My miscarriage story

Well, well. I guess it’s finally time to detail my story, which I’ve been vulnerably sharing bits and pieces of since April. I’m writing this on November 12, 2024, when our Noah would have been a month old. We were so excited to snuggle him during Thanksgiving with our family and share the joy of a fresh baby. The closer I get to the holidays, the more his passing settles in.

I will warn you that I am not a short storyteller (never was a woman of few words, LOL), and this is after all, a story of death, grief, and God’s presence in the midst of it so please… make yourself cozy as you read and know I treasure you taking the time to remember our son through his story.

On April 8, 2024 I miscarried our son, Noah, on my bathroom floor, surrounded by anguish, the peace of God, awe, love, grief, my two-year-old, and husband. 

The 8th of April happened to be the day of the Total Solar Eclipse. Yes, the mid-day one that made certain areas of the country go dark for several minutes? I spent that day laying on the couch, with spotting that began to grow into teeny clots, which confirmed to both myself and my midwife my suspicions of the week prior: baby had passed and my body was doing the sacred work of releasing his body out of my own. They were in a dance I could not stop or prevent. 

In the last five days, I had been experiencing very light spotting, almost too little to notice. The morning it began, I woke, used the restroom, wiped, and saw the bright red blood on the toilet paper. My body jolted awake with the awful reality: I think my baby may have passed. I took a picture, quickly flushed, and texted my husband thinking “I’m sure it’s nothing.” 

The next several days my spotting was so light I wasn’t thinking much of it until my midwife checked in on me. When I sent her photos of my panty liner, she gently pointed out it was starting to increase, not taper away. I felt heavy in my stomach, knowing it could be absolutely nothing, or it could mean the very worst. Opting out of any testing or intrusions, I stayed in contact with my midwife for several days, sharing updates and talking on the phone.  

Early pregnancy, like birth, is such a mystery. Sometimes bleeding simply means some cervical change or activity occurred. Sometimes it points to implantation bleeding, and sometimes it’s a sign your body has begun to process and respond to a baby whose heart is no longer beating. Most commonly, a baby passing in the early months of pregnancy is due to some genetic anomaly, which leads to their vital organs not correctly developing, and their passing.

I revere the mystery of our bodies and wombs and err on the side of “wait and see” in these scenarios. For me, this brings me peace and a reliance on God, instead of medical surveillance that is often incorrect and I’ve seen bring women even more anxiety or reliance on continued testing. I knew this was not the path for me and never considered it.

So for several days, that’s what I did. I wavered between fear and anxiety of what was going on and complete peace that everything was probably fine. The afternoon of the 8th, while on Facetime my mom and sister during the totality of darkness across north and east Texas, I began to grow uneasy. Slowly, my mind was catching up to accept the path my body was leading me down. Antsy, I considered driving to see my midwife to have her listen for my baby’s heartbeat, but deep down didn’t want to. I knew what it would confirm. She was unable to come to me until the next day, so it just felt right to simply keep waiting. There was traffic across Dallas-Fort Worth to see the eclipse, and I really didn’t want to be stuck away from home during the eclipse or after. I texted my close friends and asked for prayer.

By early evening I began to feel those dull period-like aches most women may experience on day two of their cycle. Sensations enough to notice, make you want to lie down, or use a heating pad. Simultaneously my teeny clots grew into small, yet more noticeable ones. Drew almost took Ezra to go grab Chick-fil-A for dinner because I kept asking for chicken noodle soup, but I asked him to have it delivered instead. I needed my family close and didn’t want them even to drive ten minutes away. Just like Ezra, my two-year-old son’s birth, I could feel things picking up “all of a sudden” in a way that required more of my mental stamina and focus and I didn’t want to be alone. 

I went to lay in bed in a child’s pose and turned a birth playlist on. Between the worship and synth tunes filling my bedroom, I felt my son nuzzle up under me. We hugged and I snuggled him close. He could sense my inner state and having him with me gave me great comfort. The surges of contractions were picking up, and they hurt. I began to moan and shift my pelvis left and right through the surge. Drew came to kneel with me and we both cried. It was happening. For the next hour or so I alternated between my bed, the toilet, and the kitchen, trying to eat my soup, yet feeling lots of pelvic pressure and going to be on the toilet instead.

During this time, I was texting a doula friend, asking for any practical suggestions to support the process and honor my baby. Because I was 13 weeks pregnant, I was preparing to catch my small baby, who at this stage of development was about the size of a lemon. I felt afraid to birth him. Birthing a full-term, pink baby felt joyful, a welcome experience, but my small, deceased baby? How was I going to do this? She suggested I set up a spot with towels, possibly a bowl, and something to “catch” baby if I happened to be over the toilet when he came. She also offered to come be with me but I felt at peace just being with my family. 

I want to interrupt this part of my story to acknowledge how uncommon, uncomfortable, or difficult this may feel for you to read. How gruesome, or devastating, or maybe you think it’s disgusting or inappropriate to talk about catching our own babies from our wombs or staying watchful of miscarriage blood to see our own child in its midst. As a culture, we are increasingly disconnected from our bodies and children. The thought of discussing birth, blood, or postpartum clotting is enough to send people into a nausea spell. 

To be completely blunt, I find this unacceptable and such a commentary on how disassociated we are as a society. We are so repulsed by our bodies and terrified of death many would rather wipe and flush, pay a stranger to deal with it, or pretend it didn’t happen. That is just not who I am. This child was my baby. They deserved the same dignity you or I would after passing. We are, after all, a miracle of a soul wrapped in bones, flesh, and blood. I won’t apologize for choosing to connect and stay embodied in that.

I also acknowledge some women need outside support to help their babies pass out of them, and I honor that as well. My desire as a birth worker is that our medical community would hold the utmost respect for these tiny children, in the same way they would a full-term baby. Mothers deserve it. Babies do too. 

As I took homeopathy to assist in my bleeding, I began to have bowel movements on the toilet. At this point, I knew the baby was going to come soon. The pressure in my birth canal was intensifying. It was a true labor experience, paired with pain and even my water breaking! It startled me. I looked between my legs in the toilet and saw greyish amniotic fluid drizzling out of me in a strong stream. I called out to Drew as I kneeled to the floor on top of the towels and bowl. 

Processing that my water broke, I knew our baby was certain to come within the next contraction or so. In a few minutes, I felt more pressure in my birth canal, and a larger clot come out. Next was our son. Peering into the white-lined bowl I caught him in, we were speechless looking at his little body. He was much, much smaller than we anticipated, about the size of my fingernail, which told us he probably passed inside me at around 7 or 8 weeks old. My body had sensed this around 12 weeks gestation (when spotting started), and I passed him on week 13. The medical community calls this a “missed miscarriage”. For me, it felt right on time. 

We both cried, and I kept saying “That’s him, that’s our baby. He’s so tiny. Wow.”

We saw his beady eyes, his head, and arms and legs. He was still in that state of gestation where we look slightly like a tadpole, but our more “noticeably human” features were starting to develop. I couldn’t look away. This was my baby, who I’d just caught, along with his womb blood and fluid. I was mesmerized looking at him. How could such a small human being have such an intense impact on my body and mind? 

Drew had set up Ezra with a movie on in the other room, but he kept coming in and out of the restroom to check on us. He felt the shift in our hearts. At this point, we shared with him that this baby was with Jesus now. 

I felt a sense of relief wash over me looking at our son. I was thankful that my body and his worked together to help him out of my womb, his only home. His time there physically was finished, and I felt a sense of closure in that. 

The song “Color” by UPPERROOM was playing over us and the lyrics “you are faithful to the end, you will finish what you started. Everything you begin, Lord, you will finish…” sang out while we cleaned up the restroom.

For the next few hours, I continued to bleed larger clots, cramp, and feel pain and heavy grief. Before climbing into bed I knelt in our shower and rinsed my body off. Seeing blood pool and run down the drain devastated me. I allowed myself to wail and release. Internally, I thanked my body and God for knowing what to do.

I continued to bleed heavily, certainly more than a heavy period, for several hours but never felt too faint or lightheaded. I took many minerals and tinctures to support my body and after I passed the placenta, things seemed to taper down and I was able to fall asleep next to Ezra and Drew. 

I was also thankful to still be nursing Ezra, as I knew that nipple stimulation was helping my womb release oxytocin, which causes it to shrink down, and subsequently blood vessels to close off.  I’ll never cease to be amazed by God’s design of our bodies. 

We put Noah, a name that came to us the next morning, in a saline solution, to preserve his body while we decided how to honor him. I texted my family and close friends what happened and within an hour there were groceries and flowers at my door. I’ll never forget my dad instantly calling me to “hear my voice and let me hear his”, as he put it. He cried with me on the phone as I shared what happened and our plans to bury Noah on my mom’s property. 

My loving midwife honored his life and body with her words and offered me advice for healing in the coming weeks. She affirmed to me “This was a birth. You need to rest and take it easy. If Drew can take time off from work to grieve, he should.” And I’m so grateful he could and did, as the next week was really difficult. Between mothering our toddler, cramping, discomfort, and continued bleeding, we had some of the most tender and emotional days. 

Falling asleep was especially tough. It felt similar to the “sundown scaries” that some postpartum moms talk about when taking care of a newborn. As the day closes, and night creeps in, it can be anxiety-inducing to know you’re going to be woken frequently in the night to nurse or soothe a little one. The unknown can feel overwhelming. For me, night felt like confirmation of another day passing and it solidified that we experienced the loss we did. 

I was pregnant with a son. I had dreams about him. I even had a dream about his birth. And suddenly, he not only passed away, but passed through my body, and we would never get to meet him, hear him talk, count his toes, or know what color hair he’d have. That unknown and mystery still aches. And, I’m so thankful that my womb was his home his entire life, where he only knew warmth, comfort, and peace. 

There are still certain smells and objects that take me back to the period of healing and recovery from this loss. Like the sage hand soap in our restroom, or the homemade chicken and dumplings my sister made after driving hours the next morning to be with my family and help us with Ezra. I’ll never forget how she and my mom sat next to me on the couch after a day had passed and I hadn’t cried to suddenly combusting into heavy wails.

Miscarriage is largely a hidden, and fear-based experience. Everyone is immediately terrified of bleeding out or something going wrong, similar to the birth of our full-term babies. On top of this, excessive medical monitoring often reveals to women that their babies have passed, which exacerbates their pain and grief as they wait for their bodies to “catch up” to the process. I am incredibly thankful that I did not have knowledge that anything was “wrong” before I started spotting. It required that I sink into my faith in God, the intuition He gives us, and make choices from that place of peace. There is a lot more I want to share on this topic, from my own bias and experience, simply for perspective and learning’s sake. Many women experience loss but walk through grief feeling isolated and alone. Most of our families don’t know how to remember our babies in heaven, or even acknowledge them in conversation. I believe the pain of it all leads most to ignore or act like it never happened. 

If you want to learn more, please feel free to email me any questions, thoughts, or parts of my story you are curious about. Or your own experiences you would like to share. Story sharing is how we keep memories alive and connect to one another. I will continue to write about this as I feel led, and am happy to share more about this process. Be sure to subscribe to my emails so you don’t miss my responses.

I can be reached by email thissacredmotherhood@gmail.com