A Journey Through Miscarriage

Becoming a dad is the only thing I have ever cared about. More than any professional ambition or personal goal.

The anticipation of holding my child in my arms, guiding them towards their passions, teaching them life lessons I wish I knew as a kid has always felt like a rewarding life well spent. Growing up, my parents split up when I was young and they had their own habits that shortened their lives before I became an adult. Whenever I would go through tough times growing up, I would often think to myself, “I can’t wait to raise my own kids.” To be there with them for their toughest challenges, to hold them when they need support, to love them with everything I have.

Earlier this year, my wife was pregnant and we were on track to have our first born come this October. We were ECSTATIC. Sharing the news with our closest family and friends. Planning and prepping the setup for the house to be perfect and right.Window shopping at new houses that may be more conducive for us to raise a family.  

I even got to share the news with my best friend, my Pop-Pop. We surprised him with the news by opening up a baby egg on Easter Sunday that his great grandchild was coming into this world! My Pop-Pop is the father who raised me growing up. He’s the one who drove me to all of my sporting events, sat in the stands for every game, consoled me when I was upset and gave me some of the best advice during pivotal moments in my life like choosing a college, a career and doing the things that mean being a good man. Pop-Pop cried. I cried. We were all so happy with the news of what was to come.

A week later after giving him the news, on a rainy day in April, my wife went in for a standard ultrasound procedure. Coming into the appointment with high hopes and no fear. You could tell immediately the ultrasound technician didn’t give off a reassuring response. She was trying all she could to find the heartbeat of our 11-week-old baby. She moved the transducer around my wife’s belly, back and forth, back and forth, for what felt like an eternity. Requesting other assistance and tools to find something coming from the babies body. After 10 painstakingly long minutes of no reassurance, no smile, no answers, my wife asked the lady to stop the procedure as we all knew the inevitable truth —we lost our baby to a miscarriage.

The pain is unlike anything I’ve ever felt. It isn't just about losing a future part of your family, but losing a part of yourself, of what could be. Feeling useless, helpless, and at times, even worthless. It's an emotional weight that settles deep into your heart, leaving you questioning everything about yourself and the life you thought you were about to create.

I started second guessing EVERYTHING at that moment. If my professional choices were worth it? I picked my current career paths knowing that a family and kids were the end goal. Making sure I could have the time, energy and culture to bring a child into the world the best way I knew how. Staying local to where most of my family and friends are in Pennsylvania. Working in a career where work-from-home is preferred, in a house, neighborhood that would fit our needs. 

There are no words to describe the moment you realize your child is gone. No words for that sudden shift from hope to heartbreak. It’s as if the world you envisioned, the world where you were going to be a parent, shatters.

For about a week, we cried. There would be moments where I would burst into tears for no reason at all, letting the waves of sorrow crash over us because there was no other way to cope with that level of grief. You have a laundry list of what-if’s but know it’s best not to dwell on them.

To top it all off, we found out that my Pop-Pop suddenly was rushed to the hospital with a stroke. During this same week, when our future seemed to be falling down, my Pop-Pop too decided that this was his time to leave us on this earth. He passed away a week after I shared the news of our baby with him.

At the time this was going on, it felt that many of our friends were also pregnant with their first, second or third round of children. I am of course happy for everyone who is trying to have kids and succeeding. But I’d be lying in saying my wife and I felt joy when we initially heard these announcements. It was hard to celebrate with them as much as we would have liked.

I remember attending a typical BBQ at a friend's house this past spring, seeing them with all their kids running around and their wives pregnant talking about the trials and tribulations of their next newborn coming into the world. Tons of joy, playing and life was flowing all around. I got so consumed in the moment, that I had to step aside and I started balling on the guest bathroom floor. Of course, I got up, enjoyed the party with everyone and moved on… but to say it was easy is an understatement.

However, even amidst this sorrow, the experience has made me appreciate life more deeply. It has brought into focus how precious my health is, how fragile life can be, and how vital it is to hold on tightly to the things and people I love. It’s made me realize how lucky I am to have my partner, who is there with me through the highs and this recent low. To have a community of friends and family who stood by us in our darkest hours. Their presence, their words, and even just their quiet support, text messages, updates helped us survive those first few days. We truly found that our circle was there for us when we needed them most.

Even though my Pop-Pop also lost his life during this time period, I am so thankful we were pregnant when we were. I was able to share a pivotal moment of telling the man who raised me, that I was going to have the opportunity to raise a child of my own one day too. I’ll never forget that Easter Sunday as long as I live.

The grief of a miscarriage still remains and I am not sure it’ll ever go away. However, sharing our story with others has made it immensely easier to cope with. We’ve learned that one in four pregnancies end in miscarriage, generally before 28 weeks, and 2.6 million babies are stillborn, half of whom die in childbirth.

By talking this out, we learned that some people we are even decently close with have gone through an issue like this too, at all different ages and with different variations of issues. They felt a mix of emotions such as shame, embarrassment or deep sadness to discuss it with others. Miscarriages aren’t edge cases. They are more common than realize. Everyone has a story of a loved one they know who has gone through this pain, but it is typically taboo to talk about.

I hope that our story can help others feel more comfortable sharing their side of the suffering and that the topic becomes less stigmatized as time goes on.

The dream of becoming a parent has not died with us. In fact, it burns even brighter now. We know we’ll never stop trying to bring a child into this world.

Miscarriage is a silent grief, often hidden and misunderstood, but for those who experience it, it leaves a lasting mark. We carry our child’s memory with us, even though we never got to hold them. They are still a part of us, and we will always remember them.