My body was bleeding.
We were supposed to be on a family vacation in Miami, and instead my body was bleeding.
I had just dressed up my first born with a “big brother to be” t-shirt on our flight from Connecticut to Florida to meet his grandparents. I was over joyed by the news and so ready to become a Mom again.
There I lay on a gurney in the emergency room in Miami, frantically looking at the ultrasound techs face for any clue if there was still life. He looked at me flustered and said “are you even pregnant?”. He called someone else in to check who confirmed they couldn’t find a speck of life.
Instead of the beach, I searched for a quest diagnosis to take my hormone levels. I was desperate to find out that they were fine so I could engage in the vacation that everyone kept waiting for me to show up to. That hopeful answer never came.
Instead, I spent a week amongst palm trees, dying to get home to my own obstetrician. Family tried to encourage me “Not to think about it”, “Enjoy time in the sun”, “Be thankful for the healthy child willing to build sandcastles”. Clearly I was bringing everyones joy down to a level of disappear.
Miscarriages are incredibly lonely spaces. The world insists on going on without you. It is as expected as clearing your body of bad virus. Everyones “kind words” felt so empty and so hurtful. “It wasn’t meant to be”, “Something must have been wrong with it”, “Thank God it wasn’t a REAL baby”. I heard them all. They all hurt like hell.
Nobody seemed to understand the pain and self blame that happens to a woman when her body failed a life.
Lucky for me I knew of one other person in this secret club that nobody ever wants to be part of. She was an old roommate from college who encouraged me to find a small symbol/gift to represent that baby. She also told me that when I had my next healthy child, I would hold it and think about how that life might not have ever been, if this life hadn’t taken a pass.
My last appointment at my doctors office, a none routine doctor, checked me out and yelled down the hallway, “This one is all done”towards the secretary. My regular doctor, and a hand full of visibly pregnant patients in the hallway stared at me. I looked up at my actual doctor and started to weep. How could someone be so insensitive to announce how I am “all done” and with such pride. I didn’t want to be “all done”. My doctor quickly scooped me into her office and held me. She reassured me of my future with healthy babies in my arms and apologized for her colleagues grossly inconsiderate way of informing the secretary I didn’t need a follow up appointment. On the way out of the office that day, sobbing, I look down to find the perfect little acorn drop at my feet.
An acorn. My sign of my beloved baby I so desperately wished I had the chance to meet.
That was almost 11 years ago to this day, and two more kids later. My friend was right, holding my next healthy baby, made me appreciate the fact that she would have never been made if the other had lived. I also, over time, realized it wasn’t anything I could’ve done to prevent it. I do, however, honor the void in my heart that is acorn shaped even a decade later.
Recently, I have noticed it has come up more than I ever anticipated. I imagine it is because I buried most of that lonely, self loathing trauma, that my body held onto. Since I have been in a life transforming place, all has risen to the surface to be dealt with.
At a recent trip to Canada, I found a necklace with acorns on it, that I knew I had to own. Last Christmas a loving friend gifted me a silver acorn saying she didn’t know why but felt she had too. Just last week, I went for a hike in the woods and found a perfect acorn drop at my feet, and I cried. I carried it the entire hike while praying for various things. Then I released it back to earth for God to take care of. As well as the trauma I had buried so deep within me.
October is pregnancy and infant loss awareness. The same time of year acorns fall from the trees. One out of every four woman will experience a miscarriage in their lifetime. It is lonely, brutal, and silent. Please don’t ask your loved one how they are doing- the answer is “not well”. Just treat them as you would anyone who is in the thick of grief. Loss doesn’t need to be scaled by the world, only the persons heart. And do your loved one a favor, get them their acorn. A representation of the baby lost was the best advice anyone could have ever given me.
Seasons change. The seasons of acorns now makes me grateful for my three healthy children, and the fourth that reminds me yearly, how strong I am.
seekingup
Seeking Up 
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