I know this seems like a ‘clickbaity’ headline, but it’s not intended to be because I didn’t always feel this way. I didn’t know any better…

When my wife and I got pregnant for the first time, it was admittedly a bit of a shock. We obviously knew what we were doing and certainly understand “where babies come from,” but we didn’t think it would happen on the first try. We thought it would take a few months to get pregnant as her OBGYN set that expectation.

I remember it vividly. She was in the bathroom taking an at-home pregnancy test based on her intuition of being pregnant and I was anxiously waiting on the couch distracting myself with the TV or something. And then I heard it. The loudest, most joy-filled yet holy shit scream of “OH MY GOD” I’ve ever heard in my life. She was pregnant! We stared at those two lines for minutes to make sure we understood what we were seeing. Then she took a few more tests as we weren’t really convinced and wanted to make sure we weren’t crazy (we probably needed a different test for that). All of them read pregnant. It was surreal. We were excited, nervous, thankful and scared as fuck.

The next couple weeks were spent tediously researching and studying up on what was happening inside my wife’s belly. What size fruit is the baby this week? What organs are developing? Taking trips to the book store for the baby books and ordering them on Amazon. Everything was on the up. And then the hyperemesis hit.

If you would have asked me before this experience what hyperemesis is, I would have guessed that it was some sort of scientific process. But I learned, and I learned quickly. Hyperemesis is defined as severe nausea and vomiting during pregnancy or extreme morning sickness. The secondary definition is “that thing Princess Kate Middleton had.” My wife’s description is, “having the worst hangover of your life combined with the worst stomach flu of your life.” Side note: having been through this now, I don’t understand why they call it “morning” sickness because it seemed to be happening all fucking day. Also, that pregnancy glow? That’s just sweat and dried crusty puke. There’s no way to describe hyperemesis other than it fucking sucks. It sucks for my wife having to go through it and for me having to sit there and watch her experience this torture that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Yes, my experience with hyperemesis is completely different than my wife’s as I had no physical symptoms, but the mental and emotional toll it took on me seeing my partner suffer is still extremely damaging. Up to this point, this had been the most miserable we’d both have ever been. We’d taken several trips to the ER to pump her full of fluids that were lost from vomiting and IV anti-nausea medication to try and help calm this shitstorm. But it never really got better.

This took us to around week eight. My company was having its annual big sales meeting which was comprised of a dinner the night before the actual meeting. To me, this was a great way to get some good face time in with senior leaders of the company in a more casual setting so I was looking forward to it. Meanwhile, during the past few days, she had seen some spotting and when we consulted with her doctor, she said that it’s ok and nothing to worry about unless the blood is red and is accompanied with extreme cramping.

Back to the dinner. Trying to be respectful at the table, I didn’t want to look at my phone as the incoming text messages seemed to be setting my pocket on fire. But the fire kept burning, so I figured something was wrong. It was my wife telling me she’s in the most pain she’s ever been in her life. I was caught in a pickle: stay and try to advance my standing in the eyes of the company’s leaders or tend to my ailing wife. After much internal debate (which there really shouldn’t have been), I left the dinner and went home to find her keeled over in pain to the point of tears. I tried my best to comfort her until we eventually fell asleep.

The next day during the big sales meeting, my phone was buzzing again and she told me she felt like she needed to go to the doctor because she was still experiencing spotting. I asked if she needed me to accompany her because I really wanted to try and stay at this meeting. Keep in mind; I hadn’t missed an appointment up until this point. She said her mom was able to go with her and that I could stay. Then I got the most chilling text I’d ever received.

“Can I call you?” At this point, I was immediately numb and had no choice but to assume the worst. I stepped outside to call her and she confirmed what I already knew. We lost the baby. And I wasn’t there to be by her side when the ultrasound tech couldn’t find the heartbeat. I had been at every OBGYN appointment and every ER visit, and the one that I missed had to be the most traumatic visit of our lives. I felt fucking miserable. I quickly gathered my things, texted my boss that I had to run and rushed to the hospital.

Fighting back the tears, I met my wife and mother-in-law in the room where they explained that we had lost the baby and what our options were at that point. Distraught, we made our decision together and then went home feeling empty inside. But we weren’t empty; our baby was still there with us in her uterus until the procedure in the following days which is such a bizarre feeling.

I found myself in another pickle: to “be a man” and suck it up to “be strong” for my wife or allow myself to grieve in the fact that we just lost our baby (and still be there for her). I’m not sure I ever let myself grieve fully, but I learned that’s what “being a man” is. You can be a man and be scared—which I was. You can be a man and cry—which I did. I don’t think we ever fully recovered from that, even to this day, but with time and unwavering support from our families did come some sort of healing.

Twenty percent of pregnancies end in miscarriage. That’s one out of every five. That number is probably even higher as many women may not even know they’re pregnant before missing their period. Yet, for some reason in our society, we’re not supposed to talk about it—it’s taboo. But I needed to talk about it because it helped me heal. Every person I talked to had experienced this type of loss either themselves or with friends and relatives and finding that common ground helped. It didn’t make it easier by any means, but it helped me feel as if I wasn’t alone and that’s why we do need to talk about it because keeping it bottled up inside as this “dirty little secret” can make you feel lonely even though so many others have had this experience.

As time passed, our minds and bodies healed. We tried again and thankfully we were able to get pregnant and we now have a beautiful baby girl who is our entire world. But, during those 10 months (it’s not nine months like they say…) we were scared shitless of this happening again. We went through hyperemesis again (which eventually went away around 16-weeks); multiple trips to the ER again and now add in freaking out at every ultrasound and OBGYN appointment until you see or hear your baby’s heartbeat. Every waking moment was spent thinking about what’s going wrong or fearing that your baby won’t be healthy.

Funny story, the first ultrasound to confirm the pregnancy (after the last ultrasound in which we lost the baby) was performed by a student as we were receiving care at a teaching hospital. Apparently, the machine she was using was a newer model so she wasn’t exactly quite sure where all the buttons were. It took what felt like FOREVER for her to find the heartbeat and I think she actually needed to bring in someone else who found it in like five seconds.

We’re so thankful for our baby and it was a long strenuous journey. We know that each couple experiences pregnancy differently and honestly, if we decide to try for a second, we’re kind of not looking forward to that journey again. But seeing our daughter smile certainly helps and we know her brother (yes, through genetic testing we found out the sex of the fetus we lost) is always watching over her.