I’m supposed to be at the doctor today, 10 weeks pregnant, giddy from the idea of hearing my baby’s heartbeat and maybe getting a sonogram. Instead I’m sitting in my pajamas trying to get comfortable with the idea that I just had a miscarriage. As in JUST. As in this morning. On the day I’m supposed to confirm that everything is ok, it most definitely is not.

We knew this was a possibility. The numbers were low early on. The measurements were slow early on. Everything was being treated with a grain of salt. There was always a 50/50 chance of things going either way. Things could be fine…or not. So for six long and hard weeks we played the waiting game. Always waiting for the next appointment. Always waiting for a definitive answer that things really were OK. Or even that things really weren’t OK. Something more than the 50%.

Because while the 50% may have been a blessing for some, it was slowly and ferociously eating at my soul. Never knowing what was what. Never having control. Never being about to do ANYTHING to help this situation. I cried a lot. And slept a lot. As do most people at the beginnings of their pregnancy. But really it was more than that. It was the constant weight of the wondering and hoping while also trying to be realistic that was crushing me.

But now, it’s over.

This is not my first miscarriage, but it is by far and away the hardest one yet to endure. There was the ectopic before Max. And the miscarriage before Max. And the miscarriage after Oliver on Mother’s Day. And the miscarriage the day Charlotte turned 10 weeks old. This is obviously not my first time here. But this one is different. Not only is it because it is with someone new, someone who I love more than anything, someone who I wanted to share this very special and sacred thing with. Not only because I was further along than any of the others and literally had to feel the miscarriage. Not those things. With each miscarriage before there was always the idea of trying again. That there will be more opportunities. And at this point in my life, I just don’t think that’s true.

And I know we’re not supposed to talk about these things. We’re not supposed to put this shit in the universe. It’s all supposed to be unsaid and hidden, deep down in the core of our soul. But really, why? Because we might make someone else uncomfortable? That’s mostly why I write instead of talk. You can read it if you want. Or not. That’s your choice. But I’m sad and hurting and to me, keeping it inside makes it worse. It makes me feel like it’s my fault. It makes me feel like this is something I should be ashamed of. It makes me feel like I’m alone.

AND. NONE. OF. THAT. IS. TRUE.

And I can hug my three little miracles a little tighter each night knowing they truly are a gift to me every single day.