Breaking the Silence of Miscarriage

I debated posting anything today because this is a card I’ve held pretty close to my chest. But because it’s Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day, I feel like I would do myself, my nonliving child, and other silent sufferers a disservice by not saying anything.

For most anyone that knows David and I, we’ve wanted to have a family since before we were even married. We didn’t really have a plan for WHEN kiddos would happen, but always knew it was something we wanted. So when we decided to go ahead and make the leap to parenthood, we were over the moon with excitement and anticipation.

Years passed. We tried, oh goodness we tried. Every period felt like a small part of me died a little when inevitably, each month, I would suffer through the pain and hurt of being a mother without a child. We looked into adoption (excruciatingly and impossibly expensive for US personally), and started the journey to attempt fertility treatments. Every pregnancy of a friend, every birth announcement felt like a personal attack, even though it had nothing to do with ME and everything to do with my perception of infertility.

The first doctor we met told me to my face that because of my weight, I would kill my babies. That I would die in labor. And that she refused to work with me. The doctor was fired for multiple accounts of abusive relationships with patients and poor bedside manner a few months later. For me though, the damage was already done. I believed that my dream of motherhood was gone.

Less than a year later I attempted suicide with infertility being a huge contender for the reasons that I felt I couldn’t move forward. Thankfully, I wasn’t alone in my darkest hour. It took me (and still takes me) hard work every day to push back, and to fight back. In my family, miscarriage was a silent contender for winning each time one of us became pregnant, so I’ve been well familiar with the agony of losing a baby for much longer than most.

Last year, the impossible happened and we had a positive pregnancy test. We were over the moon, even though my best friend became the toilet and I was in physical hell. We were so ecstatic to be able to meet our baby until we saw a still image on the sonogram. We miscarried at seven and a half weeks. Even though we never had the chance to formally meet our son, we named him Todd Michael Albright. He would have been due November 26, 2022.

Afterwards, it was a whirlwind of recovery after a D and C procedure, then back to work. It was at this point that I decided to honor my son and the life that he never got to live by being more intentional with my own. Succumbing to my depression and anxiety would be the ultimate disrespect to him and his short little life.

So here I am. Bearing my deepest, saddest moment and forcing myself to be okay with it. Because I know I’m not the only one that has gone through this hurt and no one should ever have to endure it alone.

On a whole, we survived. There will be another baby eventually, but they will know Todd’s name. They will know who he was and that he’s here with us in ways we may not understand.

Don’t suffer alone. Tell your story. Reach out. There are so many of us out there and it’s a crying shame this is something that is usually left unsaid.