Normalizing talking about loss and grief.
I was eight weeks and two days pregnant when I went through my miscarriage in July 2021.
On the day of my miscarriage, my toddler was up bright and early. After changing his diaper, I left him with his dad and went to the bathroom. While cleaning myself, I noticed some blood. I had experienced spotting during my first pregnancy, and initially, I was not alarmed.
While my husband and I got our son ready for daycare, something happened, and we argued. When he got back from dropping him off, we didn't say much to each other, as we both needed to cool off.
I noticed more and more blood each time I went to the bathroom. I was very busy at work, and I kept telling myself it would be okay, even though, deep down, I knew something wasn't right.
At four-thirty in the afternoon, I went to pick up my kid and took him to the park. He ran around, played in the sand, and hopped on the swing. I made a conscious effort to be present and focus on him.
We played some more when we got home, watered the plants on our terrace, and watched a few Coco Melon songs on TV. I cooked dinner, and a little before eight, I finally gathered the courage to tell my partner I had been bleeding and needed to go to the hospital.
I don't know why I didn't go sooner. Maybe I was trying to delay the inevitable.
I took a taxi, and I felt scared and alone on the way there. We had planned this pregnancy. I, especially, wanted to have another kid.
When I got to the ER I signed in. I didn't wait too long before a nurse called my name and took my temperature and blood pressure. Some time after that, I was sent to another floor.
I took a book with me and kept reading the same paragraph repeatedly. I couldn’t focus, but I didn’t want to let my thoughts run wild.
Because of COVID, a nurse asked all companions to please leave. It wasn't allowed to have someone there waiting with you. I guess I made the right call going alone, though, I don't know many people who like going to the hospital by themselves. Most of us want a hand to hold—a person to comfort us.