The 25 Percent Club

My doctor told me recently that up to 25 percent of pregnancies end in miscarriage. 

How can that be? Up to 25%? Only 25%?

It has to be more than that, right? I feel like it’s all I’m hearing about lately. So many women are sharing their stories about miscarriages and it still only happens up to 25% of the time? It feels like it’s gotta be closer to 50, right? But maybe that depends on the specific statistic we’re talking about. Maybe the 25% only includes clinically recognized pregnancies, and not chemical pregnancies, pregnancies in women over 35, etc…

Anyway, ask me how I know this. I’ll tell you: it’s because I am now a member of this possibly decreasingly exclusive club. At a little over 8 weeks pregnant, Matt and I learned that our baby no longer had a heartbeat. Our baby that had been “clinically recognized” less than two weeks prior. Our baby that we’d gotten a sonogram picture of. Our baby that we’d had 8 weeks to think about, dream about, begin to discuss names about, was no longer “viable.” In fact, it hadn’t been viable for a few days, but my body had yet to recognize that its occupant was no longer participating in the joint growth venture we had entered into. 

What a tough, unexpected day. Matt and I had both convinced ourselves that this was going to be a routine visit. That I was overreacting just a little bit and we were simply going in to get some reassurance for peace of mind. How cute. How mindful. How wrong we were. 

I had been at a work conference in San Diego the week prior. My mom met me out there a few days early to see the sights. On Sunday, we went on a whale watching tour where I was so sick for most of the trip – a symptom I found reassuring at the time. On the ride back to shore, I felt three mild cramps back to back that weren’t anything major. I was able to convince myself they were just growing pains, but I was still anxious about it for a while afterwards. 

The rest of the week I saw spotting off and on that was always very light. That exacerbated my anxiety but through Google and asking ChatGPT every possible question I could think of as to why this could be happening, I was able to, again, convince myself that it was nothing. Just old blood or hormonal bleeding and everything was fine.

My uterus knew something was up, however, and was trying to signal to me that something was amiss. But I couldn’t do anything while in San Diego so I put it out of my mind as much as I could. (“As much as I could” meaning it was always constantly on my mind.)

I made it through the week with the encouragement and reassurances of my mom and Matt. But when I got back to Charlotte I was still anxious. The following Monday I called the doctor who was able to fit me in. And that was when this ordinary day turned into one horrible learning experience after another. 

This is when we found out that if the ultrasound tech takes longer than about 10 seconds to show you what she’s looking at, it’s not good news. It’s where we learned they’ll give you a picture of your dead baby if you want one. (We did.) It’s where we learned the ridiculous ‘up to’ 25% statistic. It’s also where I learned that walking out of that office and back into a waiting room full of happy, pregnant women with tears streaming down your face and your husband by your side is equal parts humiliating and terrifying. Humiliating because everyone can figure out what just happened and terrifying because those women shouldn’t have to be so boldly confronted by their worst fears when all they’re trying to do is check on their baby and hear a happy heartbeat. How triggering would that be for a pregnant woman to see someone who has so obviously just been through her own biggest fear?

Even worse than all of that, though, was that my body still hadn’t recognized the loss, which meant I needed to take issues into my own hands. I was given the option to A. do nothing and wait, possibly another two weeks, risking infection; B. take an abortion pill to force my body into compliance; or C. a D&C procedure where they put you under anesthesia and vacuum everything out. “Good news” though – it’s an outpatient procedure so you get to go home the same day as having your insides vacuumed out. If that sounds familiar and you understand why that might be a no-go from me, you’ve been reading this blog a very long time (wow, thanks for still being here). If it doesn’t sound familiar and you’d like it to, go read up on my egg freezing journey from a few years back. Oh, and if you choose option B, it’s possible you’ll still need option C if option B doesn’t work properly. So there’s that. 

We went with option B, and Matthew and I descended into the trenches together. We went home to get drunk and be sad and mourn our loss. We were no longer getting our Gemini baby. We were no longer going to make our parents into grandparents. We were no longer getting to make the announcement to family at Thanksgiving that we were expecting. We were no longer going to make a cute announcement over social media at Christmas time. And now we had to go back to the people we had told and tell them we were no longer. 

Within all of this heartache, however, there are some things worth celebrating. I get to mourn this loss next to my husband and best friend who has done nothing but support me, bring me food, Legos, alcohol (a welcome treat after 3 months sober), and tell me how proud he is of me, despite being in mourning himself. We get to lean on our support system, all of whom have jumped into action and come through for us in only the best of ways, reminding us of how loved and supported we truly are. And we get to rest in the fact that I am able to get pregnant at all, which is a privilege we know that some people don’t have. Matt and I both recognize that and are so grateful for it. 

And now, knowing that this time of grief is only temporary, we rest, heal, and reset. Not only our hearts, but our timeline as well.