It’s been almost 4 years… Part 1 of my 2nd miscarriage story.


This post contains my story of miscarriage. This may be a sensitive topic and also, some of my words may be hurtful. 

Before going to bed, I had went to the bathroom. When I was going potty, I smelled something familiar. I couldn’t pin point what I smelling at first, only that it was something that I had smelled in my past. I realized, the one and only time I remember that smell was when I had a miscarriage less than a year ago. A sweet, metallic kind of smell that was unique to only those two moments. I wiped and thought I saw some extremely faint blood. I wiped and wiped and even though I wiped clean each time with no slight pink coloring, I knew… I just KNEW that when I saw the spotting on the first wipe that I was having a miscarriage. My heart sank. I felt like I couldn’t catch a breath regardless of how hard I tried. I laid in bed most of the night with no sleep, dreading that I would wake up in a pool of blood or that I would have to go to the bathroom and I would see more blood. At some point I dosed off for a bit of sleep. After waking up and going to the bathroom a few more times and seeing spotting ranging from no spotting to red to brown to red to nothing again, I called my OBGYNs office and left a message for a call back with a triage nurse. She called back shortly and after discussing my symptoms, she decided that I should be seen that day.

When you tell people you’re experiencing symptoms like this and you ask for advice, their response is always in my experience, one of three things; 

  1. They tell you facts/statistics proving that you’re wrong, that everything is fine.
  2. They tell you that they too experienced this and everything turned out perfectly fine.
  3. They tell you that you have nothing to worry about, everything will be ok.

When you just know with every bit of your soul that you know exactly what is happening, none of these responses feel good to hear. A few of the things I wanted to scream at many points of my day before my ultrasound that afternoon where;

  • Your statistics are making me feel like shit. You are telling  me that women in this stage of pregnancy who’ve heard their babies heart beat not once but twice, only have a 5% chance of experiencing a miscarriage and I am that 5%. I will forever now know exactly how unlucky I am because of all of the statistics you shared.
  • Your pregnancy is not my pregnancy. Your bleeding that you experienced is not the bleeding that I am experiencing and your healthy child is obviously not my healthy child. But thank you for reminding me that so many of you had bleeding that meant nothing. My bleeding means something.
  • Everything is not going to be ok. I am not ok. This is not ok.

What I would have rather heard was, I am here for you. Regardless of anything that happens, you are loved, you are supported and I will be here for you. I love and care about you and I hope that everything will ok for you and your baby.

With all of that being said, I know that people tried to answer my questions and make me feel better. I know that no one had ill intentions with their replies. My post about this may seem harsh, however I am documenting my experience. It’s very raw. My wounds are not even healed. Forgive me if these words hurt for that is not their purpose.

Before going to my appointment, I took the time to take a bath and shower, paint my nails, do my hair and apply minimal make up so that I could go in to this appointment refreshed and ready for what may happen. My daughter stayed home with my husband and I went to the appointment. 


I heard my name called by the ultrasound tech. I stood up and walked back to the room. I laid down and waited for the tech to come back. I heard the door open and then click, off went the lights so that we could focus on the screens to see the baby. The next moments went by in slow motion. I remember them vividly. As she put the ultrasound wand inside of me, I immediately had a flash of panic. An urge to grab my phone and record what I was seeing because I just knew that this was the last time I would see his baby on a scan. I began to shake. I explained that I was nervous because I was there to see if the baby was ok because I had been bleeding. She told me that we will be sure to look at everything and to relax because I was so tense. She pressed the wand in a little bit more and moments that were slow motion, became completely still. I saw the baby. I saw there was no heart fluttering on the screen. 

There is no heart beat. The baby has no heart beat?

She assured me that we can’t see that yet and that she needed to get a better view.

There is no heart beat. I don’t see a heart beat.

She continued to look. I begged her to tell me.

Please, I know you probably can’t tell me there is no heart beat but please tell me if you see a heart beat??

“No I’m sorry, I do not see a heart beat…”

Wham! The air is sucked out of the room. I let out a sob and I can’t breath in again. She tells me she will be getting a doctor to look at the scan to help her because she may be having an issue getting a good view because of the way my uterus was laying. I know that this was just a way to get someone in the room to confirm that my baby was dead. She patted my knee and left the room.

I remember calling my husband but I don’t remember exactly what that conversation sounded like. I think he answered and I sobbed, “The baby is dead. There is no heart beat”, and that I would tell him more later, that I had to finish the appointment.

She returned with another woman. We began the scan again and this time I didn’t have to look for a heart beat. I knew  that there wasn’t one. Instead I took this time to just look at and watch the baby. I’ll never forget the way it was just slowly floating in a slow circle, like a leaf on the water. Slowly, rotating. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. The two women commented about how it was really “spinning” in there. I snapped out of my daze and looked at them and they confirmed the baby in fact had no heart beat. 

I was left in the ultrasound room until another room became available to speak with someone who could tell me what to do next. I remember sitting down in that room alone and crying. I made sounds that I didn’t know my body could make. I don’t recall ever crying in such a way in all my life. 

I then went to another room and spoke with a PA who again confirmed there was no heart beat. She asked me what I wanted to do; miscarry the baby naturally, take medication to force it or have surgery. I couldn’t sit there any more, I thought I was going to throw up. She told I could leave and that she would call me to discuss.

 This was all a lot to type. So I’ll make a second post soon, explaining the rest of the story.

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