Miscarriage mourning

I had a miscarriage two weeks ago.

That’s one of those sentences that doesn’t seem real until you actually say it. Kind of like when you tell people you are pregnant and the words sound surprisingly delicious as they roll off your tongue. It’s like that, except when you announce a miscarriage, the words scratch your throat as they come out.

I’ve hesitated to tell a lot of people about my miscarriage, mostly because I know what the reaction will be: How are you doing? How do you feel?

I don’t know the answer to either of those questions. I feel OK. I feel sad. I feel scared. I feel sick. I have no idea how I’m supposed to be feeling.

I was only six weeks along — barely long enough to see anything on an ultrasound. But to anyone who has been pregnant, you know it’s long enough to have calculated a due date and decided which room will be the nursery.

So I feel like I’m lost in the no-mans land of early miscarriage. I didn’t lose a baby with a face and a name. I don’t have anything to bury.

How do you grieve an idea?

To any of you with experience with this, please tell me. How do you get closure when you lose something that you didn’t really ever have?

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