Miscarriage and loss

Forever our Angels

Pregnancy loss is a common problem in obstetrics, occurring in approximately one in five pregnancies. Although most occur in the first trimester and many likely go unrecognized, it is difficult to anticipate the response of the individual woman (or man) experiencing this event. The book, Forever our Angels by author Hannah Stone represents a series of first-person vignettes describing responses to such losses.

The introduction by psychiatrist and vignette contributor Dr. Sara Goldman is particularly helpful in "framing" the issues at hand before one delves into the individual cases. A key message that runs throughout the book is that gestational age at the time of loss is not a determining factor as to the level of loss felt. Depending on the individual, and the circumstances surrounding the event, the "preciousness" of that pregnancy should not be undervalued based on how early it occurred. Only a limited number of such publications are available to both the medical and lay communities, making this work an important contribution. It should be required reading for any health care professional who participates in the care and well-being of reproductive-age women and men. It is difficult to find easy-to-read and personalized materials such as is contained in this book for the person experiencing a pregnancy loss. Perinatal Loss teams should therefore make Forever our Angels available to their patients so that they can have the opportunity to use this resource to heal and hopefully recover whole.

Bernard Gonik, M.D.
Professor and Fann Srere Chair of Perinatal Medicine
Department of Obstetrics and Gynecology
Wayne State University School of Medicine
Detroit, Michigan

Forever our Angels validates the profound suffering of women who have experienced pregnancy loss. This validation is the first step towards healing.

Christiane Northrup, MD
Author of Mother-Daughter Wisdom

Forever our Angels

By Hannah Stone

Excerpted from Forever our Angels, a collection of personal stories told by the men and women who were dealt the blow of miscarriage.

I was married to my husband for four and a half years when I became pregnant for the first time. It took about six months of trying before I got pregnant and we were thrilled when we saw that first plus sign on the pregnancy test. We decided to wait until I was 12 weeks along before we told our friends and family.

My husband and I were a bit nervous as my 12-week visit to the OB/GYN approached. My husband had this thing about something not being right because I was never nauseous. I figured I was lucky. We would soon find out that something was not right and that I certainly was not lucky.

As my doctor was preparing to do an ultrasound so that we could see the baby's heartbeat for the first time, I confided that I was nervous. I wasn't going to feel right until I saw my baby's heart beating on the ultrasound. And so we waited. And we waited. The doctor didn't let on that anything was wrong. In fact, she told us to go down the hall to a radiologist, whose equipment was better than her own. Within a few minutes of the radiologist's greeting us and starting the ultrasound, we were told that our baby had died. Our baby had grown for about eight weeks and then stopped, never having developed a beating heart. We were left shocked, heartbroken, and confused, and we didn't know what to do next.

I had a D & C that afternoon, but the aftershock of my miscarriage was felt for months. There were people who offered me hugs, and there were even a few who admitted that they had gone through the same thing. But no one really talked about it past the "I've had one too." I don't think it took more than two weeks after my D & C that I wanted to talk to someone who had been through the same thing. Most of my friends had gone on to have healthy babies after their miscarriages and it didn't seem right to discuss the past. I had my husband to talk to, and we grew closer as a result of having experienced this loss together. But I needed a voice of experience, and all I heard was silence.

I moved on and I focused my energy on moving on and getting pregnant again. We were thrilled when I became pregnant only four months after my miscarriage. Our daughter was born healthy and beautiful and worth every second of the anxiety I felt during those nine months of carrying her.

My second miscarriage occurred nearly three years later. My daughter was not quite two and my son was a precocious seven months. I had only been pregnant for eight weeks when I went in for an ultrasound. Again, my husband was by my side because he had this thing about being with me ever since my first miscarriage. The doctor was straightforward this time, telling me that something wasn't right with the baby. The heart hadn't started beating yet and it seemed as if the baby was two weeks behind in its growth. We knew what this meant—we had lost another baby. I miscarried at home this time. Physically, it was easier and faster. Emotionally, it was just as devastating as the first miscarriage. I knew that I had my children to be thankful for and believe me, I was thankful. But I was also sad because I had wanted this baby. But I moved on, and a month after the miscarriage, I got pregnant again. We were thrilled when I gave birth after a problem-free pregnancy.

When I got pregnant again two years later, I admit that I wasn't all that excited. I had three children under the age of four, and I was exhausted from keeping up with them. I must have taken four or five pregnancy tests, with all of them being faintly positive. I had wondered why the plus wasn't all that clear and I even called the pregnancy test company to ask what that meant. Their answer: if it says positive, it's positive. I kept wondering if maybe a faint plus sign meant a faint pregnancy. With all of the other times I had been pregnant—even with the two pregnancies I had lost—I had always seen a plus sign as clear as day. Something was wrong—I just knew it.

So call it maternal instinct. Within a few days after I found out I was pregnant, I noticed I was spotting. I was also experiencing some back pain but I figured it could have been from lifting the kids. We were devastated when the spotting turned into actual bleeding and the fetal tissue came out. I had just started to get used to the idea of being pregnant again and I even began to think about names and how I would decorate the nursery. I had gone from three kids to four and back to three.

As thankful as I am to have my beautiful family, I can't help but remember what I have lost. I lost three pregnancies. They were all wanted and expected and we were heartbroken when we lost them. It's been well over 11 years since I suffered my first loss, yet I can recall it as if it were yesterday. I remember how naïve I was, assuming that everything would be fine once I heard that heartbeat. And I remember how devastated I was when the ultrasound technician told me there was no heartbeat. I remember feeling alone even though I knew how common a miscarriage was. No one wanted to talk about it more than a "I had one once." And I remember the shame I felt for wanting to talk about it.

I wrote Forever Our Angels because I wanted to heal. The pain of my three losses will never go away. They get easier with each passing day, month, and year, but it never truly goes away. I wonder about my first baby and my second and my third that I lost. I have so many questions: was it a boy or a girl? Did it look like me or my husband? I will never know that child, and it still saddens me to this very day.

I wrote Forever Our Angels because I wanted to help others to begin the healing. I don't want anyone out there to feel the shame I felt in wanting to talk but not being able to. Pregnancy loss is something that happens every single day, yet for some reason, it is considered taboo. Our grandmothers have had it. Our mothers and sisters and aunts have had it. But no one feels they can talk about it. We are told to accept it and not to grieve or consider it the loss it truly is. As a result, many women are left depressed and completely despondent, not knowing where to turn. The purpose of my book is to to let men and women know that it is not only okay to grieve this very real loss, but that it is also necessary. The silence has to end. I know that I am not alone in the grief I experienced. And neither are any of you. Together, we can all take some comfort and begin the healing in knowing that we do need to grieve and we do need to mourn our angels.