I was traveling at about 80 mph on the 275 loop that runs around Cincinnati when suddenly I notice a Saturn sedan swerving between lanes, then braking, then pulled over. I saw the car in my rearview mirror on the side of the road and decide I’m clear and continue on to work. Suddenly I’m slammed into on my rear passenger side, my car does a few 360s and stops in the middle of this 3 lane highway. Stunned, I manage to stumble out of my car, people run up to my car asking me if I’m okay. A guy points out that the driver spun off the road and is resting in a ditch. He took her keys because she was trying to start the car. After a moment, I grabbed my phone, my hands trembling I called my husband.
“I’m okay, I’m eight weeks pregnant.” I can’t recall but thought there was an ambulance, a conformation from the medics that I was in fact “going to be okay”. The police arrived, took the drunk driver into custody and I drove home.
It was a few days later, I was driving to work munching on my bagel when I felt the warm flow between my legs. I was in my rental car, reached between my legs to confirm it was blood. My hand was covered. I pulled over to the hotel on the corner. Parked and ran in. “I’m having a miscarriage, can you please call 911?” The young girl froze. “Where’s your restroom?” She points me down the hall.
I removed my clothes, sat on the toilet holding my abdomen, letting the blood flow. I felt death waiting for me, reaching out a hand for me. Moments later the knock on the door was the ambulance. I don’t recall how I managed to get to the ER of the local hospital. I don’t recall the calming words of the paramedics. Those memories are gone.
After a couple of hours of resting I woke. The nurse shortly came in and “checked” my stats. “You’re having a miscarriage.” She stated. “We gave you something for the pain, you’ll need to take these medicines for the next week, but you’ll be going home today.” I glanced at my husband. He sat helpless near the bed. I wanted him to tell me it was okay. I needed him to leave his logic behind and just love.
The nurses were able to collect a small group of cells. It was a boy, no identified genetic issues. We called him Jordan.
I was 21 years old and not sure what brought about my second failed attempt of motherhood. Was it the wreck? Was it vengeance for being a rebellious teenager? Had I sinned too often or not confessed my transgressions properly?
I’m sharing this story for all the women who have experienced miscarriage. I carry shame from these events. I carry doubt in myself. I was a lone. We have to process our fears. Don’t be afraid to talk.