I’ve been lucky to have had a lot of “best days” in my life — my wedding day, graduating university, and of course, the days my children were born. Each of those days was filled with joy and love, cementing their place as the highlights of my life.

But there was one very definitive worst day. The worst day of my life, by a landslide. 

I was bleeding and in the hospital after waiting hours, alone, to be seen. Following the ultrasound, I heard the words every pregnant woman dreads –

“I’m so sorry. We can’t find a sac. We need to send you to the OR.”

Based on my hormone levels, they knew I was having an ectopic pregnancy that would require an abortion, and quickly. 

I was at the hospital in Stony Plain, and because they couldn’t perform the operation necessary, I needed to go by ambulance to the Misercordia Hospital in Edmonton. 

I’d lose not just the baby, but my ovary, and at my age, the chance of conceiving again went from slim to almost none. 

I was crying so hard that the doctor had to call my husband who was home with our baby, anxiously awaiting an update, to tell him the news. I simply couldn’t speak through the tears and fear. 

All I could think of was my baby daughter and imagining her growing up without a mother. The hospital staff were rushing around me, their urgency a terrifying sign of how serious things were. 

I knew the risks — women die from ruptured ectopics. The ambulance ride to Edmonton felt endless, and I still think of the female EMT holding my hand, her voice so calm and reassuring. I closed my eyes on the stretcher and sobbed the whole ride, my entire body shaking uncontrollably. 

I wrote my daughter a letter on my phone and reminded my husband to print it out and keep it somewhere safe. I told her I’d always be able to hear her anytime she wanted to talk to me. I texted my closest friends and told them to make sure my husband remarried so my darling little girl wouldn’t grow up without a mother. 

It sounds dramatic, but in those hours, I couldn’t think straight. I’d lost my baby, I was headed to a surgery alone, I might never be able to have another child, and I was terrified. 

All I wanted to do was keep my husband on the phone, to keep hearing his voice. I wanted to be next to him. Because of the pandemic, I underwent my surgery and recovery in the hospital completely alone. It was a pain and loneliness I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Right before they took me to the operating room, I called my brother. I told him how much I loved him. 

…………………………………………………………………

They say it’s 1 in 5. 

It’s probably closer to 1 in 4. I think it may even be 1 in 3. 

Almost every single one of my friends has miscarried. 

We dream of these babies. We take pregnancy tests, touch our bellies, and envision the next 40 or 50 years with this child. We see their future and imagine all the milestones they’ll achieve — only to have it ripped away.

I’d go on the miscarry again, just a few months later. Thankfully I didn’t lose my last ovary with that miscarriage. 

The pain, sometimes acute, would sneak up on me for months. 

I’d eventually get pregnant with my second daughter  – a miracle that stuck after I’d given up almost all hope. 

If you’ve experienced pregnancy loss, I want you to know that you are not alone. There’s nothing you could have done to change it. The grief will stay with you, but it’s okay to carry it. You will heal, in time.

And if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here. Don’t suffer a loss like this alone.