bathroom and there the baby sat… I was frozen. I didn’t know what to do. This was it, this was my baby. Well, a bunch of cells and a barely formed placenta, but the baby was there somewhere. Do I wash it? Do we burry it? Well we still have at least 4 feet of snow, so probably not that one. I had to message my husband to come upstairs and he had to help me through it. I’m so thankful my body was able to do it, but I didn’t want to let it go. I didn’t want to admit it was real. But, it was real.

I’m getting better, truly. In the early days, I had a cloud that didn’t seem to leave, then I’d force myself to get out in nature and at some point the cloud would disappear. Grief isn’t linear, so I’m giving myself time. I know the pain will never truly go away, it will just get easier to manage. Some days I will be my normal self. Other days I will feel guilty for not mourning our would-be baby. Then there’s the occasional day that I still miss what would have been. And, that is okay. That’s how grief works and it could take anywhere from weeks to months for those hormones to level back out, to the healthiest way to heal is to let myself feel all of those.

The worst part is that our daughter still includes the baby in everything, so I’m constantly being reminded. I am hopeful for what our future will hold, but this isn’t a story I wanted to write. This isn’t a story I want to share. But it just feels wrong to not share it. I feel like I will never truly be me again or truly be able to show up as myself again if I don’t get it off my chest. So yeah, it happened to me too.

Not a Story I Expected To Be Telling