No, I’m Not ‘Lucky’ Because I Had a Miscarriage at 6 Weeks
The blood surprised me. I’d gone to the bathroom thinking about having tacos for dinner and tackling a looming freelance deadline. In true working-mom style, it was the first moment I’d been able to steal away in hours. After a long day at the office, I’d picked up my 2-year-old son, Ezra, from daycare, then did the usual dance of chores and playtime before my husband, Jared, got home. It was a completely normal night—until I saw the blood.
I called my doctor immediately. She told me to come in for blood work the next day, and in the meantime, to rest or go to the emergency room if any large clots started to form.
I spent the rest of the night trying to stay positive, but also panicking that our attempt at adding to our family was failing before it really even began. After trying for a second baby for months, we’d just started telling a few people in that hushed, thrilled way that accompanies a secret you don't want to jinx. The week before I started bleeding, two positive pregnancy tests had given us the news we’d been waiting for.
I tried to convince myself everything would be fine. Spotting can be normal during pregnancy, after all. Deep down, though, I knew things weren’t right.
The morning after I started bleeding, I arrived at the clinic, already wondering if I’d done something to cause this.
The bleeding hadn’t intensified, but it hadn’t gone away either. I mostly felt like I had a regular period with the usual PMS symptoms, like bloating, fatigue, and a short temper, plus a side of disappointment, numbness, and fear. My mind wouldn’t stop fretting. Why did this happen to us? Am I allowed to be sad, since we already have a healthy kid? Should I have skipped that HIIT workout?
The nurse interrupted my thoughts with a tender needle poke, then said, “Hey, if this is what we think, I want you to know it's not your fault."
I nodded my head emphatically, eyes welling up, a lump in my throat. I knew that, of course, but I also . . . kind of needed her to say it a million more times. The nurse told me the doctor would call later with results of the hCG test to see if my levels of the pregnancy hormone were sinking or rising. She also said that I’d have to come back for a second check in 48 hours. Then she told me to be hopeful, that it could really go either way at this point, and I wanted to believe her. But I had that sort of hollow feeling in my chest when you know a little bubble of a wish is about to implode.
I was right. I got the call from my doctor later that day. On Monday, I was six weeks pregnant. On Wednesday, my doctor told me I was miscarrying.
Losing a baby so early made me feel lonely as hell. I’d never heard a miscarriage story like mine.
I spent the rest of that week waiting for the bleeding to stop and not doing much else. I didn’t need a D&C procedure to surgically empty my uterus, thank goodness, so I focused on the bare minimum: work, eat, sleep, repeat. However, when the fog of grief lifted momentarily, I realized I wanted to share my story. I had heard of women who’d lost babies at 10 and 12 weeks, but not anyone who had miscarried when the pregnancy had barely begun, like me.
It’s not that miscarriage is at all uncommon: Miscarriage is estimated to happen in around 25 percent of pregnancies overall. Ten percent of known pregnancies end in early pregnancy loss, which is defined as having a miscarriage in the first 13 weeks, according to the the American College of Obstetrics and Gynecologists (ACOG). In fact, around 80 percent of all miscarriages take place during this time.
So, if early miscarriages are so common, why haven’t I heard more stories like mine? There are a few possible reasons for that.
For starters, many women don’t even realize they’re pregnant until later in the first trimester, so the number of women who lose pregnancies early like I did might be much higher than statistics say, Alison Mitzner, M.D., a New York City-based pediatrician, tells SELF.
It’s also possible someone might not share the story of their early pregnancy loss because they’re worried that they somehow did something to cause it, just like I was. Unfortunately, this concern isn’t uncommon, says Dr. Mitzner, who has supported expecting moms who have miscarried in the past. But the reality is that almost half of all early pregnancy losses happen due to genetic or chromosomal abnormalities in the embryo. More rarely, risk factors like the mom being 35 or older (I was 31) may come into play. But doing things like exercising, working, or otherwise living life doesn’t increase a person’s chance of miscarriage. It usually just comes down to unfortunate odds.
People might also assume they shouldn’t feel shattered because the pregnancy wasn’t far along, like this kind of loss doesn’t “count” until it hits some arbitrary benchmark. This hurts most of all, because it couldn't be further from the truth.
I didn’t want to feel alone about my miscarriage, so we told people close to us. Responses like “me, too” were encouraging. Ones like “at least it was early” were not.
Once we shared our story, the floodgates opened. People said, “I’m so sorry,” and, “Sending you my love,” and most of all, “Me, too.” I would’ve never guessed miscarriage had happened to so many individuals I knew. I asked one acquaintance why she kept her journey quiet, and she said, “I just couldn’t talk about it without breaking down.” I completely understood.
The flip side involved greeting-card platitudes from well-meaning friends and family members, like the person who said, “Well, at least you have one healthy baby.” Yeah, but I’d like another. Or, “It just wasn’t meant to be,” which made me feel exactly zero percent better.
And my personal (non)favorite, “You’re lucky it was so early.” That one left me particularly devastated—like I didn’t deserve to be sad in the first place, like I should be counting my blessings instead of trying to heal from an unexpected heartache.
I see why people tried to help me look on the “bright side,” but miscarriage isn’t lucky, regardless of how or when or why it happens.
Miscarrying forced me to let go of what could have been: a sweet sibling for my son, the prospect of a second tiny baby in my arms. I felt robbed of the initial joy that usually accompanies pregnancy, when everything is secret and special and steadily growing in the right direction. I initially didn’t know who I could talk to, or if they would understand. I viewed my body as a bit broken and unreliable, unsure if it would be able to remedy itself for another try.
Still, I understand the desire to find silver linings. We’re human, after all, and making sense of tragedy helps us cope with the unpredictability of life. I even did it to myself sometimes. One day after we’d just lost the baby, I teared up in Target upon seeing a person with a rounded belly. I was jealous and in pain, and a part of me bullied, Pull it together, you’re fine, stop comparing. I tried to make myself focus on all that my life had instead of all that it didn’t. I wish I had simply offered myself a little more empathy for the roller coaster ride of emotions that is a miscarriage.
I eventually gave myself permission to acknowledge my grief, however uncomfortable, and make space for it to exist.
I’m grateful for the friends who sent a bouquet of sunshine-yellow flowers, a hilarious card, a moonstone gem. For my sister, who came over that first awful night to binge-watch Riverdale and eat leftovers on my couch. For the unrelenting love of my husband and sweet son. For sweaty yoga classes followed by giant glasses of red wine with a cheers to surviving shitty things. And for the fellow mama who gave me a free pass to hate anyone who declared, “Everything happens for a reason.”
But here’s what I wish those people who called me fortunate had said instead: You’re not “lucky.” You lost a baby who barely had a heartbeat, and it still counts. It wasn’t your fault. It’s OK to be sad. And you’re not alone.
Julia Dellitt is a writer from Des Moines, Iowa. She can be found at @jul_marie on Twitter, @julmarie on Instagram, and at julmarie.com.
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