I have been pregnant three times. I have given birth once. But my two miscarriages, which occurred within a year of each other and 18 months after the birth of my daughter, were very different from each other. Both times, however, I found that I was ill informed and unprepared for how to deal with the experience.
My first miscarriage came early: I had about a week of knowing I was pregnant before I was texting my aunt, a labor and delivery nurse, about my symptoms, asking her to confirm what I expected was happening to my body. It happened around four weeks and was relatively anticlimactic: I cramped, I bled, I grabbed a pad from my desk and went to the bathroom to take care of the bleeding. Afterwards, I turned to Dr. Google to slake my curiosity: How long does a miscarriage last? Do I need to see a doctor? Can I take a bath?
When I typed in “miscarriage,” however, most of the results were emotional pieces, personal essays, and anecdotes about losing a baby. Although I was disappointed, I wasn’t really interested in the emotional ramifications of miscarrying. What I wanted to know was more procedural. I wanted to know what to expect from my body; I wanted to know what was normal and if I needed to keep an eye out for any signs of complications. This is that piece, because I’ve now realized that normal can bring different meanings.
A few months later, I was pregnant again. This time I made it to my eight-week appointment before finding out the baby didn’t have a heartbeat. Miscarrying was different this time around. My doctor told me I was no longer pregnant, but my body hadn’t caught up yet. I had two options: wait to miscarry on my own or schedule a dilation and curettage (D&C). I did not like the thought of having someone scrape the inside of my uterus, so I left the hospital hoping my body would catch up to my grief.
It took about a week. I assumed that, physically, this miscarriage would be like the last one—basically a period with more emotional baggage. It was not. This miscarriage physically rocked my body. It started with a pop in my uterus and a gush of liquid that filled my sweatpants. Then, the pain set in.
Pale and sweating, I waddled down the hallway, pain shooting deep throughout my abdomen. My vision blurred and my body trembled as if I was going to throw up at any moment. Fluid I assumed had something to do with my amniotic sac, blood, and a large collection of tissue exited my body over the course of the next hour. Eventually, exhausted, nauseous, and shaky, I understood that it was over.
The next day, I turned to Google again. My doctor hadn’t explained to me what I should expect, what level of pain I might feel, or what fluid consistency was normal. After the birth of my daughter, I got 24 hours of poking, prodding, and middle-of-the-night check-ins. I was hooked up to machines and had to be discharged. I knew miscarrying at eight weeks wasn’t the same as pushing a seven-pound baby out of my body, but I also had no reference for normal. There is no What to Expect miscarriage edition. I was astonished to see how few resources existed.
I spoke with my aunt again, who reiterated what I was able to find: rest, manage, and grieve. I found there is not much concern around a miscarriage. I needed to monitor for a fever or infection, but ultimately my body would know what to do. There was irony in that realization—that the body I trusted to keep my baby alive was now being trusted to expel the remains appropriately. The timeline for recovery after giving birth is averaged at about six weeks, but I couldn’t find a timeline for miscarriage recovery. At six weeks postpartum, I had a brief check-in with my doctor. Weeks after my miscarriage, no medical professional checked in.
Since then, and based on what information is out there and what I was able to learn, I created my own guidelines:
- Physical pain management—ice packs, heading pads, and pain relievers. With both miscarriages, I experienced some level of discomfort and pain, the second one being more intense.
- Rest—sleep, binge Netflix, call in sick, sit on the couch for hours, don’t shower if you don’t feel like it. Slow down and let your body heal.
- Be informed—talk with your doctor or the nurses. If you have questions, ask. I pay an obscene amount each month for an alarmingly high deductible and calling a doctor is free. Google your specific questions. Although I didn’t find much overall, I was able to find some information about what I needed to look out for. When I searched specifics, I was able to find out that I did want to monitor for a fever and infection. Search mom boards and ask your questions there. I found reassurance in those boards knowing that women were experiencing the same effects as I was. The boards weren’t just about how we were feeling, but what we were experiencing physically as well.
- Ask for help—Start a meal train or have a friend start one. Hire a housecleaner for the week so you have one less thing to worry about. One thing I hadn’t considered was hiring a postpartum doula. I didn’t realize these existed when I was pregnant with my daughter but found out about a year after she was born. A postpartum doula comes after you’ve given birth and helps you in the “fourth trimester.” Many will cook and clean, snuggle baby while you shower, and listen to how you are doing. I don’t know that it’s conventional to hire one when you have a miscarriage, but why not?
- Find time to grieve—I avoided this step the most. Seeking knowledge and focusing on the process helped me grieve, but I found I also needed to grieve in other ways. Journaling, talking with friends, and expressing my disappointment with my husband all helped me get myself out of bed. My husband wrote a letter to our unborn baby; my friend named and buried hers.
Miscarrying was scary, and so was finding such little information about what was normal. There wasn’t really anything I could do about what was happening to my body, but I was able to control how I took care of myself, physically and emotionally, after my miscarriage.