1 in 4

Today was supposed to be our due date for my first pregnancy. Twins, potentially, but we’ll never know with 100% certainty, because on February 20, 2020, I had a miscarriage.

I found out in early January that I was pregnant, which was only about 5 or so weeks along. I was shocked and thrilled, as we had started the “trying not trying” process in December 2018. Adam urged cautious optimism given how early I found out—he didn’t want me to be disappointed, which was the necessary balance to my zealous excitement. He was trying to protect my heart.

I scheduled an appointment with my very newly established OB/GYN for a 7 week appointment (their preference) and couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like. As a dad, Adam has been through this before, but it would obviously be a new experience for me.

However, it was apparent during the ultrasound that something was off. They questioned my dates, the tech made no mention of any heartbeat, she took the same measurements multiple times, and it was overall very quiet. When the doctor came in to talk to us, she confirmed what the silence already told us—something wasn’t right. The pregnancy wasn’t “progressing” as she would have expected at that stage. I was measuring about a week smaller than what would align with my dates (7w0d, measuring 5w6d). There was no heartbeat detected.

Our hope was that it was just still too early and that next time everything would be fine. The doctor said at that point there was a 50/50 chance of the pregnancy going either way.

Stress, disappointment, anxiety filled my soul as I awaited a follow-up ultrasound 2 weeks later. I spent countless hours online reading any resource I could about what this meant, what it could mean for me, trying to convince myself *I* would be different from the stories I had read.

The follow-up appointment arrived and this ultrasound revealed two, perfectly round yolk sacs in one gestational sac—identical twins. We were all a little baffled, but again, maybe this would explain why everything was measuring as it was. I had some growth since the first ultrasound, but not enough to feel confident about the pregnancy and there was still no heartbeat(s) detected. I was 9w2d, and the baby(ies) measured 7w0d. A couple days later I started spotting.

[TRIGGER WARNING]

I had my third and final ultrasound the following week, which confirmed our worst case scenario. It was visible on the screen that the miscarriage had already started. One of the yolk sacs was gone, I was more than spotting, and the gestational sac was collapsing in. My measurements “shrank” from the week prior, and I cried the entire time. I cried the entire time the doctor told us about my options regarding the miscarriage (meds, natural, or D&C). I cried the entire time I drove back to work—yes, I went back to work that day, which in hindsight was a mistake. I cried by myself at my desk most of the afternoon. Basically, there was a lot of crying that day and for days/weeks/months to come.

The doctor said the miscarriage would happen within the coming week. It happened the next day, while (you probably guessed it) I was at work. It was horrible and I’ll spare you the details here (however, for anyone who wants to talk about it, please reach out). I never thought the experience would be but a “blip” in my life’s timeline, but I didn’t expect the trauma it would leave behind, either. For 10 weeks I was pregnant, and within an hour I wasn’t. Mother’s Day was hard. Father’s Day was hard. Pregnancy announcements are hard. Honestly, many days that end in y have been hard.

Here I am, 7 months later, and I’m sharing my story with you. Over time, I’ve been slowly letting friends and family in and I’ve been working at getting “comfortable” talking about it. I haven’t been ready to share my story—not convinced I still am. It’s so deeply personal. But Adam has been my rock, and his and Lilly’s love fill my heart so incredibly full. I have the best friends and family to lean on when I’m having a hard day. For all of this, I’m incredibly grateful.

Now, I want to share a confession: I’m a hypocrite. When I was awaiting the inevitable, I was so desperate for ANYTHING online that was exactly like my fact pattern—dates, measurements, underlying conditions…everything. Blog after blog, forum after form, article after article—and there was nothing. A lot of “similar” stories, but I wanted what I was going through in that moment, at that point in the process, with my details. I knew that with this “space” I had an opportunity to be that one story for someone else that I was longing for myself.

It took 7 months to get to a point where I’m at least comfortable enough to join the conversation, as the days that end in y don’t feel quite as heavy anymore (at least not as often). My heart is healing. Pregnancy loss occurs in 1 in 4 pregnancies. Did you know that? Did you realize that’s how common it happens? I had no idea until it happened to me, or at least I didn’t fully understand until I was the 1 in 4.

We, as a society, do not talk about pregnancy loss as openly and honestly as we should be. Up until today, I had been contributing to the lack of conversation. And this is not a negative thing. I get it—it’s personal and heavy, and it’s been on my time—on our time—which is exactly how it should be. However, I want this to change. I want to be part of the conversation. I want to be a safe place, a resource, for others who are going through pregnancy loss to turn to. To be that one story that gives even one other woman an ounce of insight, even if the outcome wasn’t what anyone would want.

September marks 21+ months of trying to grow our family and when would have been our due date. We’re taking it one day, one month at a time, and exploring our options. I am in a much better place now, and I finally feel ready to be part of the dialogue.

With the unknown of what our “next” looks like, today I am choosing to lean into gratitude, embrace the uncertainty, and accept that I am 1 in 4.

Thank you for being part of this journey.