The Hidden, Dark Reality of Miscarriage
Read Time: 5 Minutes
Words by Ashley Setterlind
Trigger warning: This story contains vivid imagery of sensitive content and may be disturbing for some readers.
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Miscarriage is like receiving an invitation to a party you never wanted to be invited to, and your RSVP has already been checked. You have no choice but to attend.
I truly never thought it would happen to me. You may call it naivety, arrogance, or ignorance, but after having conceived and birthed two healthy babies 21-months apart, I didn’t believe I would ever suffer the loss of a child in my womb (even though it was always one of my greatest fears).
When I saw a positive pregnancy test shortly after my second-born’s first birthday, I immediately fell in love with my future reality of three kids under four. Sure, chaos was coming, but we couldn’t have been more thrilled to grow our family. As we announced our joy to the world in December, we meant it when we said, “the more the merrier!”
On the day after Christmas, my dream of a summertime newborn morphed into a nightmare as I was given the worst news imaginable: “There is no cardiac activity.” Shock numbed my body as I attempted to process the ER doctor’s words. When I stepped into the parking lot, grief consumed me as I realized that the heartbeat I had celebrated just a week prior was no longer beating inside the tiny body of my precious 10-week-old baby... the tiny body inside of mine.
The weeks ahead, normally fueled by leftover holiday treats and the hopeful promise of a brand new year were instead marked by the highest degree of physical and emotional pain I’ve ever experienced.
And I was completely unprepared.
My doctor failed me when he said, “it will be like a heavier period, and maybe a little more cramping than usual.” Society failed me by allowing the shame, stigma, and lack of postpartum support surrounding early pregnancy loss to continue.
If not for my faith in Jesus to anchor me, I would have surely capsized under the weight of suffering. If not for the loving arms of my personal community to hold me as I walked through fire, the burns would have been even worse. Sadly, I realize not every woman who faces this tragedy can say they’ve received the same grace.
No one talks about the trauma of miscarriage.
How can a woman prepare for the feeling of blood clots the size of baseballs being expelled from her body without warning? How can she be ready for the loss of muscle strength, headaches, dizziness, nausea, body aches, and wave after wave of bloody massacre for days, sometimes weeks, on end? How can she anticipate the rage, sadness, and anxiety that will attack her with each necessary restroom break? How can a mother withstand the full process of labor and delivery; every horrific contraction just another nail in the coffin that is her body? There is no epidural for heartbreak.
It is a vile assault. And it was completely, utterly outside of my control.
At the worst, I thought I may actually be dying. That’s not an exaggeration. I asked my husband if we should call 911. My insides were twisting and retching in ways I’d never felt, paralyzing me with panic until my body started pushing involuntarily and passed what I learned (after it was too late) was once my little one’s home in my womb.
I was unable to reach my doctor. The medical guidance I had received leading up to this point did not extend beyond, “if you bleed through more than two pads in one hour, go to the ER” and a scheduled follow-up appointment for a few weeks later.
I’ll never know if my baby was still nestled in her tiny resting place at my point of delivery, and I feel angry at my lack of support to properly prepare. Given the opportunity for a do-over, I wouldn’t hesitate to thrust my bare hands into the crimson-stained bowl for even the smallest chance to hold every part of my beloved child that I was able to.
Though I believe our baby was every bit as alive inside of me as my two toddlers are right now, I knew there would be no proper burial due to the nature of our loss. In the height of my agony over the cruelty of it all, I lamented to my husband, "THIS IS NOT FAIR! How am I supposed to flush my baby down the toilet like she's a freaking dead fish!?! I can't do this.”
Losing a child at any stage of life is devastating because death is devastating. It’s a pain I wish no parent ever had to experience. If you know it well, I am so, so sorry. I stand with you. I validate your groaning, confusion, and non-linear process of grief. I honor you and the memory of your sweet baby. Wherever you are, friend, I hope you read this and know just how deeply, eternally loved you are by the One who knitted you together in your mother’s womb, along with the baby inside yours. I cannot tell you why this happened, but I can tell you with certainty—you are not alone.
Why share such an intimate, raw account? Because the world needs to know the reality of death in the womb that has been shielded and skirted around and silenced for generations. Every experience of loss is as diverse and unique as the millions of women who have endured it. Not every story sounds like mine, and I’m confident many are even more horrific. Yet, I am 1 in 4. It’s a statistic I never wanted to be a part of. But I am more than a number, and so is my baby. She matters. My baby was not a mistake that my body was simply “taking care of,” as so many people will try to say. She was created by God, in His image, for a purpose, and loved by him SO much that he chose to bring her home before she even had the chance to breathe the sinful air of this broken world.
It is nothing but a gift to have carried her for every moment of her short life, and an honor to be her mommy forever.
“O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting? But thank God! He gives us victory over sin and death through our Lord Jesus Christ.” (1 Corinthians 15:55, 57 NLT)
In loving memory of Saylor Setterlind. I love you, baby. See you soon.
About the Author:
Ashley Setterlind is a pastor’s wife, mama of two + one in heaven, writer, and worship leader. She is passionate about encouraging other moms to be deeply rooted in Christ; abounding in thanksgiving for the glory of God alone... and Chick-fil-A. To learn more about her, visit @ashleysetterlind on Instagram or her blog at www.ashleysetterlind.com.
