The emotional definition of a miscarriage

The medical definition of a miscarriage - the expulsion of a fetus from the womb before it is able to survive independently, especially spontaneously or as the result of an accident. That's what is medically described, what’s not described is the feeling that comes after. The flood of memories, emotions, pain, grief and loneliness. The day you pee on a stick and see those two pink lines, your life changes. You imagine how to tell your spouse, how to tell your family, you’re imagining pink and blue, your entire body and mind changes into something amazing and short of a miracle. “I’m pregnant!” you say to your husband with a smile on your face, not expecting the pain that is going to come in a few short weeks. Your first ultrasound is scheduled, you see a small baby seeming healthy until the doctor goes silent and tells you something went wrong. The world freezes, your heart stops suddenly, the air feels thick; slowly pushing you underwater. Your husband is standing there frozen, not knowing whether to cry or support you in that moment. Your mind begins to fail you, telling you this is your fault, you caused this, your body failed you when in reality, your body did not fail you, life did. Suddenly, those two pink lines fade, along with the hopes and dreams you had for this baby. Suddenly, the plans of decorating the nursery fade, finding out the gender fade and soon enough the pain fades. But until it does, it feels like you are stuck in quicksand, not knowing whether to move, run, scream or cry. Everything feels wrong, especially when they tell you the baby passed away weeks ago, you go from feeling so strong and unbreakable to feeling overwhelmed with grief. Soon you make the calls to family, letting them know that the worst thing that could have happened, happened. They call and text you, checking up on you asking if you’re okay, if you are able to cook or clean, you smile and nod, saying that you’re fine and you will get through this when deep down, the moment they leave and the silent creeps in, you’re on the floor, the oxygen ripped out of your lungs and your heart is bleeding out along with your body. You aren’t okay, you weren’t okay the moment they told you the baby passed away before you even had a chance to give them an identity; you know they existed but you don’t know their name, their personality, you didn’t hear a heartbeat or see their body grow or change, but you changed. Your heart changed, your body changed, your mind changed and your life changed. Even though you didn’t get to keep that baby, your heart will always have that baby. There is nothing anyone can say or do to change the fact that such a young life was ripped away before it even started. Life will go on, you go to dinner,, talking to the waiter as your body is going through the biggest change it will face, you smile and nod when she asks you how your day is, you say it was great, when she walks away you go silent. You look over to the table next to you and you see a pregnant woman, and suddenly you are reminded once again of something you don’t have. It feels like something you will never have, but with people reminding you how young you are and how every pregnancy is different, you can’t seem to believe them, because why would you? During your entire adulthood you’ve been seemingly healthy, took the right prenatals, ate the right food, got the perfect amount of rest, and that still didn’t matter, because in the end, that baby was never yours to keep, but yours to love. But you don’t know that when you see those two pink lines, because in that moment, that baby is fully and utterly yours.