My wife and I were left on our own after miscarriage

This First Person article is the experience of Kaitlin Geiger-Bardswich, who works at a national non-profit in Ottawa. For more information about CBC’s First Person columns, please see the FAQ.

My wife and I weren’t supposed to deal with infertility. Healthy and in our early 30s, we had two uteruses and two sets of eggs. We just needed sperm. We headed to a fertility centre thinking this would be easy.

It wasn’t.

I miscarried our identical twins in July 2022 after nearly two years of trying to get pregnant. It was made even harder by how abandoned we felt by the medical system.

Although I was under the care of four sets of medical professionals — doctors in the ER, a high-risk obstetrician in an early pregnancy clinic, a fertility clinic and a family doctor — we were still left to figure out the aftermath of a miscarriage on our own.

I finally got our positive

I’d had 18 months of intrauterine inseminations and endured a continuous cycle of blood draws, pills, internal ultrasounds and injections. But I wasn’t getting pregnant.

Finally, our names came up on the in vitro fertilization waiting list. Amazingly, our first frozen embryo transfer worked — and an early ultrasound showed that our single embryo had split into identical twins. After trying so hard for so long, we were thrilled to be moms to twins!

Then, a month later, we found ourselves in a hospital emergency room, because I had some spotting.

After losing two large gushes of blood in an ER toilet that automatically flushed, I was discharged with a simple one-pager about “suspected miscarriage” that left me with no guidance on what to do next.

We didn’t know what had happened; if I was still pregnant, if the bleeding would stop, if it would get worse, if I’d start cramping.

My miscarriage is confirmed

Thirty-six hours later, I was lying on an exam table as a technician searched my uterus with an ultrasound wand.

I nervously chattered. “I haven’t had any cramping, but I’m bleeding a bit. We don’t know if we’ll see two, or one, or no heartbeats today. But we’re prepared for any outcome,” I claimed.

The technician nodded along with my words. When she finally spoke, it was with a lack of emotion on her face and in her voice.

“I don’t see anything resembling a baby,” she said.

We were not prepared.

Left alone, my wife and I hugged each other tightly as the tears started to flow. Sobbing, my wife held my hand before I saw the doctor, who confirmed my miscarriage.

She said it appeared as though I’d passed both babies. They’d contact me if I needed medication or any surgical procedures.

Searching for support

Incredibly anxious, I called my family doctor and even the fertility clinic (even though I was no longer under their medical care). No one followed up with me.

I struggled with the emotional toll of miscarrying after infertility. I needed professional support and guidance to make my way through this. I needed people to tell me it wasn’t my fault, that I hadn’t done anything to cause it, that I could get pregnant again. I’d been robbed of a blissful first pregnancy and I needed people in my corner if I got pregnant again.

Voice breaking, I left a voicemail explaining to my doctor how I’d miscarried my twins at 12 weeks. But because of delays at her office it would be another five weeks before I’d see her in person. When I finally did, I could barely hold back my tears.

“I wish I’d seen you sooner,” the doctor said.

“What? How can I do that in the future?” I asked, stunned.

“Call and leave a message saying you need to speak to me ASAP,” she replied.

What followed was a difficult and emotional time, made all the more so by how forgotten I felt. I had no one tell me what could happen to my body or my psyche. The fact that my hormones would drop rapidly but many of the pregnancy symptoms remained.

The fatigue was different; I was emotionally tired rather than physically drained. I was no longer growing two sets of organs, as I liked to quip. My body was busy removing traces that I ever was.

Thankfully, I found information elsewhere through family and the internet. I told a relative who is a nurse in the same text that I’d been pregnant and now wasn’t, so she could walk me through the physical process.

And I returned my books about pregnancy to the library in exchange for books about miscarriage and loss. Eventually, I found Facebook groups and organizations like Sunnybrook’s Pregnancy and Infant Loss Network to connect with people who understood the waves of emotions that come with pregnancy loss.

The grief over Mother’s Day

I still consider us moms. We’re “loss moms,” I guess.

This Mother’s Day is especially hard for me and my wife because it’s the one-year anniversary of our embryo transfer, and nearly a year since I carried our twins in my body.

This Mother’s Day, as photos of mothers cuddling their babies fill up social media, I’m hoping my story reaches those who have experienced pregnancy loss and are struggling to build their family, like we are.

I’m giving myself permission to do whatever I need to do this weekend, when I’d hoped we’d be celebrating our first Mother’s Day with four-month-old twins.

I’m allowing myself to feel the sadness as it comes and goes, while holding on to hope that, one day, we’ll be able to cuddle our own babies on the other side of this journey.

Do you have a compelling personal story that can bring understanding or help others? We want to hear from you. Email your pitch here.