Some say that it is too taboo of a topic, that we should keep this to ourselves, lock it away, and get over it. But I say, no, because sometimes talking about it, or in my case writing about it, is cathartic, helps you heal and perhaps helps someone else heal, too. My story isn't recent, but there are days I still think about it. I wonder about things, like how old they'd be, or what they'd look like. But mostly I just think, "I never got to hold you."

This happened almost nine years ago for me and my husband. Well, he wasn't my husband then. We were young, and starting out on our relationship, until one day I wasn't feeling too good. Long story short, and four pregnancy tests later, we just knew. I worried because we weren't married yet. I constantly worried over questions of, "do I really want this," or rather, "did I want it yet." I worried because my career as an Assistant Director was going great, and any little break, like say, to have a baby would severely hurt that. I worried over so many things until our appointment at the doctors revealed we were pregnant with multiples. "What? How many?" It was rare to get pregnant with multiples without in vitro, which of course we didn't do, but even more rare was the fact that I had taken a Depo-Provera shot just a month before. The doctor told me I was to take it easy. Not quite bed rest, but not to do any crazy exercise.

So, I did what most never do in my business, I told the producers what the deal was, and even though they asked for a week to find my replacement, I didn't give them one. Being on my feet for twelve plus hours, stressing over call times, shot lists, etc. was the opposite of taking it easy, and I made my first "Momma Bear" decision. I felt proud that I chose my budding family, over my new budding career. But this is where my story takes its first turn. Two days later the cramping started. I called the doctor's office and the nurse assured me that this was fine, normal even. Only, hours later the cramping was worse than I'd ever experienced, and all my life I've had issues with crazy cramping, so that should tell you something. I called again, made an appointment, had another sonogram, except this time the doctor's and nurse's expression were different, blank actually. The words, "I'm sorry," and "this sometimes happens," and other such scripted statements left their mouths, I'm sure. I sort of remember them telling my then boyfriend, now husband, that it should pass on its own, but if not, I might need to make another appointment. It, no longer called babies. Weird how pronouns can hurt so much. I vaguely remember the extreme silence that filled the car on the way home. What I do remember is the extreme sadness and disappointment on his face, and I couldn't bear his pain along with my own.

Pretty soon it didn't matter anyway because the physical pain reached epic levels, the kind where I could hardly move. He carried me back to the car and drove to the hospital for them to tell us I had to have an emergency DNC. Passing tissue of three that were 10 week, 6 day old fetuses was too much for my body to handle on its own. A deep, real part of me didn't care about saving my life because I obviously must of done something where I couldn't have saved theirs. Maybe I shouldn't have gone into work that day, I should have called those producers. Maybe I deserved this for something I'd done in the past. Maybe I should have drank more water, right? Weeks later the thoughts still filtered through, and I hated that the doctor had names to explain my mood, diagnosis for everything, reasoning behind my depression. You know, "hormones," "grief," and blah, blah, blah.

I didn't want there to be science behind my feelings and I didn't want to deal with all the grief, the guilt, the anger, or even deal with all my loved ones. Yep, you read right. Deal. With. My. Loved ones. Their empty platitudes of "everything happens for a reason," might have been right, but for the life of me all I wanted to scream was "shut the fuck up!" But..., the way I was raised kept my mouth shut. All I could do was roll my eyes and hope that they would soon go away so I could wallow in my pain, so I could be depressed, and to feel it in peace because no matter how many people surrounded me, I mostly felt alone.

My point is, if you have ever gone through it, or God-forbid that it is in your future, know that this too will pass. It takes time, and even more than that, you have every right to feel whatever the hell you feel. Loss comes in many forms and none of us will ever escape this Earth without feeling it. Now, for the good part, if not really weird as well. About four years ago I was lounging on the couch with my 3, and 4-year old sons, Wolf and Hok. We're watching something on TV, and Wolf, the oldest, comes and sits on my lap. He says, "I'm glad you have a baby in your belly, Mommy."

At this point no one knew we were pregnant again. We learned our lesson that first time, and no one usually knew until the baby bump was hard to deny. Of course I tried to play stupid with, "What are you talking about, baby?"

And, this is the part I'll never forget. He said, "There was always supposed to be three," and went back to watching TV. He was completely content while I was having a WTF moment. While I hate to admit it, maybe there is something to this whole "everything happens for a reason," or maybe any women, or couple that has experienced a miscarriage should know that it is one of the most painful things you'll ever live through, but you aren't alone. Many have gone through it, and many more will, but talk about it, heal, and try again when you're ready because family is really a beautiful thing, and children bring so much light to it.