Within recent weeks, I’ve had to tell a few people about my miscarriage. (I made sure to keep those conversations brief because dwelling on it might have induced tears.) During one conversation, a well intentioned friend responded, “Well, you’ll probably get pregnant next month and have a beautiful baby.” I understand what she was trying to say–your fertility is probably unaffected–but the statement hit a nerve. The implication that I wanted to get pregnant again is miles away from the truth.
After giving birth to both Andrew and Emily, I had this weird sensation of wanting to have another baby immediately. Bizarre, I know, but completely true. I had the same feeling following my first miscarriage. The second miscarriage had the opposite influence. The intensity with which I wanted that pregnancy left me feeling bitter, hollow, and apathetic ensuing the miscarriage. It isn’t that I don’t want another baby, it’s that I am terrified of another miscarriage. Terrified of another pregnancy.
As of now, I can’t bear the thought of trying again. I’ve even questioned my dream of having a big family.
Perhaps within a year I will feel differently. Though, truth be told, the experience was so extremely heart breaking that I’m not sure if I will ever have another pregnancy in which I will feel safe. Unless I am given some advanced directive from Above informing me that all will be safe, I will be anxious until I give birth. Because, as I’ve learned, even a heart beat doesn’t provide conclusive evidence of a safe pregnancy.