Full disclosure.

Fair warning: this post will be very honest. Brutally so. And somewhat unapologetic. So either be prepared to have a discussion with your kids, or stop reading out this out loud. You've been warned.

I had a miscarriage.

It started in February 2010. It was one month after we lost our sweet kitty Oliver, and it was one of the most bleak periods in my life. I wrote about it here. Don't click on that link unless you are prepared to read all of my heartbreak and mental instability during that time. I never intended for anyone to read those posts, so I wasn't careful or political. I was angry. I was hurt. I was sad to the very core of my being. I'm not really interested in explaining myself, or apologizing. It was a heartbreak repository. I was lost. I found my way back - Allen held a flashlight and guided me. He was literally the glue that held me together. There were days I didn't think I could survive the pain. How can your heart be ripped from your chest and yet you still breathe and sleep and eat? It was bleak and I hope to never be in that place again. Ever.

The reason I'm suddenly putting this out in such a public way is that while I am normally pretty private, I felt like I owed it to all the other women and families out there who have experienced this to stand up and be counted. It took a long time before I could go 24 hours without crying. I didn't want anyone to even think about me having a miscarriage, or pity me for it, and since I can't control thoughts, I decided not to say anything. I didn't even tell my mother until August, and she knows everything about my life. Just as I was coming to terms with saying "miscarriage" out loud without having an emotional meltdown, I met an amazing woman (I'll call her M for privacy). She and her husband have been guides for us on the adoption path, and she was very forthcoming about her own miscarriages. It made me realize that I was not alone. That talking about it helped lift the weight from my heart. Her ability to discuss it freely was a gift given to her by another friend who openly discussed her miscarriages. My friend M said that if it hadn't been for that woman openly sharing her experience, she would have felt so lost and alone during her struggle. And in turn, she hoped that talking openly about it would help someone else feel less alone. It did. And so here I am. Paying it forward by discussing it.

The statistics are somewhat shocking. Roughly 20-25% of all pregnancies, not women, pregnancies, will end in miscarriage. That number sounds high, but what does it really mean? The reality of the statistic is that almost every woman you know has had a miscarriage. I know more women who have had miscarriages than women who haven't. I didn't realize this fact until I started to speak openly about this. So why aren't we talking about this? It's kind of ingrained in the whole childbirth experience. You aren't even supposed to tell anyone you are pregnant until the 12th week, "just in case". The reasoning is that 80% of miscarriages happen in the first trimester, so it's better to not talk about it until you are past the first major hurdle. But that just makes it even more taboo to discuss it when you have a miscarriage.

Part of the reason for my silence was that I was so angry at my body for the failure and I didn't want anyone else to know that I failed at motherhood before I ever got the chance to try. My doctor assures me that I did nothing to cause it and moreover, could have done nothing to prevent it. The fetus wasn't viable and my body took care of it on its own. In my discussions with others on the topic, I get the feeling that my miscarriage was somewhat unusual. I started miscarrying in February, but didn't complete the process - meaning my body still had the pregnancy hormone and I had irregular and unpredictable cycles - until April. We weren't medically cleared to "try again" until May. It was long and emotionally devastating. Most pregnant women have weekly blood tests to make sure that their HCG levels are increasing. I had weekly blood tests to make sure they were falling. And I had to go into my OBGYNs office and be surrounded by round bellied, glowing pregnant women during the whole thing. "Unpleasant" doesn't even come close to the horror and outrage and all-consuming sadness I waded through.

Now that I have some perspective on the matter, I realize that I was lucky, even if it's still you're-eating-a-shit-sandwich-but-at-least-you-still-have-food kind of lucky. I miscarried at 6 weeks, just as I was starting to suspect I was pregnant. I didn't have months of rubbing my belly or picking out baby clothes or decorating a nursery or having a baby shower. I didn't have time to absorb the full import of being pregnant before it was over. The downside of that is I also fall into a somewhat nebulous region as a result. Did I lose a child? Kind of. It certainly feels to me like I did. But I don't have a headstone or a burial. I didn't have a funeral - though a friend suggested having a private one for closure. I didn't have a gender or a name or any identity whatsoever. But it was still my baby. It would have been born in the fall, late September or early October, and this would have been our first Christmas together. I think about that little life that could have been every single day. And that little life is also irrevocably tied to Oliver. I lost two children last year - one barely more than a collection of cells, the other a kitty so fiercely loved that I can't bring myself to repaint our living room walls for fear of covering up the scratch marks he left behind.

Fast forward to December, and we have still had no luck getting pregnant again. Back to the doctor. More tests. Blood work to check for under diagnosed things like thyroid problems, and to check the quality of the eggs I have. A hysterosalpingogram (yes, it's hard to pronounce - I've had a lot of practice with it) to make sure all my internal organs are normal and functioning. A warning that the most common diagnosis is "unspecified infertility" which means "everything looks fine, shrug". Given that diagnosis, we would have considered a round or two of Clomid, which makes you release a bunch of eggs at once. It's a pretty common drug treatment and I know myriad women who have used it successfully.

Unfortunately, unspecified infertility was not our diagnosis. Or maybe fortunately? I'm not sure yet. We have a reason for not getting pregnant, at least. Something less nebulous than "dunno". The good news is that all my organs are where they should be and are fully functional. The bad news is my follicle stimulating hormone levels (the hormone that indicates the quality of the eggs you have) are too high. It means that I do not have high quality eggs or at least that some of my eggs are not high quality. Realistically speaking, it means I'll probably have a hard time getting pregnant without medical intervention and/or that I will have more miscarriages. Neither prospect seems appealing. This hormone is reactionary - it indicates what's already there, so balancing the hormone, as far as I know, doesn't change the quality of the raw materials. The  next step is a fertility specialist, because Clomid won't be helpful with this problem. This is the path to IVF - in vitro fertilization - and that way lies madness. I may follow up with a fertility doctor, just to get all the facts, if nothing else. But right now I don't want to pursue aggressive medical intervention.

We decided long ago that we wanted to adopt. We always assumed we'd have some kind of blended family, and maybe we still will. But even given the fertility issues, it is very, very important to me to be able to look our child in the face and say "we chose you." We aren't adopting because we have no other options, or because we "can't" have biological children. We're adopting because it is a natural extension of our moral and philosophical underpinnings, and because we have so much love to give, and because there are so many children who already exist who need it. I know I reiterate this point with almost every blog post, but that just underscores the importance.

We have mourned for our lost chances, but that period is behind us now. We are moving forward. We glance over our shoulders occasionally, but for the most part we are looking toward the future, not the past. 2010 was one of the worst years of my life, but I want to temper that statement with the realization that I had food in my belly and a roof over my head and a husband and kitties and family and friends who love me dearly and supported me through it all. I am incredibly lucky.

And to everyone out there who has lost a child, at any stage, I want you to know that you are in my thoughts. Just as I am sure that I'm in yours.