Aftermath of the miscarriage

 I miscarried my baby yesterday. We don’t know if he was a boy or a girl. We don’t know anything. Just emptiness 

My bathroom is a war zone. My nightmare. Blood splatters are waiting for me to clean the counter. Memories accost my mind of me searching each clot for the precious baby. 

I obsessed. I peed on a strainer so I wouldn’t miss the tiny baby. I blew my nose while peeing, and delivered it into the strainer. I found the sac, and carefully opened it. The little yolk sac was like a tiny clear marble, a tiny miracle. Fascinating. After finding that, I looked for the baby. I had done the research, I knew what I was looking for. I was supposed to be 11 weeks, but the doctor said the baby was 6 weeks gestation. I knew to took for a tiny shrimp human. I found nothing. I found mashed potato. Just mush. It wasn’t even trying to be a baby. A violent wave of betrayal crushed me. There was nothing to bury. Nothing to cremate. Nothing but nothing. 

They say “the miracle of life”, and they are right. Chromosomes have to match up, and if even one doesn’t, things don’t work right. Just the way the eye nerves connect during development is a miracle. Every step of the way, every fingernail, every heartbeat, miracles. My baby- my little mashed potato clump of cells baby- he didn’t get that miracle. I think he was dead before we ever found out we were expecting. I kept hoping for a miracle, because my God is the God of miracles. If I just bought this newborn cloth diaper by faith, He would know I wanted the baby. I didn’t get my miracle. Every test, every ultrasound was the same- bad news. Not viable. 

I’m going to have to clean the bathroom today. The flashbacks of the blood running down my hands every time I wiped, every time I looked for him. Those visions will haunt me. The pads will go out with the trash- less evidence that he ever existed. All that will be left will be in my heart and mind. As I wipe the counter, it will be like erasing the proof he was here. The proof he was real. 

We go into the hospital and have visitors and flowers and nurses when we have babies. People celebrate. When you miscarry, you do it alone. At home. In a bathroom. There is no support. No nurse to tell you everything will be ok. Just you, the strainer that used to be for spaghetti, and your husband (maybe) who thinks you have lost your mind. He’s too afraid to get close because you’re like a feral animal. He doesn’t know how to support you. He just knows there is blood everywhere. 

Miscarrige sucks. It’s lonely. It’s gross. It’s heartbreaking.