Echoes of Infertility: Common and Normal Are Not the Same

It has been about a week since I miscarried. My husband and I listen hopefully as the OBGYN slides pamphlets across the massive walnut desk in his office. He’s sharing statistics about miscarriage, a flood of facts and percentages intended to assuage. He explains that miscarriage is not uncommon, and most women go on to have successful pregnancies on their next try. My reproductive signposts suggest no cause for concern at this point. “You can try again after one regular menstrual cycle.” His tone is confident, believable. “I will see you in my exam room very soon for your first prenatal visit.” And he sends us on our way to follow that trajectory. There are no referrals for counseling, no real conversations, or follow-ups on my mental wellbeing. They treat nothing about this loss as such. Instead, my miscarriage presents a hurdle with a high probability that I will stick the landing and keep running on the other side. I latch onto the hopeful prognosis, but the story is not to be my own.

What doctors need to understand is that common and normal are not the same. 

Seeking absolute reassurance that I will be one in the vast majority, I read voraciously to confirm these statistics. My teary, bloodshot eyes scan countless pages, aggregating supporting facts. Every article seems to end with encouraging news: one miscarriage is common and not indicative of future infertility. 

As friends and family hear the news, some reach out to share their personal experiences with miscarriage. All of these women, albeit a small sample, have gone on to have successful pregnancies. Conversations are few and mostly promote a future where I will surely give birth. They feed me a desirable script, and I’m starving for this truth. Later, I will come to realize the regret of moving on so quickly. 

What others need to understand is that common and normal are not the same.

Talking about my miscarriage makes my baby real, but sugar-coated discussions feel like a pat on the head when I need a bear hug—my grief muted, stifled by lack of awareness. The emotional tremors continue in aftershocks; vibrations only magnify with days, weeks, and months, and negative pregnancy tests. Eventually, cracks bleed to the surrounding ground, threatening anyone in my company. Relationships sift through tiny fissures in my wellbeing. 

One of my closest friends finds out she is expecting just after I tell her that I am pregnant. At first, we’re excited to imagine our children of the same age, destined to be best buddies. Later, her joy becomes an unfortunate trigger for my sadness. The cruel randomness of this loss blinds me. As the months pass, her belly extends with life, and my hope shrivels with failed conceptions. I am marked, angry, and losing my ability to engage with the world authentically.

What I did not understand is that common and normal are not the same.

Swallowed by unresolved grief, I begin to free fall in a bottomless pit until almost one year later when a test reveals two pink lines, a brief respite. I believe, with cautious optimism, that the timing is significant. At that point, still attached to faith in God, I project purpose onto the wait. I am finally pregnant, almost one year to the day of my first miscarriage, which has to be a sign. I feel overjoyed, relieved, and blessed until awareness slaps me. Pregnancy doesn’t equal childbirth. The reality stings. I hesitate as if I am covering my eyes while peering through the cracks between my fingers. I shared the news of my first pregnancy openly from the moment of the double line result. This time, there is distrust in my body, and I keep this news within my immediate circle.

Due to my recent medical history, the doctor orders early bloodwork. Apparently, a miscarriage combined with a year of unsuccessful attempts to conceive puts me in a new bracket. I am an outlier, no longer tucked into the average statistical curve. This pregnancy was at risk from the moment of conception. 

I enter the blood lab in a haze of worry and desire. The technician asks a few questions to confirm my identity. I meet her gaze with a silent plea, tell me that everything is going to be okay. As she ties the tourniquet, I choke back tears, embarrassed to lose control in front of strangers. She smiles, pokes my vein, and tells me to relax my fist. Seconds later, she separates the vile from the needle and places my sample on the pink Formica countertop. A container of no more than a couple of ounces holds lifesaving or wrecking potential. 

The call comes later that day, and my blood reveals the awful truth. I will lose this baby too. Despite my cautioned stance, I collapse into heaving sobs, flattened by the news. The resentment for my body multiplies to intolerable levels within seconds. I manage to call my husband and parents, who immediately come to my side. Despite their physical proximity, they can’t see the profound internal shift of this quake or the darkness that dampens my mind. 

Life taunts me as I wait two weeks for cramping to signal the impending release. This is not normal. It never was. But now, it is also uncommon.