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What it's like to have a miscarriage in the social media age.

I waited until I was 12 weeks along to announce my pregnancy to my "web of people" on social media.

"HEY, YOU GUYS. WE'RE HAVIN' A BAYBAY!" was plastered all over my wall, along with some super adorable pregnancy announcement photos my friend snapped a few weeks before. The support and love flew in. The predictions of the sex and the hunt to find the perfect name started. We had just announced our pregnancy to thousands of our friends and family.

Photo by Amy Lynn, used with permission from Rebecca Swift.


We were over the moon excited. And then, two days later, I started bleeding.

I called for my partner, Patrick, from the bathroom with a shaky voice. It wasn't just a dot of blood. It wasn't brown. It was bright red and there was a lot of it. I remember how huge his eyes were.

We both immediately knew this couldn't be right. After friends assured us that a little bleeding is fine and that everything was most likely OK, we called the clinic and set up an appointment for the next morning.

There wasn't any cramping (yet), and we spent the evening scouring Google and WebMD for any answers we could find. The most information we could dig up was from equally worried women begging for answers themselves on random forums. The conversations always started with blood. "What color was it? How much was there? Was there cramping? How far along are you?" But still, this was all speculation and every case seemed to vary, so we looked forward to seeing our doctor as soon as possible.

As we arrived for our appointment the next day, we walked hand-in-hand and attempted to ease the tension with jokes and banter. We opened up the famed Pokemon app our kids had been playing while we waited, and we giggled about finding a Pokemon sitting on the exam table between the stirrups and my legs. We were nervous, but at least we would have answers in the near future.

The doctor came in and we got right down to business. He poured the goop below my stomach, lifted the heart monitor, and placed it down against my skin. Pat and I took a deep breath and waited.

Image via iStock.

I heard a slow heartbeat and almost knocked the doctor over with excitement, and he said "No ... that's your heartbeat." And then, nothing. We couldn't find a beat. The tears immediately started streaming.

We moved into the ultrasound room, and once again, it was confirmed that there was no heartbeat. We cried.

We were shown that the embryo had actually stopped growing at seven weeks. They asked if I wanted the ultrasound picture. I whispered "no."

I learned there are two separate functions in the growth process, and while the fetus growth had halted, the amniotic sac had not, which is why my body continued to think and operate like I was pregnant several weeks after.

Then, I learned there are two options to remove what they now referred to as the "contents of the uterus." I could get a D&C (dilation and curettage), where they surgically open the cervix and remove or "vacuum" out the contents, or let nature run its course. I didn't know much about either, so I didn't decide right away. If I wanted to, I could have the procedure the next morning. I told them I would be in touch.

As we walked out, none of the nurses made eye contact. I have never felt so cold or alone while surrounded by a group of women. I sniffled hard one last time and tried to keep it together.

The rest of the night was a blur. We held each other, told family members and close friends. Then I thought of the thousands of people we told on Facebook. I quickly felt embarrassed. How would I dodge a million questions in parking lots and at parties and over social media over the next few months?  We would think about that later, we decided.

I was told having the D&C procedure was a "pleasant" way to speed up the process and obtain some closure, so we chose to have the procedure and scheduled an appointment for the next day. Then, the cramps started.

It was around 8:30 p.m. when I started feeling the discomfort. These "cramps" were more painful than any period cramping I had experienced. And over the next hour, as they kept coming back, the time in between was shortening from 15 minutes, to 10 minutes, to five minutes...

I decided to sleep it off and mentally prepare myself for the next day. But I couldn't sleep. I was tossing and turning.

The cramps were more painful than ever, and I raised and contorted my pelvis and scrunched into the fetal position to try to suppress it. It was excruciating.

This was more painful than giving birth to either of my two daughters (and, yes, I had pain meds back then). I realized as the cramping grew more frequent and painful, they weren't cramps at all — they were contractions. I was going into labor.

Patrick carried me to the bathtub and we ran a warm bath with Epsom salt. The words of my doctor flashed through my mind: "You may feel pain. You might not. It can happen naturally. You might not even notice."

I winced through the pain, and every time I had a contraction, a wave of blood filled the tub. Patrick held my hand (in between dry heaving into the bathroom sink), and after a half hour of the most pain I've ever experienced in my life, I said "it's coming." And I pushed out a small fluid-filled amniotic sac with a tiny embryo inside. The pain stopped all at once. We could breathe.

Image via iStock.

We didn't know it could happen this way. I didn't know you could go through the pain of childbirth with a miscarriage.

I didn't know how I felt about being 31 and not knowing that this completely natural thing thousands of women go through every single day was physically possible.

How is my body's natural way of flushing out a baby that wasn't going to thrive, and the pain involved, something I had never heard of before?

Even as we had researched our options online, nothing had led us to believe that not immediately having a D&C could leave us in this position. I feel my doctor could have better served me by preparing me for the worse-case scenario, not the best case.

I dried off, tossed on a robe, and scooped up the amniotic sac in my hands. I placed it in a tiny gold jewelry box of my daughter's. It was the best thing I could find at 1 a.m. Somehow it felt to me like a gold encrusted shrine wouldn't have sufficed for this poor little baby. Biased mother, you know.

It rained that night. Patrick and I found an area in our garden in the backyard. He grabbed a shovel and started digging as the rain fell on us. It was serene and quiet out, and I was thankful to have his support and kindness there by my side.

Watching a father-to-be dig a hole and then place a golden box into the dirt — something I thought was going to be our child we would raise for the rest of our lives — was one of the hardest things I have experienced in this lifetime. I was glad it was over.

The next day, I woke up tired, defeated, and sick to my stomach because, although the hard part was over, I still had to admit to the world what had happened.

I like to keep a positive attitude on social media, but I couldn't ignore this. So I trudged over to the computer and laid it all out:

Image via Rebecca Swift.

"It's with a heavy, heavy heart that I share this. Although it's not the preferred platform, you have all been so wonderfully supportive in sharing our happiness. I thought we were in the clear at 12 weeks, but unfortunately our little one didn't make it past that. Thank you so much for the kindness, the love and support, and the thoughts and prayers. It means the world to us."

The thing I was mortifyingly embarrassed to admit and dreaded putting out there quickly became my saving grace. Love surrounded us. The support and the uplifting messages poured in. We didn't feel alone.

Friends and acquaintances from high school and college and all walks of life, husbands of wives who had gone through it themselves, women who had braved the dreaded bathtub scene all reached out to send their love. It felt so good to talk about it. I know a lot of people suffer in silence.

An estimated 1 in 6 pregnancies end in miscarriage. There are up to a million cases in the United States alone per year.

For me, learning these statistics and knowing how common miscarriage is hugely helped me with the grieving process. I know we all grieve differently, some publicly and some privately, but the support and stories that have been shared with me since publicly announcing my miscarriage have made me feel less alone.

I wonder how more prepared I would have been in making a decision about my D&C had I been able to find more detailed information from women who had been through this.

That's why it's been heavy on my heart to share my personal experience. As real and painful and horrifying as it was, I've decided not to sugarcoat it for a second. Because if I'd known what a miscarriage could really be like, I would have been more prepared for what happened to me that night.

For those of you who have gone through or are going through a miscarriage, know that I'm grieving with you and surrounding you with my love. Know that it's more than OK to talk about, and there are millions of women just like you. You are not alone.

Identity

Celebrate International Women's Day with these stunning photos of female leaders changing the world

The portraits, taken by acclaimed photographer Nigel Barker, are part of CARE's "She Leads the World" campaign.

Images provided by CARE

Kadiatu (left), Zainab (right)

True

Women are breaking down barriers every day. They are transforming the world into a more equitable place with every scientific discovery, athletic feat, social justice reform, artistic endeavor, leadership role, and community outreach project.

And while these breakthroughs are happening all the time, International Women’s Day (Mar 8) is when we can all take time to acknowledge the collective progress, and celebrate how “She Leads the World.

This year, CARE, a leading global humanitarian organization dedicated to empowering women and girls, is celebrating International Women’s Day through the power of portraiture. CARE partnered with high-profile photographer Nigel Barker, best known for his work on “America’s Next Top Model,” to capture breathtaking images of seven remarkable women who have prevailed over countless obstacles to become leaders within their communities.

“Mabinty, Isatu, Adama, and Kadiatu represent so many women around the world overcoming incredible obstacles to lead their communities,” said Michelle Nunn, President and CEO of CARE USA.

Barker’s bold portraits, as part of CARE’s “She Leads The World” campaign, not only elevate each woman’s story, but also shine a spotlight on how CARE programs helped them get to where they are today.

About the women:

Mabinty

international womens day, care.org

Mabinty is a businesswoman and a member of a CARE savings circle along with a group of other women. She buys and sells groundnuts, rice, and fuel. She and her husband have created such a successful enterprise that Mabinty volunteers her time as a teacher in the local school. She was the first woman to teach there, prompting a second woman to do so. Her fellow teachers and students look up to Mabinty as the leader and educator she is.

Kadiatu

international womens day, care.org

Kadiatu supports herself through a small business selling food. She also volunteers at a health clinic in the neighboring village where she is a nursing student. She tests for malaria, works with infants, and joins her fellow staff in dancing and singing with the women who visit the clinic. She aspires to become a full-time nurse so she can treat and cure people. Today, she leads by example and with ambition.

Isatu

international womens day, care.org

When Isatu was three months pregnant, her husband left her, seeking his fortune in the gold mines. Now Isatu makes her own way, buying and selling food to support her four children. It is a struggle, but Isatu is determined to be a part of her community and a provider for her kids. A single mother of four is nothing if not a leader.

Zainab

international womens day, care.org

Zainab is the Nurse in Charge at the Maternal Child Health Outpost in her community. She is the only nurse in the surrounding area, and so she is responsible for the pre-natal health of the community’s mothers-to-be and for the safe delivery of their babies. In a country with one of the world’s worst maternal death rates, Zainab has not lost a single mother. The community rallies around Zainab and the work she does. She describes the women who visit the clinic as sisters. That feeling is clearly mutual.

Adama

international womens day, care.org

Adama is something few women are - a kehkeh driver. A kehkeh is a three-wheeled motorcycle taxi, known elsewhere as a tuktuk. Working in the Kissy neighborhood of Freetown, Adama is the primary breadwinner for her family, including her son. She keeps her riders safe in other ways, too, by selling condoms. With HIV threatening to increase its spread, this is a vital service to the community.

Ya Yaebo

international womens day, care.org

“Ya” is a term of respect for older, accomplished women. Ya Yaebo has earned that title as head of her local farmers group. But there is much more than that. She started as a Village Savings and Loan Association member and began putting money into her business. There is the groundnut farm, her team buys and sells rice, and own their own oil processing machine. They even supply seeds to the Ministry of Agriculture. She has used her success to the benefit of people in need in her community and is a vocal advocate for educating girls, not having gone beyond grade seven herself.

On Monday, March 4, CARE will host an exhibition of photography in New York City featuring these portraits, kicking off the multi-day “She Leads the World Campaign.

Learn more, view the portraits, and join CARE’s International Women's Day "She Leads the World" celebration at CARE.org/sheleads.


Health

Over or under? Surprisingly, there actually is a 'correct' way to hang a toilet paper roll.

Let's settle this silly-but-surprisingly-heated debate once and for all.

Elya/Wikimedia Commons

Should you hang the toilet paper roll over or under?

Humans have debated things large and small over the millennia, from the democracy to breastfeeding in public to how often people ought to wash their sheets.

But perhaps the most silly-yet-surprisingly-heated household debate is the one in which we argue over which way to hang the toilet paper roll.

The "over or under" question has plagued marriages and casual acquaintances alike for over 100 years, with both sides convinced they have the soundest reasoning for putting their toilet paper loose end out or loose end under. Some people feel so strongly about right vs. wrong TP hanging that they will even flip the roll over when they go to the bathroom in the homes of strangers.

Contrary to popular belief, it's not merely an inconsequential preference. There is actually a "correct" way to hang toilet paper, according to health experts as well as the man who invented the toilet paper roll in the first place.

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When the Philadelphia Eagles' season came to an unceremonious end last weekend, many fans were, understandably, more than a little pissed.

Take the rest of the night off to sleep in your shame, boys. Photo by Elsa/Getty Images.

After the final game, one fan allegedly commented on Facebook that the team had "played like they were wearing tutus!!!"

Photo by David R. Tribble/Wikimedia Commons.

...according to the Pennsylvania Ballet, which reported encountering the post on the social media site.

The Pennsylvania Ballet, whose company members regularly wear tutus, had a few choice words for anyone who thinks their light, frequently pink costumes mean they're not "tough."

Commence epic reply...


(full text transcribed under the post).

A Facebook user recently commented that the Eagles had "played like they were wearing tutus!!!"

Our response:

"With all due respect to the Eagles, let's take a minute to look at what our tutu wearing women have done this month:

By tomorrow afternoon, the ballerinas that wear tutus at Pennsylvania Ballet will have performed The Nutcracker 27 times in 21 days. Some of those women have performed the Snow scene and the Waltz of the Flowers without an understudy or second cast. No 'second string' to come in and spell them when they needed a break. When they have been sick they have come to the theater, put on make up and costume, smiled and performed. When they have felt an injury in the middle of a show there have been no injury timeouts. They have kept smiling, finished their job, bowed, left the stage, and then dealt with what hurts. Some of these tutu wearers have been tossed into a new position with only a moments notice. That's like a cornerback being told at halftime that they're going to play wide receiver for the second half, but they need to make sure that no one can tell they've never played wide receiver before. They have done all of this with such artistry and grace that audience after audience has clapped and cheered (no Boo Birds at the Academy) and the Philadelphia Inquirer has said this production looks "better than ever".

So no, the Eagles have not played like they were wearing tutus. If they had, Chip Kelly would still be a head coach and we'd all be looking forward to the playoffs."

Happy New Year!

In case it wasn't obvious, toughness has nothing to do with your gender.

Gendered and homophobic insults in sports have been around basically forever — how many boys are called a "pansy" on the football field or told they "throw like a girl" in Little League?

"They played like they were wearing tutus" is the same deal. It's shorthand for "You're kinda ladylike, which means you're not tough enough."

Pure intimidation.

Photo by Ralph Daily/Flickr.

Toughness, however, has a funny way of not being pinned to one particular gender. It's not just ballerinas, either. NFL cheerleaders? They get paid next to nothing to dance in bikini tops and short-shorts in all kinds of weather — and wear only ever-so-slightly heavier outfits when the thermometer drops below freezing. And don't even get me started on how mind-bogglingly badass the Rockettes are.

Toughness also has nothing to do with what kind of clothes you wear.

As my colleague Parker Molloy astutely points out, the kinds of clothes assigned to people of different genders are, and have always been, basically completely arbitrary. Pink has been both a "boys color" and a "girls color" at different points throughout history. President Franklin D. Roosevelt — longtime survivor of polio, Depression vanquisher, wartime leader, and no one's idea of a wimp — was photographed in his childhood sporting a long blonde hairstyle and wearing a dress.

Many of us are conditioned to see a frilly pink dance costume and think "delicate," and to look at a football helmet and pads and think "big and strong." But scratch the surface a little bit, and you'll meet tutu-wearing ballerinas who that are among toughest people on the planet and cleat-and-helmet-wearing football players who are ... well. The 2015 Eagles.

You just can't tell from their outerwear.

Ballerinas wear tutus for the same reason football players wear uniforms and pads:

Photo by zaimoku_woodpile/Flickr.


To get the job done.


This article originally appeared on 01.05.16

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