- My name is Jennifer and this is why I don't want
my miscarriage to stay secret.
I thought my first ultrasound would go like this.
My doctor would point out the baby
and I'd turn to my husband, Brendan.
He'd tear up and I'd whisper, "Can you believe it?"
We'd finally see our burrito;
one of our favorite foods and our
nickname for our unnamed fetus.
Instead, I saw a fuzzy gray screen.
My obstetrician told me there was no evidence of life,
just a gestational sac.
She asked me to come back two weeks later.
If there was growth, we were in business.
If my uterus was still empty, I would miscarry.
I worried every day that nothing was growing inside of me.
Still, I religiously read mommy online forums
where other women saw the fetus at their second ultrasound.
This gave me hope.
But the second ultrasound showed there was no baby.
Talking to my doctor, I was completely calm,
asking when we could try again.
"Everything's going to be okay," Brendan said.
It wasn't until later that I curled
into a ball in our bed, sobbing.
My very first pregnancy became my very first miscarriage.
The budding belly I had grown fond of, I now hated.
No one I knew ever posted
to Facebook, "I had a miscarriage today."
I told a few close female friends
and that's when the story started
coming out about their own miscarriages.
One friend was going through a miscarriage
at the same exact time I was.
Another suggested I check out #ihadamiscarriage.
I thought I was alone,
but it seemed so many women had miscarriages.
Many of us were still grieving.
Meanwhile in subsequent checkups,
I was still pregnant even though
my body was slowly bleeding.
A month later, my OB/GYN scheduled a D&C
to remove what was inside of me.
(machine beeping)
When I woke up in the recovery room,
the head of OB/GYN came in.
He demonstrated with his hand how my uterus was inverted.
When my doctor went into dilate me,
she accidentally punctured a small hole
in the top of my uterus.
They had to go in and stitch me up,
leaving me with small scars on either side of my stomach.
A group of medical workers were
walking through the maternity ward.
"Congratulations!" one woman said to me.
I shook my head.
"No, there's no baby."
She frowned and left.
At home, I spent two days in bed.
I didn't cry.
I just wanted to not exist anymore.
After the surgery complication
and an awful phone call with my doctor,
I started a frantic search for a new obstetrician.
Through a friend's recommendation, I saw a new doctor.
She answered my dozens of questions.
My new doctor made me feel comfortable,
whereas my old doctor didn't seem to care
and even dismissed my concerns.
When the miscarriage finally happened,
I welcomed the cramps
and the tissue that finally came out.
Now that the physical part was over,
I could finally move on.
I told more friends via email.
The outpouring of support and love was tremendous.
Two months later, Brendan and I were shopping at Target.
I accidentally wandered into the
baby section with rows of cribs.
Suddenly, my heart raced.
Tears were coming, so I ran out of
the baby aisle and found Brendan.
All I had to say was, "I went into the baby section."
He pulled me into a giant hug.
What I've learned is there's no getting over it.
The grief of my loss is part of me.
It always will be.
Now, instead of being ashamed to tell anyone on Facebook,
I'm going to break the bad news barrier and say it:
Last fall, I had a miscarriage.
(music)