The heavens opened up just now. As I sat here wondering what I should write, or if I should write, the sky suddenly darkened to match my mood. And then the thunder cracked in the sky above me. I haven’t heard thunder that loud since we lived in the midwest in a high rise apartment. On and on it went, cracking and booming, yelling and screaming, seeming to get closer every second. I felt like it was doing my screaming for me, releasing my frustration and anger as I sat numbly, listening. Just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. And then the heavens opened and the rain began to dump. So hard and so heavy and so fast that it looked like the world was one white haze outside. Almost hypnotically, I walked across the room and stood on the deck, watching it, mesmerized. Nature was mirroring my emotions. It was screaming and then sobbing for me, since I am all screamed and sobbed out.
I have been thinking about grief a lot lately. I am tired of grief. Last week was the 12th anniversary of my mother’s death from breast cancer. Usually that particular day doesn’t get to me that much. It’s not usually the “big” days that are hard, it’s usually the little ones. I’ll be going along in my day and suddenly I’m pushing my girl on the swing and BAM! I realize my mom never will. But last week the anniversary mattered to me, and I had a very weepy day. As luck would have it, I was on a beach vacation with my in-laws, so after I had a good, hard cry I soaked up the sun, read a great book on the beach, and spent time with my children in the sand. Things weren’t so bad. My life was actually pretty fantastic, especially since I was finally pregnant with my third child.
It takes me a long time to get pregnant. The doctors can’t find a reason. It just does. 11 months to get #1, 23 months to get #2, 22 months to get #3. 22 months is a long time. A very, very long time. When I realized my period hadn’t started I had to take 5 tests over a series of days before my husband and I started to believe it. It felt like a miracle. I had resigned myself to eternal waiting; I was past the point of crying about it each month. I was just numb. And then it happened. Those magical two lines on the pregnancy test. The emotions were too confusing to put into words. It was almost too much to handle.
We spent an amazing week in San Diego with my family. They were ecstatic to hear the news. Next we spent an amazing week on the Oregon coast with my husband’s family and their best friends. They were ecstatic as well. Dang life was good! On the beach, with the people we loved most, our final baby in my belly. My kids fought over who got to “snuggle the baby” each morning and evening as I put them to bed. My son would examine my stomach each morning and then pat it with a satisfied smile and declare that he thought it was getting a little bit bigger. All throughout the day he would pause as he passed me and kiss my belly. He is the dearest child in the world.
On Thursday of last week, two days after the weepy anniversary of my mother’s death, I felt some cramping and had some bloody drainage. Worry wiggled into my mind, but I tried hard to convince myself that it was nothing. I had always felt that surviving the heartbreak of miscarriage was the one thing God wouldn’t ask of me in the fertility department. I already struggled to get my babies, and my postpartum depression is positively crippling and seemingly never ending. We are talking 18 months of PPD that lands you in weekly psychiatrist appointments the entire time. Surely THIS challenge wouldn’t be added onto my already precariously balanced emotional heap. But the cramps and the discharge didn’t let up, and so I became dejected and resigned.
I told no one for several hours after the first signs. I let it sit. I let it stew. I let it sink in. Eventually I whispered it to my husband and we quietly worried together. Things got worse and I silently worried. I pondered how I would get through this. I wondered how my sensitive little boy would react to the news. I worried about what was coming. But I also said nothing.
Grief is funny, isn’t it? Some people want the world to know about every bad day that they have, every worry, every sorrow. They want to put every little update on social media, they want to talk it out, they want to be surrounded by reassurance, they want all eyes turned their way. I don’t. That may surprise you if you know me personally. After all, I am not known for being a shrinking violet. But the one and only time that I don’t want all eyes on me is when I am grieving. When I feel fresh pain I retreat, I want to process it on my own before I let others process it with me. I don’t like to share my grief. I don’t like to reassure people that I will be ok, even when I won’t. I don’t want to add their sorrows and their worries to my own. I want to own my grief and hold it close and really feel it. And then I want to let it go.
Once my acute grief has passed I open it up and let the world claim a piece of it. I find peace in relating to others, in understanding the pain of others, in helping others and letting them help me. But not in the moment of crisis. If you need support regarding mental illness, loss of a loved one, or PPD, I am your girl. Once I’m past it I’m an open book. But don’t feel bad if you are one of my best friends and don’t realize that I’m crying at home daily because of my PPD or a particularly rough depressive cycle. No one realizes it. I’m an excellent actress. I have a lifetime of practice. I have been smiling through rough times since my mother was diagnosed with cancer when I was 8 years old, and most especially since my mental illness really kicked in around the age of 13. But those are stories for another day.
I decided to try something a little bit different this time around. I always let my husband in almost immediately, but rarely others. My sisters more than anyone else. I sent a text to my dad and my sisters and asked them to pray for me. I was surprised by how hard that was for me to do so early in my grief process. After all, these people have been to hell and back with me on more than one occasion.
Saturday morning pain and bleeding began in earnest and I couldn’t hold a thread of hope anymore: after 22 months of waiting and longing, my miracle baby was miscarrying. My husband told his parents and they jumped into action. Naturally, it was the last day that we were on vacation with them, and we had to check out of the vacation rental home that morning. They took our children home to Utah with them and my husband and I headed to a hotel in Portland near a hospital.
Why does no one talk about how painful miscarriages are? I have heard a lot of talk about the emotional pain of a miscarriage, but what about the physical pain? Cramping? CRAMPING?! That’s labor, my friends. Maybe not 10 centimeters and pushing hard labor, but those are contractions. I have been through labor twice, once completely unmedicated because we waited too long to go to the hospital. I know what contractions feel like, and that is what those were. Labor for a dead baby as small as a pea. I was not anticipating that.
After two miserable and melancholy days in the hotel room I flew home to see the doctor and my husband drove our car to Utah to get the kids. They are on their way home to Colorado now. I had to cancel the last leg of our three week road trip, the leg where I was going to stay with one of my very best friends for a week. I did get to see her briefly when she came to cheer me up in my hotel room, but it wasn’t nearly long enough. Losing my time with her was just salt in the wound.
This post has not been easy to write. It is unnatural for me to share my pain this early in the process. I am still bleeding, and I am still in pain. But the friends I have texted and the people I have spoken with have been a great comfort to me, helping me feel loved and helping me feel validated in my pain instead of feeling guilty or ungrateful for what I do have. After all, what is my pain compared to the pain of those losing loved ones to shootings and all of the other tragic events in the world right now? Nothing. Truly. I lead an astonishingly wonderful life. Sometimes I think about my life and feel baffled by my good fortune. But right now I am heavy with pain, physical and emotional, and I am giving myself permission to feel it.
Talitha says
I mean, I knew we were similar but I could have written this post, three times over. I too retreat at the fresh sting. I too am an open book once I have processed. I would never ever wish this sorrow upon a single person. No words to soothe your ache. I know the pain too well. Feel it. And when you are ready to breathe fresh air again, I’m here. Anytime.
Sarah Westover McKenna says
xoxoxoxox Let’s get together soon!
Courtney O'Dell says
I love you so much friend. You’re one of the dearest people on earth to me. I wish we lived closer and I could just hug you.
Sarah Westover McKenna says
Love you too girl!
Tara says
I couldn’t read and not say something. I’m so sorry for your loss, Sarah. I can’t imagine the pain and grief you are experiencing. You write about your experience very poignantly. I am humbled by your words and your bravery in sharing this part of your life.
Sarah Westover McKenna says
Thank you, Tara!
Camilla says
We are also grieving the loss of our third. Well fourth. We lost our very first at ten weeks. Although our official first was uneventful, it took me a while to get pregnant with our second, over a year. When we immediately got pregnant with our third, I thought it would be our last, meant to be. She would have been our third girl, but we lost her close to 16 weeks almost two weeks ago. It also rained here. I still go through waves of anger where I throw things, yell, cry.
Although I have experienced something similar, I don’t know what you are going through. Only God does really. My heart breaks for you and your loss, especially because I know how bitter that monthly test is when you wait. I wish I had known with my first how painful a miscarriage is naturally. I’m grateful you are open about it now, so it may prepare others in the future. Something that helped us with our first was to pick a name, even though it was gender neutral. With our little girl we will be having a little balloon ceremony so our daughters can send notes to their sister. It’s hard for kids to understand and their questions are gut wrenching. I wish I would have done a ceremony with our first. I know that one day your baby will be yours forever. I hope the time goes quickly and it heals the wrenching heart ache you feel. Prayers your way.
Sarah Westover McKenna says
Goodness, I am heartbroken for you! I love the balloon idea. I am definitely going to use that.
Carisa says
Oh Sarah! My heart is breaking for you. I relate to almost everything you have written here! You are so brave for sharing and I will make sure to keep you in my prayers.
Sarah Westover McKenna says
Thank you Carissa. xoxo
Rachel Nielson says
This is the best writing you’ve ever done. So beautifully expressed. I’m so sorry for what you are going through and have gone through. It’s not fair and well, it just sucks. Big time. I love you and I wish I could be there with you. Thinking of you all the time.
Sarah Westover McKenna says
Thank sis. Love you!
Alaska says
It is a club with many members and not a happy one. Know that there are many, many who are here and know that feeling of huge pain over a tiny, tiny bit of life that somehow had taken on enormous meaning for you and all you love. Let your sweet boy hug on you and remind him that while you are sad, you know how to smile still. I remember well, lying on a couch in pain after a D&C with my 2 year old boy on me. It was like he knew that I needed the warmth of his body as well as the fullness of his love and attention. I healed. But it took time and being gentle with myself. That was the hard part: be gentle with yourself. You have done a hard thing. And it will take time. Hugs. Big warm, “I’m your sister and friend and wish this never had darkened your door” hugs.
Sarah Westover McKenna says
Love to you, Alaska.
Heidi Lanning says
This is the first time I have ever read your blog. I hate to admit that it brought me to tears remembering the miscarriage of my first son at 16 weeks. I was 21 and had no idea what was going on. I had a completely awful OBGYN in the emergency room which made it worse. It was April 17, 1999 and after going to the bathroom I wiped and swore I could feel something sticking out. We rushed to the ER and I was told it was all in my head and the baby was just fine after they listened to his heart rate for an hour. They sent us home. The next morning (my best friend’s 21st birthday) I went to the bathroom and could again feel a foot when I wiped. We went back to the ER and sure enough I was in the process of miscarriage. Incompetent cervix is what it was called. The single worst day of my life was the day I laid my son Jason Alexander to rest. It changed who I was. There are many days I wish I could be the same person I was before the miscarriage, but even with therapy and two healthy boys later I still struggle. I do have to say that I am a much stronger person because of all the struggles I have gone through. PLEASE KNOW THAT YOU ARE NOT ALONE! Saying a prayer for your family!
Sarah Westover McKenna says
Thank you so much for sharing and commenting, Heidi. Much love to you!
Marianne Power says
Thank you for sharing your incredibly raw, painful grief. While each of our griefs might not be the same, they are real and they are raw and there is a common thread that runs through each of them. Thinking of you and wishing you and your family comfort and peace as you experience this deep and profound loss.
Nancy says
I am so sorry for your loss. Will keep your family in my prayers.
Annie says
I’m so sorry for your loss Sarah. Only once you’ve been through it you can empathize that gut wrenching grief…and now that you’ve opened your heart, you will meet many, many mama’s who have had to go through what you are going through now. Through your life and blog you will encourage them and bless them, mark my words. It’s been 5 years, and my heart has healed, but I somehow still miss two small people. I pray that you will have the space to cry your heart out, be surrounded by people who hold you gently, and that as you walk this road, the Lord will be your comfort. We won’t ever understand it, but I pray that you will be able to trust the God who is sovereign and kind to give you everything you need. Take time out, and seek help when you need it. Love and hugs from a stranger on the other side of the world xox
Sarah Westover McKenna says
Thank you for your kindness, Annie! xo
Emily says
Dear Sarah- witty, fun, deep and fiercely loyal Sarah. I love you. I have since I met you. You are brave, even when crippled with pain. I’m so sorry for your lost babe and your lost hopes and dreams with your child. I admire that you are choosing to feel this pain, without guilt. It is so emotionally healthy to allow yourself to process the grief, pain, loss and anger. I love you and pray you feel the comforting embrace of God and your mama during the following months. I am praying for your heart to heal. Love you!
Sarah Westover McKenna says
Love you too! SO much!!
Sherry Fram says
So very sorry for your loss. Prayers for you and your family.
Heather L says
I am so very sorry for your loss. I lost a baby, a girl, at 11 weeks. It’s such a different and misunderstood kind of grief. Please watch out for PPD because I had never really experienced it with my other kids but with the miscarriage I am still dealing with it after 3 years. Take care of yourself and know that you are in my prayers. (((HUGS)))
Sarah Westover McKenna says
Ugh. I hate PPD!! I’m so sorry you are dealing with it! I know it’s none of my business, but I hope you are getting yourself the help you deserve! I am a big believer in therapy and medication. I know not everyone wants to “go there” with medication, but it’s the best and most consistent way I personally have found to help day-to-day. I’m a big believer in the saving grace of medication, at least in my life! If you don’t think your doctor will take the words “postpartum depression” seriously so long after a miscarriage then just cut off the “postpartum” part of that when/if you approach it. They treat it the same way anyway. Much love to you!!
Katie Pence says
You are always so good at putting emotions into words. I swear it helps us all heal from what we are going through to read your words. Thanks for sharing and we are praying for your recovery every day.
Sarah Westover McKenna says
Love you!
Robin says
When I am grieving I have to remind myself that Jesus is right beside me feeling every pain that I am feeling. Even though sometimes I don’t FEEL like He even knows. But we are not to go on our feelings but on God’s Word. But He is there and feels everything.
It is not for our finite minds to always understand the WHY.
You sharing your grief may just save someone’s life…someone who may have thought to end it all thinking it was “just too much”. Grief can also bring family together in a way that nothing else can.
As I said, we will never know exactly why….but I am sure your grief has done some good somewhere. 🙂
I will keep you in my prayers….tonight we have Prayer Meeting and Bible Study…and I am going to mention you. God bless.
Sarah Westover McKenna says
Thank you for your thoughtful comment, Robin! I agree. 🙂
Ursula says
Dearest Sarah, I am so sorry to hear about your loss. I too have suffered the great physical and mental pain of having a miscarriage. It brought me comfort at the time to know of so many friends and family members who also had to endure this. It is a loss and it is good to allow yourself time to grieve. I truly believe that the child I lost is in heaven and that I will be allowed to be with him or her when I get there, and that we are sealed together. You are such a beautiful and strong woman of God like your mother before you and I know you will make it through this with the help of your Father in Heaven. Love you! Ursula
Sarah Westover McKenna says
Love you too!!!
Cherie Simpson says
“what is my pain compared to the pain of those losing loved ones to shootings and all of the other tragic events in the world right now? Nothing. Truly.”
It is YOUR pain and you have every right to feel it. I am so, so sorry to read about your miscarriage. Loss affects all of us differently…I can certainly relate to your feelings regarding your beloved Mom and child. People like us who feel pain so deeply understand one another.
I hope that realizing you are not alone, along with the love and support of family and friends will be of peace to you.
Prayers for you, God Bless,
Cherie
Marilyn says
Sorry for your loss. Will pray for you and your family. God Bless you and yours.
Marilyn and family
Lindsay says
Thank you so much for sharing. It takes a lot of bravery to be so open and honest when your emotions are so incredibly raw. Please know that sharing your story helps others. It helps me. It reminds me that I’m not alone, and it’s reassuring to hear similarities in experiences. Reading stories like this can sometimes be the most comforting thing that I can do for myself when I’m feeling like I can’t talk about it with people, or when I feel like they don’t understand. So, again, thank you. Take care of yourself!
Cindy says
Thank you for being so brave! Your eloquent words are helping more people than you will ever know! May God guide you through this and continue to surround you with love and support!
Sarah Westover McKenna says
Thank you, Cindy!
Laura says
My sweet friend, I am so sorry for your loss. Life can sometimes be so cruel. I often think the same as you – that no more sorrow can come to me after all I have endured with losing my mom and my depression. I don’t understand it and probably never will. I also close off when I am dealing with overwhelming grief. It takes me time to be able to open up and let people in. I am proud of you for reaching out and asking for help to get through this. My heart breaks for you. I am praying for you and sending you hugs from afar. XO
Tori says
Sarah, your courage constantly amazes me. You are helping so many women with this post- your honest experiences. Beyond the fact that you’re an incredible writer, you are putting words to the feelings of so many who are grieving. I’m crazy about you, and so, so sorry for this terrible pain. Love you!
April says
I am so sorry for your loss! Praying for you and your family right now.
Gail Berkey says
I’m so sorry for your loss, sweet Sarah. You are in my prayers. Thank you for sharing your thoughts and your heart. I hope healing peace comes a little more each day. Love you.
Shell says
I am so sorry for your loss. You are so right, no one tells you how incredibly painful miscarriage is- to your body and your heart. It’s such a lonely thing and it shouldn’t be. I have had six losses, mostly in the 12-18 week time, it ends up I don’t produce progesterone correctly. Acupuncture helped me immensely. Make sure you take time for healing and mourning.
Sarah Westover McKenna says
Oh goodness, six losses! I am so sorry for your losses!!
Lauren says
My Beautiful Friend,
I am so very sorry for your loss. There simply are no words. I cannot imagine what you have been through and I know that the grieving process never really ends… I love you and am holding you and your family in my thoughts and prayers. Love, L
Sarah Westover McKenna says
I love you too! Can we please get together soon?