I follow a lot of loss accounts on social media, and one of the most common phrases that those who have suffered a miscarriage hear is “at least it was early.” I actually heard this one myself when I had my first trimester miscarriage, and even though I know it wasn’t meant to belittle my experience, it did. When I saw those two pink lines on that pregnancy test, my entire life changed. I was growing a human, I was now someone’s mother, I vowed to love and protect that little being.

I immediately looked up my due date and started thinking about what the weather would be like when he or she was born. I was due in September, so that could mean hot Summer-like temperatures, or chilly Autumn ones. Of course, there were a million questions that needed to be answered. What would it be like to bring a newborn to my family’s Thanksgiving dinner, and how much fun would our first Christmas as a family of three be? How would we announce to our friends and family that I was pregnant? Would we find out the gender? Should we have a baby shower before or after the baby is born? Oh, and I can’t forget NAMES. So many names went on a list in my little notebook. As soon as I got that positive pregnancy test, I started planning for life with a baby.

For weeks, I had felt incredibly nauseous and tired, until one day I just didn’t anymore. My gut told me this was a bad sign, but I brushed it off because what did I know? This was my first pregnancy, after all. Then, at my 13 week prenatal screening ultrasound when the technician stared stonefaced at the screen without saying a word, I knew something was wrong. I nervously asked her if there was “anything in there”, and she replied “well, not what I would expect to see at 13 weeks.” She told me she was going to bring my husband in to sit with me while she tracked down a doctor. A few minutes later she came back in, and told us to go see my midwife at the clinic right away – she was expecting us. I had only just seen her the day before, and she hadn’t been able to find a heartbeat on the Doppler. She had tried to reassure me by saying that I may not have been as far along as I had thought, and told me not to worry, but I knew. I can’t say I was surprised when she held my hands in hers and said “I’m so sorry, but your baby has passed. There’s no heartbeat.” I asked her why, and all she could say was “sometimes these things just happen.” She gave us a minute alone and I just burst into tears as soon as she closed the door.

I was given the option to go home and wait for ‘things to happen naturally’ or book an appointment with an OB who could schedule a D&C. I opted to wait it out because a D&C seemed so final to me. After days, and then weeks, of nothing happening and being pushed aside by my family doctor, I took myself to the emergency room to ask for the D&C. The doctors and nurses there were so compassionate and kind – something I didn’t know I needed at that time. I was admitted and given misoprostol to induce contractions before my D&C in the morning. I ended up needing morphine for the pain because the contractions were so intense. Before I was put under, the OB performing the D&C held both my hands in his and said “I’m so sorry we have to meet this way. I hope we will meet again under better circumstances.” That tiny bit of kindness has stuck with me, and literally brings tears to my eyes as I type this almost 9 years later.

It took me a few days to feel better physically, but emotionally was another story. Most of the women I had spoken to about their miscarriages made it seem like it wasn’t that big of a deal. It was so common, you know ‘1 in 4’ and all that. I was devastated, and I didn’t know anyone else who had expressed that, to me at least, so I felt very much alone. I had support, of course, but I didn’t have anyone to say that it was normal to feel the way I felt. It hit me hard when friends started announcing their pregnancies. It hit me all over again when my due date came in September, and at Christmas without our first baby.

You see, it’s not just a miscarriage. It’s not just an early pregnancy loss that can be forgotten about once you have another baby. It’s a baby that was wanted, a life that was planned, dreams that were shattered. The heartbreak did taper off over time, but I still think about the baby that could have been. I still wonder if we would have had a boy or a girl. I imagine my living son as a little brother instead of our first-born. I even wonder if we would have him at all if our first baby had lived.