I have long said that I would write a book named “Sh*t I wish we spoke about pregnancy and postpartum,“ because after years of doing this work, that phrase is one I often hear from my clients.

Though there’s no book coming (yet), I finally decided to dedicate a series on my blog about this.

I write this while I’m on my bed recovering from surgery. I had an ectopic pregnancy, which means a fertilized egg was growing in my fallopian tube instead of my uterus. Ectopic pregnancies can be deadly if not caught in time, but thankfully,  I had surgery pretty quickly after getting to the emergency room.

Initially, I didn’t even know I was pregnant. And yet when I looked at the sonogram of my adnexa and soon saw a little bean with what looked like a heart beat, I knew what was going on in my body — ectopic pregnancy. Because the fetus was growing in my fallopian tube, I knew I would lose both the tube and  the growing little bean. I came back to the room and cried. I told my partner what I suspected and I told him I wasn’t 100% sure. The ER doctor came in a minute later and told me of his suspicion and that he was calling the OB surgeon to review everything. The waterworks came out. I was scared of this surgery. Losing a fallopian tube.

Supporting women through loss and ectopic pregnancies, I knew what the implications and risks were and yet, it hit differently in my own body.

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An aside — my partner is literally the greatest person. He understands me and my many feelings and knew his job was to hold space for me while also calling our loved ones to let them know what was going on. All while remembering that he was making me a delicious soup right before we ran to the hospital. He advocated for me so fiercely when I had no voice, demanding that hospital staff take my pain seriously. I cannot imagine anyone else by my side, being my voice, and also being so soft in such a hard moment.

I looked at my partner because my loss was his loss too. And I could see the sadness in his eyes and the worry that something would happen to me in this process. We don’t often remember partners in this process of pregnancy or postpartum or miscarriage, but they are feeling the feels too and are often not given the permission to feel.

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I was sad over a loss over a potential pregnancy I didn’t know I wanted. As a Spanish speaker, certain terms just hit different. When I spoke to my MIL (who shared about her own miscarriage in the past) she reminded me that with “perdidas” can come with depression, so to give myself a lot of grace. Perdida. Perdida. Such a strong word that I didn’t realize applied to this experience. A perdida. A word that I would now use to describe my pregnancy history.

From this point forward, when I wrote out my pregnancy history, it was no longer 1 pregnancy & birth, but instead 2 pregnancies: 1 termination, 1 birth.

When my partner called my mom after the OB came and explained my situation —ectopic pregnancy in my right fallopian tube; the tube and the fetus would be removed laparoscopically, through my belly button and three small incisions — my mom shared that a close family member also experienced an ectopic pregnancy. I was in shock! Like, why are experiences like these hidden? I knew what to expect because of the people I helped to support as a doula through ectopic pregnancy, but to hear that a family member experienced this was mind-blowing. I had to remember that everyone is allowed their privacy with their bodies, including choosing what they share publicly or not.

So this is the part of pregnancy that we don’t speak about — the loss.

The fact that you weren’t given a decision.

That your body decided that now wasn’t the right time.

That I have to honor my body because, well, she’s been so good to me.

And that I’m lucky to live in a state where I can have this surgery and not be worried about being sent to jail for terminating a pregnancy. A pregnancy that was literally killing me.

But you can still be pissed.
Still be sad.

The space and kindness I have received from my village has been incredible. As a doula, you do a really good job of taking care of others and struggle with care for yourself or accepting when people care for you. Waking up to an arrangement of flowers or food brought me so much joy. My people know my love language.

The outpouring of love I have received from others who have experienced miscarriage has been beautiful. Folks who share this secret. Who talk about the loneliness in miscarriage. The mixed feelings of this grief. And the quiet entry into a club that no one wants to be a part of. The people who welcomed me, held me with their words, and gave me language and space to figure out this grief.

Why again don’t we talk more often about miscarriage and loss? It’s a part of pregnancy too.

A close friend and former client sent this message to me and I started crying instantly:

Sending lots of love Liz. A wise woman once told me to have grace with yourself when you cannot feel your north 💕

And after I cried I realized that I was the person who shared those words with her, which made me cry even more.

Now on the eve of my 41st birthday, I honor my body for getting me here, while I also grieve.