As a three-time survivor of pregnancy loss , I know all too well the pain and heartbreak that come with losing a much-wanted pregnancy. I say “survivor,” because pregnancy loss is indeed a loss that is not only experienced in the present state but is a loss that has to be overcome and a loss that has a past, a present, and a future. It is a loss that is all too real and a loss that knows no bounds when it comes to race, religion, and social group. It is a loss that I have personally experienced and known three times within the course of a 5-year period. For better or for worse, I call myself a survivor.

Nothing prepared me for the blow that hit me each and every time I was told that my pregnancy was lost. Nothing prepared me for the aftermath of my loss, when I was expected to move onward and upward. And nothing prepared me for the silence that was so deafening, when I so desperately needed to be heard and at the same time hear from others.

I was 25 when I became pregnant for the first time. I had been married for four and a half years and my husband and I were eager and excited about becoming parents. While I didn’t “feel” pregnant and I had been spared the horrors of morning sickness, I embraced this special time in my life. I had always loved children—babies, especially—and I couldn’t wait to have a child of my own. I bought maternity clothes in my 10th week, keeping the price tags on and I looked forward to wearing them once we officially announced my pregnancy. Both my parents and my husband’s parents knew of my pregnancy and they shared in our excitement. We kept the news quiet from our siblings and friends for the first trimester but we knew that they would be delighted with our news. My husband and I talked about names but didn’t pick anything out of superstition. I just needed to get through the 12-week visit with my doctor, knowing everything was fine with our baby, and then we could go public and start our planning. It was just a matter of days until we could reveal our news and we couldn’t have been more overjoyed.

I had known a few close friends who had suffered a first-trimester miscarriage , so going into my 12-week visit with my ob/gyn, I shared my nervousness about seeing my baby’s heartbeat for the first time. I was sure everything was fine and I would see the fluttering and beating heart but until I saw it for myself I was anxious. My doctor examined me and checked the heartbeat but there seemed to be some kind of problem that I didn’t understand with the equipment. I was told to go to the radiologist next door, all the while unaware that anything was wrong. (In my mind, I was going to the radiologist for an ultrasound with a “better view.”) As it turned out, the office was closing and I was told to return first thing in the morning with my husband. I never suspected anything was amiss. In my mind, it was simply a matter of waiting a few hours until we would know that everything was fine and we could finally share our excitement with our extended family and friends.

We went back the next morning, as eager and excited as the previous day, if not more so. The radiologist performed the ultrasound and delivered the blow that broke my heart in half. “Your fetus isn’t viable.” Huh? I thought. The radiologist added, “There is no heartbeat. Your baby is dead.”

Not viable. No heartbeat. Dead. Everything was a blur after hearing those cold and cruel words; yet I remember that day from more than 20 years ago as the day that I was forever changed. I had a D & C that afternoon and was un-pregnant once again.

I can look back at that time and say that my husband and I got through our loss but it came with so much heartache. Losing my first pregnancy didn’t just mean losing the baby I was carrying. It meant losing someone I would never meet; someone who was a part of something my husband and I created together and someone I would never know. It meant losing my innocence as that day etched as March 1, 1994, meant I was hardened by my pain yet broken by my grief.

The hospital stay was somewhat of an out-of-body experience, in that I was there experiencing everything physically and emotionally and yet I was raw and not yet feeling the grief that would soon overwhelm me in the coming days, weeks, and months. It was as if I was standing in the corner of my hospital room and in the operating room, observing it all but not feeling it sink in. I was a bystander and a witness to all that was happening around me and yet there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop or go back in time.