I suffered a miscarriage on Tuesday.
We did a pregnancy test at home on Saturday. When the imperious second line appeared, I was excited and happy, but not surprised. I had known that the baby was coming. There were signs – the backache, tiredness, sleepiness, tenderness in breasts and lower abdomen, where ovaries reside, the heightened sense of smell and the frequent mood swings.
But it wasn’t meant to be.
On Tuesday, I started to bleed. A few frantic calls to the obstetrician and a blood test later, we were told over the telephone, and rather rudely, that the pregnancy had failed. It was one of the most difficult days of my life. Our family had unexpectedly lost a member, and all that was left was the long shadow of grief. I was living my nightmare.
Men and women react differently to situations. While I was grieving and crying, Hubby was concerned about my physical well-being. Later he would tell me that even though he was sad that the pregnancy was over, he couldn’t feel my heartache, anguish and sorrow. Nonetheless, he remained with me for as long as I wanted and let me be. I talked about the baby, how excited I had been about being pregnant with our second child and how miserable I felt now that it was all over. The healing had begun.
Nature had picked the one on which wanted its resources spent and it wasn't my child. It pains me to think that my child was perhaps genetically inferior. I feel as if I have failed. I feel judged, by myself. But the past few days have taught me a great lesson – even the best laid plans go awry. The natural order must be maintained, even though a mother has to grieve the loss of the one who could have been many things. Many.