Invisible Loss


A word no one wants to say. A feeling no one wants to know. A club no one want to join.

Yet, here I am. Feeling the immediate aftereffects of my second miscarriage. My first miscarriage was very difficult. It swept the rug out under my feet. It took the breath out of my lungs. However, my second miscarriage has taken more than that. It has taken my hope.

As awful as the first miscarriage was, I thought of it as a very terrible fluke – it happens and it happens quite often, next time will be ok. Afterwards, I had hope and statistics on my side. The second pregnancy should surely be ok. I read that only about 5% of women have two miscarriages in a row. However cautious I was in this second pregnancy, I was still hopeful and sure this one would be the one. This one would go all the way. This one, will actually result in the baby my boyfriend and I want so bad.

Sitting here now, it’s quite the opposite. Unlike the first miscarriage, I have no burning desire to want to get pregnant again. I mean, I do. In the back of my mind, I do want to be pregnant again. But I have no desire in the moment of actually doing it. Right now, I have no hope the third pregnancy will be any different than these first two. Actually, I take that back. I never want to be pregnant again. I want kids, but wish I could skip the pregnancy part. Gone are the days of excitement in being pregnant. Gone are the days of seeing a positive pregnancy test and associating it with an actual baby. The innocent, wide-eyed wonder of being pregnant, making plans with excitement, discussing baby names is forever gone and will never be again.

I am the pariah among the people within my world. I am the only one who has had a miscarriage. No one can relate. They all try to be supportive and helpful, but their words hurt.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get pregnant again”

“At least you can get pregnant”

“It wasn’t a real baby yet anyway”

“It could have been worse and you could have lost it later in the pregnancy”

“Try not to be negative”

“Something was probably wrong with it anyway”

This baby, these babies, were real to me. They were my unborn children. When I lost them, I also lost my dreams. My dreams of our family. My dreams of our future. I not only lost my future children, I lost the reality of becoming a mother and all that accompanies it. I lost what could have been.

When someone asks me how I am doing, I lie. I doubt they really want to know the depths of this blackness. Even short little glimpses into it makes them uncomfortable. I feel like I have no one to really and honestly talk to. My boyfriend tries to be supportive and I love him for it, one of a million things I love about him and am thankful for. He is trying to be strong for me and I feel like I am robbing him of healing by not feeling like he can fall and give into his feelings.

As far as I’m concerned, I feel like I will never be able to swim out of this riptide. Any time I get close to the edge and try to get out, it sucks me back in. It’s a constant battle and daily struggle. Please give me the strength to make it out.

I am not expecting anyone to read this. I felt like by writing my feelings down and throwing them out into the universe, maybe I can get some healing in return.

So…universe…here I am. I am waiting for you.