Mourning the Loss of a Chemical Pregnancy

This post is hard–really hard–for me to write. I try to keep things upbeat around here, but the fact is that’s not always how life goes. Because right now, I have tears in my eyes and my fingers can’t keep up with how fast my brain is going. This is what it feels like for the mom mourning a loss of a chemical pregnancy.

For those of you who aren’t aware, a chemical pregnancy is a very early miscarriage. It typically happens before the 5th week of pregnancy and before Baby can be seen on ultrasound.

It’s been a year and a half since that day. The day I found out I was pregnant. And although a lot of time has passed, sometimes something catches me off-guard and I’m right back in that place of mourning. Of loss. Of disappointment.

Tonight, it was a painting. Sometimes it’s social media. Usually it’s the quiet darkness of the night, when everyone else is asleep and I’m alone with my thoughts.

It was fall 2016, and we’d been trying for a second little one for a few months. Not that long, but long enough that I was ready for it to just happen already.

Finally, it did. Two pink lines.

The test line was faint, really faint. But a line is a line, and I was with child.

I took my son to buy a Big Brother shirt to wear to surprise my husband when he got home from work.

I wondered if Baby was a boy or a girl. I thought about when she or he would be due. I thought of names and nursery decor and newborn clothes.

I tested again the next morning to see the line get darker. Because I’m type A and pregnancy only makes that worse. But the line wasn’t any darker. In fact, it looked a little lighter.

All day, I tried to ignore that pit in my stomach and acted like I didn’t know what I already knew… I was going to lose this pregnancy.

And I did. The next day, the line was totally gone. And the day after that, my period came.

As quickly as the excitement of this pregnancy came, it was gone. Everything was gone in an instant.

That’s why some people think there is no mourning a chemical pregnancy. It happens so fast, and honestly, a lot of women probably don’t even realize they had one. Unless you’re actively trying to conceive and tracking your cycles, you probably don’t notice your period coming a few days late.

But I did notice. I know I was pregnant. And even though it’s been a year and a half since then, the thought of that baby still brings me to tears sometimes.

All I have left to remember the baby I lost is a photo of faint lines on pregnancy tests.

I never got to hold my baby. I never got to name my baby. Until now, my husband and I are the only two people who knew this baby existed.

And tonight, that’s really hard for me to process.

Maybe it’s selfish–I already had one perfect child. Today, I have two. My story has a happy ending: I got pregnant with our rainbow baby on my very next cycle. That’s Blair, and she is perfect. Our family wouldn’t be right without her.

But in this moment, I can’t help but wonder about the baby that never made it earthside. I hope there’s more to life after this, because I can’t bear the thought of this experience being the only life my baby ever had. I hope he or she is happy. I suppose that’s all any mother wishes for any of her children.

If you’ve felt the pain of losing a pregnancy, I’m sorry. And I’m here for you. I don’t have all the answers, obviously. I’m still trying to figure out my own emotions. But I understand needing a shoulder to cry on, and I want you reading this post to know that I can be that friend, if you need one.

Hugs, mamas.

As I mentioned, I’m lucky that our story has a happy ending. To the moms seeking success stories in this time of turmoil, I’d love to share more of our rainbow baby’s journey with you: