My husband and I had spent the first three years of our marriage traveling the world and building a foundation for our relationship. We finally felt that we were ready to become parents. We got pregnant right away and were very excited about the idea of being called Mommy and Daddy by a little someone. However, at eight weeks along, I miscarried while my husband was out of town on business. It was an incredibly difficult experience which I talk about here.
After my miscarriage, I realized a few things; firstly, many women suffer one or more miscarriages in their lives and yet hardly anyone talks about it. Secondly, there’s usually some kind of shame or self-blame involved.
By writing my story, I received an incredible amount of support and heard from literally thousands of women across the globe wanting to share their stories of miscarriage or infertility with me. It was an amazing experience to help these women release their pain and be a part of their path to healing. It also made me realize just how much stigma is attached to miscarrying in the South Asian community.
I am currently eleven weeks pregnant and quite anxious about miscarrying again. Yes, I have two healthy toddler boys at home however if you’ve ever experienced a miscarriage, you already know that it is top of mind in your first trimester.
At about seven weeks along in this pregnancy, I was at home baking cookies with my boys one afternoon and realized I was bleeding. I called my husband right away, who took me to the emergency. All I could think about was that it was happening all over again. I had this awful feeling inside of me and kept telling myself that whatever is meant to be will be.
After almost eight hours of sitting in the waiting room of the hospital, I was taken to get an ultrasound. I prepared myself for the worst but forced myself to have faith. And then I saw it, the tiny little flickering light of a strong heartbeat inside of me. The most beautiful of pictures a mother-to-be can ever see. The hospital staff assured me that the baby was fine and sent me home.
Two weeks later, it happened again; more bleeding. We trudged back to the emergency room and thankfully everything was fine again. Sitting in that waiting room for hours on end, holding your stomach and praying that your baby is alive is one of the closest moments you can get to God. At least for me it is.
I am waiting for that thirteen-week mark when I can breathe a sigh of relief. People have begun to ask me if I’m expecting, as third time around, my belly popped at six weeks and it became harder and harder to hide it aside from wearing muumuu’s everywhere I went. So I tell them the truth. God knows if anything happens in this pregnancy the first place I will turn to is my computer to write it all out and share my thoughts with the world. So there isn’t really a point in hiding it.
I just hope I can mellow out and relax. I haven’t told my toddlers yet so as not to confuse them if something does go wrong. Two weeks to go and counting until I can really start getting excited about the prospect of another little one joining our family!
Follow Sheba’s journey in her pregnancy ups and downs in Masalamommas new column ‘Baby on Board’… Where she talks about the journey of a masalamomma balancing two boys while pregnant and making the transition to a family of 5!