My husband and I were surprised but excited when we found ourselves unexpectedly pregnant for a third time. I scheduled an appointment with my obstetrician and arrived at her office six weeks and six days into my pregnancy.

My 4-year-old daughter Eve was at preschool and my 20-month-old son David was in the waiting room with my sister. I figured my husband Matt would have to take off days from work over the next nine months so I told him to skip what I expected be an uneventful first appointment.

That Monday, I happily chatted with my doctor. She buzzed one of the nurses during the exam to check if my insurance plan approved a six-week ultrasound. It was and she set up the machine. As the scan started, she stared at the monitor and suddenly the silence took over the room. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Call it mother’s intuition, but I knew I was pregnant four days before I missed my period. I also knew in my heart that I would never meet my baby face-to-face.

On the screen, my doctor saw a yolk sac but no baby inside. She said I probably had my dates wrong. I knew my dates were right. After I pushed for an alternate explanation, she reluctantly said it could be the start of a miscarriage. She told me to come back in a week for another ultrasound but to call if I had cramps or began to bleed.

I don’t remember walking out of the office. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me and that I had to wait a week to know if the person I already loved so deeply was dead. I opened my mouth to speak to my sister and began to cry hard. The next few days were a nightmare.

I didn’t make it to the repeat ultrasound because I started to bleed a few days later. I went back to my doctor and she confirmed the worst. She suggested I have a D&C (dilatation and cutterage), a surgical procedure that would remove the remains of the baby since I wasn’t miscarrying in a timely fashion. I needed to have the procedure to reduce further trauma to my body and the potential for infection. I scheduled a D&C for the next day at the hospital where my second child was born.

The doctor explained the baby stopped developing at five weeks because, most likely, it had a severe chromosomal abnormality and would have been physically

and mentally impaired. It was nature’s way of sparing the baby and us the pain of that kind of life.

For me, this was as bad as having lost one of my other children. To everyone around me, including my husband, this was simply the loss of an early pregnancy – not a life.

As we told friends and family, the responses varied. All were heartfelt, but many simply shattered the remains of my broken heart.

“Well, thank God it happened so early, before it was really a baby,” said one friend. Before it was a baby? I was already talking to it and daydreaming about where we should have the baptism party.

I read a magazine article the week after my miscarriage about a mother who lost her baby 23 weeks into her pregnancy. I was jealous that she was able to hold her baby and take pictures. She and her husband weren’t considered crazy for naming their baby or wanting a funeral – and that picture was proof the baby existed, that it was a person. Where was my proof?

What was the difference in those 16 weeks? Was my loss supposed to be less than hers? Was I lucky, as many people told me, when I lost my baby before I would ever be able to hold her?

I named her Mia. I have no birth or death certificate. There was no funeral and the ultrasound was unable to capture her image. Naming her was a way to make sure I would never forget she was here despite her short life.

I was still in mourning but most people around me accepted the loss and moved on, as if I’d had an illness that was diagnosed and successfully treated. The only people who understood were members of the club no one wants to join – those who have also lost babies. Until I miscarried, I was unaware of all the women around me, some extremely close, who had shared my experience.

For something so common, it is not discussed.

The most healing words came from my daughter. Before I became pregnant, she had a million questions about life, death and heaven. The night after my miscarriage, I tucked her in.

“You know what Mommy? Baby Mia is going to be okay,” she said. I asked her how she knew and she replied, “Your grandparents are already up in heaven and they will hold her and play with her until we get really old and go up there to take care of her.”

My father always says people are like candles. You never know if you’re a short one or a long one until you burn out. For Mia, her flame was bright but burned only for short time. At least I know how brightly it burned.

Resources

• HAND (Helping After Neo-natal Death) – http://www.handonline.org/
• SHARE: Pregnancy and Infant Loss Support – http://www.nationalshareoffice.com/index.shtml
• March of Dimes: Pregnancy and Newborn Loss – http://www.marchofdimes.com/pnhec/572.asp