A few weeks ago, an online acquaintance joyously announced her pregnancy. I quickly offered my congratulations and best wishes. Days later, she sent an email with somber news: she had lost her baby. Just that quickly, her celebration had turned to sorrow and grief. Instead of happily chatting about baby plans and nursery décor, we all sent condolences. Little was said at all after a day or two, and conversations in the group went on at almost the usual pace. This lady was quiet. I can’t claim to know her well, but I do know what she must be going through. Miscarriages and spontaneous abortions are far more common than most of us realize.

This is my chance to share my story. I’ve got three wonderful children, but their births were punctuated by three or four early-term miscarriages.  I don’t talk about it much; sometimes it still saddens me wondering what might’ve been. It’s been twenty years, and I still recall the events clearly.

My husband and I were excitedly planning to start the family. Somehow, I always had figured that conception would be no problem, and sure enough, after a single try things seemed to be perfect. This was back in the days before instant pregnancy tests, so we waited anxiously while my period got later and later. I was nearly ready to see the doctor for the Official Test, when suddenly I didn’t seem so pregnant anymore. I chalked it up as being one of those things, and we merrily conceived once more. I carried a beautiful baby girl to term. I mentioned the whole thing in passing to my doctor, but he was unconcerned. Probably, he said, I was mistaken about being “in a family way” the first time around. Many women who’ve never had children get excited by a late period, but it turns out to be a false alarm, he said.

About a year later, my daughter was well on her way out of babyhood and into toddlerhood. It was time for baby number two. Once more, I conceived quickly and easily. I had the Official Test on my first late day, and the nurse beamed when she told me that our second child was on the way. Two weeks later, there was no more pregnancy, and I knew that being pregnant was a bit tougher than it looked.

I was young and reasonably healthy, so we quickly tried once more. Daughter number two came into the world with great celebration and fanfare, and not a little bit of fuss, since she sent my blood pressure through the roof and caused a few other minor complications. My husband and I thought that our family was complete. The planned two children had arrived, and like every young mom, I was busy alternating diaper duty with toddler chasing. The girls grew and learned, and the entire family was happy.

Gradually I came to realize that my family wasn’t as complete as I thought it was. It didn’t take much discussion before we tried for baby number three. Another quick conception brought me back to the doctor, but he wasn’t a bit worried. Spontaneous miscarriages are not likely to repeat themselves, he said. My chances of carrying this fetus to term were just as good as they ever were. My heart sank nearly a month later when miscarried again. This pregnancy went far enough along for me to notice some of the physical changes, and it felt very lonely when I realized that there was no longer a little person growing inside of me.

The doctor encouraged us to wait a few months to allow my body time to heal before trying again, which we did. That produced another home run, as my husband was fond of calling it. Somehow, though, I wasn’t too surprised when the umpire called the runner out long after he had crossed home plate.

It felt like there was a gaping hole in our family. The two sisters were a joy and also a constant reminder that someone was missing from the group. We had moved the youngest out of her nursery in anticipation of the third arrival, and, bless her two-year-old heart, she asked if the loss of the baby meant that she could have her crib back. We told her that the new resident was still hoped for, he or she was just running a bit late. And we prayed and hoped and hoped and prayed.

The doctor and I had a long talk. He said that if I felt so strongly about having a third baby, we had a few options left. We could go to a fertility specialist, take lots of expensive tests to find out exactly what was going wrong, or we could try an experiment. He theorized that my body simply wasn’t making enough progesterone to support the pregnancy before the placenta could take over the job. He suggested that we try taking supplemental progesterone for three months after conception to see if that would support the system long enough for the placenta to mature. The risk, according to him, was mostly that the hormone treatment could artificially sustain a doomed pregnancy. The hormone treatment might simply delay the inevitable or it might allow me to carry one more child to term.

We opted to give it a try. For three months, I conscientiously watched the clock and took doses of the refrigerated medicine precisely when ordered. That was a chore, and more than once, I scared both of us by being late with a pill. I took it easy and worried about every little twinge in my abdomen. I had bad dreams about losing babies and grinning sisters reclaiming the nursery. It was a very long three months.

Finally, it was time to stop the medicine. We anxiously waited a day, then two, then a week. There seemed to be no change, but the final test would be an early ultrasound. The doctor was checking to see if there was indeed a fetus in my womb. I’d not had one of these tests before and was just a bit anxious about the process, but even more, I was worried about what the test would show. Was there a baby in there or was this all a false alarm? I certainly felt pregnant, but the hormones that I’d been taking could easily have caused that feeling. The nurses and technicians cheered when the picture of the fetus came onto the screen. As far as anyone could tell, the baby was developing normally. What a relief!

About six months later, our third daughter was born and it finally felt like everyone had arrived. The youngest was a bit later than expected, but the group felt complete and whole. That was a wonderful feeling, too. We’ve been watching them grow into beautiful young women and have had the pleasure of seeing the eldest head off to college a few years ago. It’s exciting to contemplate grandchildren arriving someday (not too soon, though!).

I do wish that someone would’ve talked to me about miscarriage years ago. I wish someone would’ve told me that miscarriage is an emotional trial as well as a physical one. I wish that someone would’ve told me that it’s all right to grieve and mourn in spite of well-meaning friends’ and relatives’ hints to the contrary. I wish someone would’ve sat with me while I cried and told me that it was all right to feel sad instead of blaming it on raging hormones from my suddenly unpregnant body.

I’m thankful each and every day for the three miracles that grace our household. I do wonder at times what those other children would’ve been like if things had been different, but then I remember that these particular people wouldn’t be here at all if the other pregnancies had been successful. So I say a silent prayer now and then for their little souls, but I feel like we have the family that was meant to be, and all is well. 

Sandy Fleming is an educational consultant living in Michigan with her family.  She works as a tutor, freelance writer, and parenting workshop facilitator, as well as volunteers for church, Girl Scouts and county literacy work.