A few weeks ago, I came across the story of Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg and his wife excitedly expecting their first child. As someone in prime child bearing years who has been stricken with baby fever, my immediate thought was happiness for the couple, but as my thoughts shifted and as I read on, sadness washed over me once again.
Zuckerberg wrote about how his wife suffered three miscarriages before finally being far enough along in a pregnancy that the risk of losing their baby was low. They felt comfortable to share their story and in doing so, I feel comfortable in sharing mine.
“Most people don’t discuss miscarriages because you worry your problems will distance you or reflect upon you – as if you’re defective or did something to cause this. So you struggle on your own.”
Early this year, much to my shock, I found out I was pregnant. I was shocked for several reasons. Naturally, I panicked. Surely the test couldn’t be right? Well, it was. After two weeks being in denial and multiple positive tests, I finally got over my initial shock and realized that there was a life now growing inside of me.
My boyfriend and I had talked about babies before, and if you had asked us, we were ready. That was until it was finally becoming a reality. There was a bit of panic, overthinking if we’d actually be good parents and how does one exactly become ready to even be a parent? Once we settled into the idea more, it started to calm down. We were happy. We already had names picked, which was surprisingly easy and came without an argument. I had already began mentally signing up our son for various sports once he could walk. His dad began pointing out matching clothes and shoes the baby would wear when we were out at the mall shopping. (Yes, I had already determined the sex of the baby because a baby boy is all I have ever wanted) There was so much excitement and everything was perfect. We were going to move toward the next step in our relationship and lives as parents. The feeling was incredibly surreal and exhilarating. I was actually going to be a mom.
As always, life had different plans for me.
I had been experiencing intense cramping all day. I woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom and noticed bleeding. I didn’t know what was going on, but was sure it could be nothing good. We went to the hospital and before the doctor even spoke I knew what had happened.
It has not been easy. I’ve only said the word aloud once or twice. Only the absolute closest people in my life even know about it, and even that wasn’t by choice. I was depressed. I blamed myself and still do to this day. Instead of accepting what was going on inside of me, I stressed about it. I worried if I’d be a good parent, If I was really as ready as I thought I was, how I’d raise it, etc. In those weeks spent stressing over the situation, I could have been more positive, more hopeful, happier. If only I had approached the initial shock with more optimism and happiness, maybe I’d be getting ready for the baby’s arrival in November…but it wasn’t to be.
Outside of my best friends and our parents, I’d never spoken a word to anyone about what happened. I was afraid I’d be judged. People would wonder what was wrong with me and what I did to cause it to happen, much like Zuckerberg’s wife Chan. I tried not to show it on the outside that something was bothering me. I acted like I was ok, but inside I was anything but. There are times when I see a baby or baby clothes and I can feel myself breaking down on the inside. In the following months, I reconnected with my sister and became an aunt for the first time. I put on a happy face for her and the baby, but as I held him and rocked him, I couldn’t help but to imagine what our baby would have looked like. Would he have his chestnut brown eyes? Would he have my full cheeks? I put on a happy face for my good friend as she welcomed her baby. I laughed it off when friends would say to my boyfriend and I that “shouldn’t you be pregnant by now?”
Inside, through it all I was hurting. I was in pain. I was even jealous. I didn’t understand it. I didn’t understand what I did to cause it. I didn’t know how to handle what I was feeling. My work performance suffered. My relationships suffered. I was suffering.
It wasn’t until the day my boyfriend and his mother pushed for me to talk to someone that I finally did. Opening up and talking to people who had been through the same thing I had was the first time I felt like I wasn’t alone. Learning more about what happened and just how common it was and that no, it was not my fault, helped me get to the point I am at today where I feel like I can share my story and I hope others can share their story as well.
While I still have my days where I wake up and it weighs heavy on my mind, slowly but surely I am getting better. I now understand that sometimes things that are completely out of your control happen. It’s not your fault. Most importantly, you are not alone.
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