Miscarriage. It floods my head with devastating memories. It seems like it happened so long ago, yet I can still feel the roller coaster of emotions I was taken on.

My husband and I were ready to start a family, and I was fortunate enough to get pregnant right away. Holding that pregnancy test with my hands shaking and voice trembling, I was scared and excited. 

I was ready to be a mom. Even though seeing those two lines so quickly left me shocked, I was ready to meet my baby. When I found out there was a little human growing in my belly, I already felt the urge to hold and love them.

Days went by and we were on cloud nine. We dreamt about how we would set up the baby’s room, what their name would be, and how we would tell our family. I was most looking forward to telling my mom. It felt strange keeping this from her, but we decided to wait until after the first doctor’s appointment. 

One afternoon, as I sat on our couch in our family room, I noticed my breasts were not achy. I thought maybe it was normal and that they would start to ache again later on. A day or two later, I didn’t feel so queasy. Then came the uneasy feeling that something was wrong. 

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At my appointment, I casually told my doctor that my breasts had been hurting but were doing “a little better” now. I was pretending and hoping things were okay, but I’ll never forget the look on her face. No words were exchanged, but I knew what she was thinking, and deep in my gut, I knew it wasn’t good.

My husband and I anxiously watched as they did the ultrasound, patiently waiting to see our little baby. There was no heartbeat. The technician couldn’t say much, but she told us they would do another ultrasound in a week, and sent us home.

Why? Was it too early? I didn’t know whether I should feel hopeful or worried. My doctor called me three days before my second ultrasound and explained that they wanted to check for growth. Before hanging up, she said the words, “Hang in there.” That’s when I knew.

On the day of our second ultrasound, still no heartbeat. Maybe we were being hopeful, but we could have sworn the baby had grown. We were wrong.

The next part was the worst. The baby was still in my belly. I could wait until I miscarried naturally, or I could use a pill to start the process. Even when I sit here now, it seems unreal.

I’ve always wanted to be a mom. I’ve never considered having a life that did not involve having kids. And now I had one, but they were not okay. They weren’t healthy. They would never develop. 

I knew I wasn’t mentally strong enough to carry my baby for weeks, maybe even months, knowing there was no chance for them to live. So I chose the pill. On a Friday night after work, I cried as I went through contractions on my family room couch. I felt the most intense sadness as I experienced the pain. With no baby to hold in my arms, I went to bed that night with an aching heart. 

I woke up in the middle of the night to more contractions, more powerful than before. And then I let go. I let go of my baby. I let go of the baby I never got the chance to meet.

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On Christmas day, our family was supposed to unwrap their onesies and little baby socks. Instead, I stopped by my parent’s house after finding out, and told my mom “I was pregnant.” I had hardly gotten the words out when she hugged me.

I wished I could have hugged my own baby. I wanted to tell them that even though I never got to meet them, I loved them and would never forget them. They would always be a part of me, and losing them was the most difficult thing I have done. 

Every year on the day I miscarried, I light a candle. In a way, it brings my baby back to me. The first year I lit a candle, I was lucky enough to have my 9-month-old daughter with me. Even though I didn’t get a chance to meet one of my babies, I was thankful they had led me to my rainbow baby. 

To anyone who has gone through a miscarriage, I won’t tell you to “hang in there.” Those words gave me a sense of lost hope. I’ll tell you that you will get through it. It won’t be easy and it will take time, but you’ll get through it. 

To my baby, I wish I could have met you. Love, Mama.