My Story

Friends,

I’ve wanted to share this for a while now — I’m going to rip the bandaid. This topic in particular is hard for me to write about, but I believe that we can help others heal through sharing our experiences and if even 1 person feels comforted by reading this, it will have been worth it.

5.5 years ago, I met Charlie. It’s an adorable story for another time, but on our first date I knew I had found someone special. Charlie had been living a majorly bachelor-ific life in a cute (and rather roomy) studio apartment in San Francisco when we met. He had dated plenty pre-Val but nothing quite clicked into a long-term thing (translation: I was his first big relationship). With each date, I could feel us growing stronger together and especially for us Sensitive Sallys…..when you know, you know — and I was about as subtle as a dump truck driving through a nitroglycerin plant (Chevy Chase Christmas Vacation, Uncle Louis, 1989. {I love to cite my sources}).  The biggest decisions we had to make that first year together were which house we’d spend the weekend at (SF or San Jose), where we’d go for dinner, what we’d do for breakfast in the morning, and when we’d plan our next date. They were easy days….very little complications, so much excitement and happiness. 

Around our 1 year mark, we spent Christmas with our own families and I couldn’t wait for him to get back from his hometown to spend New Years and my early-January birthday with me. We were pretty serious, but I was still a bit nervous to ask Charlie about our next steps as a couple (translation: when is it too soon to ask this dude to shack up with me?!). He planned a gorgeous brunch for my 31st birthday one Saturday in January with some of our newly-mutual friends in San Francisco. We went together, visited, laughed, celebrated and enjoyed the time together — but something heavy was weighing on me that I hadn’t told Charlie, or anyone, yet. Yup…..I was late. 7 days to be exact. And I. Was. Terrified.

I took minuscule sips of my mango mimosa at brunch and tried to focus on the fun we were having with our friends. Once brunch ended, we returned to his studio apartment and sat on the couch to relax and watch some TV. About 20 minutes into a boring basketball game I couldn’t even pretend to focus on, I turned to him to fess up. With my voice shaking, the words came out: “I’m a little freaked out because my period is super late.”  Basketball game went on mute. Fast.

After a lengthy, rather circular conversation of “are you sure’s” and “tell me again how long it’s been,” we decided to ease our minds and drive to Walgreens. The return car ride home–digital tests in plastic bag–were quiet. Neither of us knew what to say.  How did this happen? Well, we knew the answer to that. What do we do? No, definitely didn’t know the answer to that. Maybe its negative? Hmm….seems premature to try and soothe our worries with that one.  There was nothing to say until that test was done.  We walked in his door, I took a deep breath, and excused myself to the restroom. I set the test on the white porcelain sink, and walked out of the bathroom.  “Well??” he asked. “It’s thinking…” I replied. More silence. I’m pretty sure his houseplants had anxiety — there’s nothing that didn’t feel uncomfortable in that room.  I waited more than enough time before heading back down the hall. As I picked up the stick with trembling hands, I turned around to see a terrified Charlie staring back at me, and the words just fell out of my mouth at the same time the tears poured. 

Positive.

I sobbed. This wasn’t our plan. We aren’t married. Did that matter? Was I old enough for this?  All I could do was cry. The biggest question of all? How would Charlie, this wonderful man that I adore, handle such a change? He was barely getting used to my bobby pins laying around his apartment — a baby?! There’s no way he wouldn’t run for the hills. But instead, he held me tight and whispered that it would be okay, and that we would figure everything out together. As he put the test back on the sink, and walked me to the couch, I couldn’t turn off my worries. But he seemed to hear them all. I didn’t say much for the next little while, but gradually little sentences emerged from Charlie. “It really will be okay. We are going to figure this out. Lets just take it one day at a time.”  I nodded, grabbed more toilet paper (lets be serious, he didn’t yet know the beauty of lotion puffs tissues), and just listened to him.

As the weeks passed by, I went through all of the changes one would expect. I told my Mom, Dad and sister (who were all thrilled and seemed not the least bit concerned about anything I was freaking out about), I saw my doctor, we had our first ultrasound (at 5 weeks – to confirm via blood test and see if she could see a sack, then again at 6 weeks because she couldn’t see the sack at 5 weeks {far too soon} & truthfully because my Dr knew just how terrified I was), and I started taking my prenatal vitamins. Before not too long, Charlie asking me how I was feeling and the two of us preparing our minds for this rapid change, began to feel normal. I shared the news with a few friends and sought comfort in their happiness for Charlie and I. I truly think a small part of me was waiting for someone to reprimand me or to tell me this was a bad decision, or to ask what I was thinking….part of my mind forgot I was a 31 year old woman with a boyfriend who really cared for, and actually, we’d be okay. It was around the 9 week mark that I felt it: Excitement. It just so happened, my sister was also pregnant at the same time, with her now 3.5 year old son Reagan. We had dinner one night with my family and as my mom cooked, my sister and I both covered our hormonally-charged noses “ewwww what is that smell?!!?!?” My brother-in-law laughed and said, “oh boy…two of them pregnant together, this ought to be fun.”  Pregnant alongside my sister. That WAS fun.

My 9 week appointment was teed up to be an exciting one. Finally at a stage where I’d be able to hear more than just a teeny sound of a heartbeat, I might even be able to SEE a little something bouncing around. Charlie had an appointment at work that afternoon, so he asked if my Mom could accompany me to this appointment (he had been at the last 2 by my side and the last one had been great — we heard a heartbeat). She was DELIGHTED, and met me at my OB’s office. As I sat on the table, gown on, Mom beaming with her phone out ready for pictures of the little bean, my heart raced. I couldn’t wait to tell Charlie how it went. Dr. came in, got the ultrasound machine ready, and we began. After a few seconds, my Dr.’s brow furrowed. She squinted. As my Mom hadn’t noticed, she raised her phone and said “I can’t wait to get a picture!”  The Doctor quickly shot out “lets hold on that, Mom.”

The Dr confirmed something that had never truly crossed my mind — I had miscarried at 9.5 weeks. All this time I had worried about our relationship and the impact this news would have on Charlie. I worried about what this meant for us physically, and how we’d shift from 2 people falling in love, to becoming parents in just a short time. It never crossed my mind that I might lose this tiny miracle growing inside of me. Disbelief was a spot-on word for what I went through in those next few days. I didn’t know how badly I wanted that baby until I couldn’t have it. I cried myself to sleep for naps and bedtime, I ate very little, I sobbed in my mother’s arms more times than I can count, I heard my own very sad cry as I got the words “but I really wanted my baby,” out. It was unfair. It hurt like nothing I had ever experienced.

Through this pain, which I can still feel as though it were a week ago (I won’t say yesterday because the day after that doctors appointment is truly a day I will remember forever — you never forget the feeling of your heart actually breaking inside of you), there were 2 things that I can point to as moments that changed me forever. For one, I knew when the time was right, I would be a Mom. Although this pregnancy had been a shocking surprise that concluded with a horrible surprise ending, it confirmed what I knew I wanted during my life: the ability to care for another and raise a little person. The second thing that changed me forever was my feeling for Charlie. From the moment I told him my fear that Saturday in January until he walked through the door of my apartment after the dreaded Dr. appointment and held me like he might never let go, I knew our relationship was different. He had gone from my boyfriend, to my partner, and in the weeks following, a hero. He cared for my physical being, but more importantly, he cared for my mind. He was gentle. He assured me that we were in this together, heartbreak and hope, and one day we would be parents to a baby–no matter how we got there. That reassurance was what I needed in that moment.  I wasn’t alone despite my incredible loss of a love I was not prepared for, but was granted for a short time.  I was loved by a man who was ready and willing to pick up each piece of my broken heart, and help me put myself back together. 

I think about my miscarriage everyday. It is a part of who I am, and a story that I feel compelled to share with women who have been through this, or who know someone who has. We have been groomed to keep the scary stories to ourselves and only speak of beautiful things to each other–we keep our miscarriages, fertility struggles, negative EPT’s, unwanted periods, frustration and anger to ourselves — And I no longer want to. It’s important to me to open up and let anyone who wants to be heard, ask questions, empathize, cry or tell their own story, in. I want the woman reading this who is hurting to know that it’s okay to hurt. I want to reassure her that better days are ahead.

Finally, I learned something new through this journey: There is a whole community of women in the world who unfortunately know this type of pain, and who are extremely supportive of the feelings that accompany it — and more likely than not, these women want to hear your story, too. 

Thank you for reading mine.
Val