Miscarriage leave acknowledges loss

Have you ever been reading a news article and found yourself in a puddle of tears, as if your most personal business was suddenly in the Business section?

The Chronicle’s Melia Russell wrote a powerful July 12 piece that had me in a daze ever since I read it, both anxious and relieved. She wrote about an emerging employee benefit in local business: miscarriage leave.

I had a miscarriage in 2016. I was 38 years old and, while I had done extensive research on the challenges I might face trying to get pregnant later in life, it simply did not register that I would lose a pregnancy. Close girlfriends had shared the most intimate aspects of their life, but miscarriage has never come up in my circle — at least not in the way that would let me know that it might happen to me.

My nowhusband and I weren’t married yet, but I didn’t want to wait too long. And who cares? Let’s have a baby! I’d told a few friends that I was pregnant. I’d told my brother, whose smile exploded as tears filled his eyes. My boyfriend and I made a doctor’s appointment and spent 45 minutes with a doctor we’d never met before detailing all the challenges I might face as a 38yearold pregnant lady. Then, after nearly an hour of planning for this pregnancy, the doctor used a highly intrusive wand to confirm the heartbeat.

Seconds ticked by. A nurse seemed to be holding her breath. “There’s no heartbeat,” he said.

Neither my husband nor I processed what he was telling us. OK, you can’t hear a heartbeat. Try again, lazybones. The nurse whispered, “I’m really sorry,” while the world’s most oblivious doctor rambled on about what the next clinical steps might be.

My husband grabbed my hand and asked if we could have a minute of privacy. But he might have well asked, “Can you get the hell out of the room so my wife can cry really hard?” because that’s what happened. I remember I was still crying when we pulled out of the parking garage. A man was crossing in front of our car, frozen like a deer in headlights, when he saw me sitting in the passenger seat, hysterical. “Move!” I screamed at him.

Usually, the body passes the miscarried fetus. This is what the oblivious doctor told me. But my body didn’t pass anything. For three weeks, I walked around with my baby still inside me, still without its heartbeat. Intellectually, I knew the pregnancy had ended because it wasn’t a viable, healthy pregnancy. Nature was to blame. But in my heart, I ripped myself to shreds. This was my fault, my karma, my punishment, my bad body. And for all I knew, I was never going to be a mother. Despite the seemingly unqualified cast who appear on “Teen Mom,” the universe would clearly not let the likes of me be someone’s parent.

Outpatient surgery was required to remove the fetus. My mother held my hand as I writhed in pain during the procedure. It was horrible. It was horrible. It was horrible.

A gift box of Cowgirl Creamery cheese arrived from my brother and his wife. They’d revealed their pregnancy a few months later, which both filled and broke my heart. Miscarriage is complicated.

I discovered I was pregnant again early last year. My previous miscarriage

meant I’d have a different kind of pregnancy, one filled with the knowledge that it could all end with some doctor’s blunt announcement. I didn’t allow myself to get too attached to my baby, even into the third trimester. Have you ever Googled stillbirth? I have — about 1,000 times. I did not trust my body to produce a healthy child ... but my body did so anyway.

This isn’t a fun story or even an original story. It’s happening to someone right now. Gosh, it’s happening to a lot of people right now. And when it happened to me, I didn’t discuss it as openly as I do most other things. Despite understanding nature’s job, I remain embarrassed. I should not be, but I am. Russell’s article shed some light into this oncesecret part of my life. It’s oddly validating to know that some companies are giving the complex medical and emotional burden of miscarriage the compassion I was unable to give myself. I’m just so relieved I’m not as alone as I had assumed.

Seconds ticked by. A nurse seemed to be holding her breath. “There’s no heartbeat,” he said.