One of the most difficult things for me right now, I think, is trying to separate my rational thoughts from the emotionally charged ones. This isn't just affecting my work, but my relationships as well. I really am trying my best not to inflict my feelings on others, but in the case of pregnant friends, it's very hard. I don't know if it's just our age, or the allure of the Year of the Dragon, or something in the water, but I have a LOT of pregnant friends (and co-workers and family members) this year.
It was supposed to be me, too. I was supposed to get to be baby buddies with all these people. Some of them are younger than me, and here I am, 33, just trying for a first child. And failing. It's like we waited all this time, for everything to be just right, for us to be married and stable and all that crap, and for what? Would it have mattered if we tried earlier, or later? How many bad eggs do I have, anyway? Are there any good ones left? I could drive myself crazy with all this. It wouldn't take much.
So I know why I'm upset, and I realize it's okay for me to be angry about this, but the absolute knee-jerk reaction that I feel when I see someone else I know announcing their pregnancy is not something I was prepared for. It literally ruined an entire day last week, and this particular individual is a co-worker I consider a friend and even invited to my wedding. It's hard to believe I feel such animosity towards her, but I can't help it. Luckily I didn't see her that day, so I was able to calm down before returning to work. But what is wrong with me? Some days I feel fine when I see baby stuff, pictures, ultrasounds, whatever the news may happen to be. Other days, completely without warning, those same things make me feel sick in my stomach, angry or just give me a headache. I feel like I might know what the answer is, even though that doesn't do anything to affect my emotions. So is knowing any better?
Maybe it has to do with biology. In nature, animals who lose their young will sometimes seek out others, orphaned or not, to fulfill and complete their instinct of raising offspring. I witnessed this myself when I was working at a wild bird rescue and rehab in Pennsylvania. A female robin who had lost her two chicks to the neighborhood cats became interested in two unrelated babies that the rescue was raising. Both were close to fledging age, and she called to them and tried to get as close to the gazebo where they were kept as she could without getting too close to the humans. After a few days, one of the directors decided to let the older chick out onto the lawn and see what would happen. It would be better for these wild birds to be raised by a wild mother anyway. She immediately responded to it, feeding it, keeping it concealed under a bush, and raising it as her own. The same was also true for the second chick. She had her two babies back, and she was content, and didn't try to steal any of the others left in the gazebo.
Many other animals who invest a great deal of time in rearing their young exhibit similar behaviors. This is something that hasn't been selected by evolution because of its ability to preserve a certain set of genes, but because it ensures the survival of strong of individuals of a particular species. That species can thrive because their instinct to rear young is strong enough to allow to choose offspring that are not necessarily their own, but who have survived (for example) the death of parents and have strong genes that they can contribute. Over generations, the instinct to raise young, once activated in the individual, becomes an all-consuming desire whether the children of that individual survive or not.
What does this mean for me? It means that because I was pregnant, the chemicals in my body were making me ready for the prospect of motherhood, mentally and physically. Then those chemicals went suddenly away, and I am left with this gap, this longing to nurture something that isn't there. I haven't had the urge to adopt a child or steal one, for that matter, but it feels like something is missing, and when I see a person with a new baby or who will soon be having a baby, I want what they have. I'm jealous because they have it and I don't. They remind me of what I've lost.
Oh yeah, I was supposed to be 10 weeks last Friday.
My stomach would be sticking out a lot more now.
Would I have to buy new clothes yet?
I wonder if anyone would have noticed, if I hadn't told them myself.
It is my hope that someday I will be able to be happy for other people having babies again. It used to be a high point that I would celebrate with gifts of clothes, questions about their health, and interest in all their symptoms. Then the years passed, and I got a little jealous. I didn't want to wait anymore. Me and my eggs aren't getting any younger. When was it going to be my turn? When was I going to get to be a mom?
Apparently, not this time.
Monday, February 6, 2012
The Onslaught Begins
So, the first of the expected medical bills arrived today. It's not as though I'm unwilling to pay, because I was given some really good care during my bad weekend. However, it would be different if I had something to show for it. If the ultrasound that I'm going to have to pay for because my insurance doesn't cover it showed a healthy baby instead of a dead egg, I'd feel better about it. In fact, I probably wouldn't be complaining about it in the least. Alas.
Maybe, in lieu of baby pictures, I should hang up my medical bills on the fridge, and put up copies on Facebook. That way, everyone can see how much I'm enjoying this whole trying to conceive thing. Yeah.
Maybe, in lieu of baby pictures, I should hang up my medical bills on the fridge, and put up copies on Facebook. That way, everyone can see how much I'm enjoying this whole trying to conceive thing. Yeah.
Not Having the Presence of Mind
For the past week or two, I've been feeling almost okay. Not 100%, but well enough to take on the basic challenges of life. Work, household chores, going outside to take a walk - the usual. But I find that as this experience continues, there are things in my brain are just not the same as they were. For example, I'm really having a problem with work. My job requires serving customers, which takes a lot of patience and empathy. To be honest, I am without those things right now. I have never been the most patient or empathic person in the world, but I can normally muster up some small measure of it for my day at work. This is no longer the case. I don't know if it's because of how raw my emotions still are, or the fact that this whole experience has really focused me in on myself, but I just can't stand people right now. They're exasperating.
Maybe in part it's because I feel if I can have a miscarriage and still drag myself out of bed to go to work, they, who likely do not have this problem, can conduct themselves in an orderly manner, read directions and pay attention to the world around them. I don't know why things like the card reader, which asks only a couple of questions (not 5 or 6 like at some places) is so baffling. Or why no one ever bothers to read the small print on coupons, where the answers to their questions are likely found. Or why someone held up in the express lane, who is constantly checking their watch, will then come to counter and either write a check or not be able to find their money, thus continuing to hold up the line. I don't get it. The best I can figure, at least in the current state of mind that I'm in, is that they're morons, and they need to buy what they're going to buy and get the hell out.
It's not voluntary. It really isn't. Normally, I may not have a high opinion of the human race in general, but I try to give people the benefit of the doubt. But the reserve of patience and reason that I call on in such situations just isn't there anymore. It's like it has been obliterated out of my brain and I have no idea where it went. Maybe because of everything that's happened, my body is running on instinct, which tells me that someone acting inappropriately needs to be smacked over the head with a stick to get their attention, not treated kindly and respectfully. In the past, I even used visualizations and relaxation techniques to help me with my work stress, but those don't work anymore. The only thing that helps me feel less stressed is not to be there.
What does this really mean? Do I really need to take a couple weeks off? A month? What would I even do with that time? I find that these days, I really do enjoy my own company quite a bit. Spending time with a few select friends or chatting on the phone is nice, but when I'm alone, there are no demands on my energy. I don't have to think of things to say, I don't have to change out of my pajamas, I just get up when I want to and wander around. The day moves at the pace I want, and I can relax and be comfortable. I may even take an extra nap in the afternoon. I crave a lot of sleep these days, and I tend think that rest is the most therapeutic exercise that is available to me by far.
The best thing I can say about understanding what's happening to me now is that it's like my conscious mind is inside out. Everything that's been bothering me is now readily available to be experienced or observed whether I like it or not. It's true - when these emotions are happening, I feel like I'm watching myself from another angle and reeling from the intensity. I don't know how long this is going to last, or what further issues need to be addressed to help me move along. All I know is that one of these days, I'm going to walk away from my position at work without asking permission or getting someone to relieve me. They will page me to the front and then physically seek me out when I don't answer. When I am finally found, and asked by the management exactly why I left my post, I will most likely reply that it's not worth my job or my freedom to have an altercation over coupons.
Maybe in part it's because I feel if I can have a miscarriage and still drag myself out of bed to go to work, they, who likely do not have this problem, can conduct themselves in an orderly manner, read directions and pay attention to the world around them. I don't know why things like the card reader, which asks only a couple of questions (not 5 or 6 like at some places) is so baffling. Or why no one ever bothers to read the small print on coupons, where the answers to their questions are likely found. Or why someone held up in the express lane, who is constantly checking their watch, will then come to counter and either write a check or not be able to find their money, thus continuing to hold up the line. I don't get it. The best I can figure, at least in the current state of mind that I'm in, is that they're morons, and they need to buy what they're going to buy and get the hell out.
It's not voluntary. It really isn't. Normally, I may not have a high opinion of the human race in general, but I try to give people the benefit of the doubt. But the reserve of patience and reason that I call on in such situations just isn't there anymore. It's like it has been obliterated out of my brain and I have no idea where it went. Maybe because of everything that's happened, my body is running on instinct, which tells me that someone acting inappropriately needs to be smacked over the head with a stick to get their attention, not treated kindly and respectfully. In the past, I even used visualizations and relaxation techniques to help me with my work stress, but those don't work anymore. The only thing that helps me feel less stressed is not to be there.
What does this really mean? Do I really need to take a couple weeks off? A month? What would I even do with that time? I find that these days, I really do enjoy my own company quite a bit. Spending time with a few select friends or chatting on the phone is nice, but when I'm alone, there are no demands on my energy. I don't have to think of things to say, I don't have to change out of my pajamas, I just get up when I want to and wander around. The day moves at the pace I want, and I can relax and be comfortable. I may even take an extra nap in the afternoon. I crave a lot of sleep these days, and I tend think that rest is the most therapeutic exercise that is available to me by far.
The best thing I can say about understanding what's happening to me now is that it's like my conscious mind is inside out. Everything that's been bothering me is now readily available to be experienced or observed whether I like it or not. It's true - when these emotions are happening, I feel like I'm watching myself from another angle and reeling from the intensity. I don't know how long this is going to last, or what further issues need to be addressed to help me move along. All I know is that one of these days, I'm going to walk away from my position at work without asking permission or getting someone to relieve me. They will page me to the front and then physically seek me out when I don't answer. When I am finally found, and asked by the management exactly why I left my post, I will most likely reply that it's not worth my job or my freedom to have an altercation over coupons.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Below Here - Disclaimer
Everything below this post is part of the past. I felt I had to write it all down so that it would available somewhere for me to remember and others to read. The weeks that followed my miscarriage were more than difficult, and I found a great deal of understanding and support in the blogs and forum posts of strangers. I never knew there were so many people out there in the world who were feeling what I'm feeling. This blog is an attempt to give back - not to those who helped me, because they are already on the path to healing, but to those who are just beginning the journey of babyloss. My full experience is here, so if you wish to read it, start at the bottom post, and move up. My disclaimer is that this is in fact a blog about miscarriage, so it is very emotional, very personal, and includes details about blood and bodily fluids and tissues. If you are the kind of person who finds this unsavory or disturbing, you may not wish to read any further.
Friday, February 3, 2012
How Life Goes On
Exactly two weeks later, and I returned to the evil place. It was difficult for me to go back to the doctor's office, even though I knew she understood my situation. I feared sitting in that waiting room again, but when we arrived, it was blessedly empty. We had given ourselves five extra minutes before the appointment, and even though one pregnant woman walked into the room during those five minutes, I held myself together long enough to be called back.
It seemed the clinic, or at least my doctor, had taken my suggestion that a woman who was miscarrying needed to be sent back into an exam room right away, so she wouldn't have to stare at all the babies and pregnant women and feel her loss so terribly. We sat back there for a little while, waiting for the doctor, but it was preferable to being stuck out in Babyland. When she arrived, I was relieved to hear that there would be no further exams, no ultrasound of my empty womb, just a blood test to ensure my hormones were back on track. We talked for a little while about everything I was feeling, and it seemed to her that what I was going through was normal and expected. She even offered me counseling or support groups or medication, but I let her know that I was seeking out support in my own way, and she seemed satisfied. We discussed future pregnancies, resuming all normal activities, and in the end, I was still sad, but satisfied. The blood work came back that evening and it was confirmed that physically, I was back to square one, like it never even happened.
Some people might have wanted a support group, but I found it difficult to speak with others about this subject, whether over the phone or in person. I got my support in part from blogs and forums I read online. The words of others made me feel like I wasn't going crazy, but that this process was normal and would take its course in its own good time. I also have had the fortune of writing e-mail to a few receptive family members, who gave me their support and their love and understood that I needed this distance to heal. I remember informing all those that I spoke or wrote to that night about my doctor visit, and that everything was all right physically. Mentally I was still shaking from the three days before - not only had that been the two week anniversary of the beginning of my hellish ordeal, but that was supposed to be the day of my very first ultrasound.
But the next day, I felt lighter. It was as though the trial had finally reached its end. My feelings hadn't really changed, but I didn't have to go back to the doctor anymore. I didn't have to worry about my health. It was truly back to square one, back to where we had started from. There had been this uncomfortable feeling about the pregnancy before, about the lost baby, about thinking I had to just move on and put it behind me. But I didn't want to forget. I didn't want that child to be lost in the vastness of time that had been my life before. It was real. I had proof, and I intended to honor it and treat it like a real person who was gone. I might not know anything about it, even the gender, but it didn't matter. I could still love it and care about it and wish that I had a chance to know it. And from the midst of all the reading I did, a way had presented itself.
Mizuko Jizo. Translated, it means roughly, 'the bodhisattva of the water baby'. I kept coming across this reference and it resonated with me. Obsessively I searched out every page that I could. What I came to understand was that, in Japan, partly due to their high rate of abortion,the practice of praying for Jizo (Buddhist patron saint of the unborn, as well as other things) to assist the mizuko (the unformed child) in finding its way back to the waters from which its soul came so it could be born again. This is made tangible for many by the purchase and upkeep of statues of Mizuko Jizo that are adorned with bibs and hats and toys as a way to celebrate and grieve the short life of their child and appease its spirit.
I think what struck me the most is the fact that the Japanese have a special word for miscarried, aborted or stillborn fetuses, mizuko. English doesn't have a nice word for these things. Of my situation, I could say dead baby, dead cells, bad egg, product of miscarriage, spontaneously aborted materials, etc. All of those sound terrible and even though I used the 'bad egg' reference to explain to people what happened, I hate saying it. It feels awful. It's like saying 'my dead mother' instead of 'my mother who is no longer with us'.
I'm not particularly spiritual, nor am I religious at all, so those aspects of the practice don't necessarily appeal to me. But having a nice word to call my baby makes me feel better. I'm not really one to consider the afterlife either, but having a connection to the child, even if it's something that's really only in my own mind just for me, is a comfort I won't give up. So when I went to a sad movie and I allowed myself to cry in public, I thought, 'my mizuko is teaching me the way through grief.' Before all of this, there was so much sadness that I had never expressed because I was afraid of how others would respond to me. And now that it is much closer to the surface, I don't care what people think of my emotions. They don't know all that I've been through, and I may never care to tell them. All I know is that this experience continues. I can't be the person I was two months ago. I may be back to the way I was physically, but that is perhaps the only thing that has remained the same. Because somewhere just outside my back door, the molecules that used to be my child are being rearranged, are being broken down and transformed. Someday, the flower seeds I planted and water almost daily will grow and I perhaps will see something of my lost little one in the brilliant colors that carpet the ground beneath that ancient tree.
It seemed the clinic, or at least my doctor, had taken my suggestion that a woman who was miscarrying needed to be sent back into an exam room right away, so she wouldn't have to stare at all the babies and pregnant women and feel her loss so terribly. We sat back there for a little while, waiting for the doctor, but it was preferable to being stuck out in Babyland. When she arrived, I was relieved to hear that there would be no further exams, no ultrasound of my empty womb, just a blood test to ensure my hormones were back on track. We talked for a little while about everything I was feeling, and it seemed to her that what I was going through was normal and expected. She even offered me counseling or support groups or medication, but I let her know that I was seeking out support in my own way, and she seemed satisfied. We discussed future pregnancies, resuming all normal activities, and in the end, I was still sad, but satisfied. The blood work came back that evening and it was confirmed that physically, I was back to square one, like it never even happened.
Some people might have wanted a support group, but I found it difficult to speak with others about this subject, whether over the phone or in person. I got my support in part from blogs and forums I read online. The words of others made me feel like I wasn't going crazy, but that this process was normal and would take its course in its own good time. I also have had the fortune of writing e-mail to a few receptive family members, who gave me their support and their love and understood that I needed this distance to heal. I remember informing all those that I spoke or wrote to that night about my doctor visit, and that everything was all right physically. Mentally I was still shaking from the three days before - not only had that been the two week anniversary of the beginning of my hellish ordeal, but that was supposed to be the day of my very first ultrasound.
But the next day, I felt lighter. It was as though the trial had finally reached its end. My feelings hadn't really changed, but I didn't have to go back to the doctor anymore. I didn't have to worry about my health. It was truly back to square one, back to where we had started from. There had been this uncomfortable feeling about the pregnancy before, about the lost baby, about thinking I had to just move on and put it behind me. But I didn't want to forget. I didn't want that child to be lost in the vastness of time that had been my life before. It was real. I had proof, and I intended to honor it and treat it like a real person who was gone. I might not know anything about it, even the gender, but it didn't matter. I could still love it and care about it and wish that I had a chance to know it. And from the midst of all the reading I did, a way had presented itself.
Mizuko Jizo. Translated, it means roughly, 'the bodhisattva of the water baby'. I kept coming across this reference and it resonated with me. Obsessively I searched out every page that I could. What I came to understand was that, in Japan, partly due to their high rate of abortion,the practice of praying for Jizo (Buddhist patron saint of the unborn, as well as other things) to assist the mizuko (the unformed child) in finding its way back to the waters from which its soul came so it could be born again. This is made tangible for many by the purchase and upkeep of statues of Mizuko Jizo that are adorned with bibs and hats and toys as a way to celebrate and grieve the short life of their child and appease its spirit.
I think what struck me the most is the fact that the Japanese have a special word for miscarried, aborted or stillborn fetuses, mizuko. English doesn't have a nice word for these things. Of my situation, I could say dead baby, dead cells, bad egg, product of miscarriage, spontaneously aborted materials, etc. All of those sound terrible and even though I used the 'bad egg' reference to explain to people what happened, I hate saying it. It feels awful. It's like saying 'my dead mother' instead of 'my mother who is no longer with us'.
I'm not particularly spiritual, nor am I religious at all, so those aspects of the practice don't necessarily appeal to me. But having a nice word to call my baby makes me feel better. I'm not really one to consider the afterlife either, but having a connection to the child, even if it's something that's really only in my own mind just for me, is a comfort I won't give up. So when I went to a sad movie and I allowed myself to cry in public, I thought, 'my mizuko is teaching me the way through grief.' Before all of this, there was so much sadness that I had never expressed because I was afraid of how others would respond to me. And now that it is much closer to the surface, I don't care what people think of my emotions. They don't know all that I've been through, and I may never care to tell them. All I know is that this experience continues. I can't be the person I was two months ago. I may be back to the way I was physically, but that is perhaps the only thing that has remained the same. Because somewhere just outside my back door, the molecules that used to be my child are being rearranged, are being broken down and transformed. Someday, the flower seeds I planted and water almost daily will grow and I perhaps will see something of my lost little one in the brilliant colors that carpet the ground beneath that ancient tree.
The Space Between
The liminal phase began after that weekend, the descent into the most angry, primal sadness I have ever known. My first days back at work were a blur - I don't really know how I stood there day after day. All I knew was that I was tired of saying fine when I wasn't fine. Every time I asked someone how they were, and they responded, only to ask me how I was, I wanted to say, 'my baby is dead'. Somehow a choked 'fine' was all that came out. I really had no patience, either - it was taking everything I had to just be there, dressed and ready to work. I have felt grief before, but never this acutely, and never over a simple ball of cells. My strength was drained and I had no desire to do anything but occupy my hours with sleep or tv. Either way, it would shut my brain off and I could pretend I really existed while hiding from the world.
In other instances of grief, I have been counted on as the 'strong one', one who made phone calls, who helped with arrangements, who could coordinate while others sat watching, bathed in tears. But not this time. It was as though every instance of grief that I had pushed aside in favor of work or sanity bubbled up inside me like a spring, every unresolved moment came through and so my tears and my emptiness were magnified. I could no longer escape them. The death of several grandparents, both parents, and even a few beloved pets stayed in my mind. It was as though this was my reckoning of grief - all my hopes for the future of this pregnancy were destroyed. I spent the next week after the miscarriage spotting into a pad, and after days and days I wanted it all to be over. No more spotting. No more crying. No more deep dark places where my mind would go. I was tired of it, I just wanted to feel okay, be able to not feel hatred towards a friend who told me to smile. My teeth would grind together in my jaw, and I would say, 'no', or 'I don't want to'. A few people who didn't know my circumstance proceeded to lecture me about how things could be worse. Oh no, they really couldn't.
And I got so tired of the platitudes. Somewhere, I logically realized that this is something people say to make themselves feel better. As with any loss, most words are inappropriate and might make a person feel worse. Like sympathy cards. The part that bothers me is that I know that in the past, I have thought some of these phrases myself, and perhaps even said them, in response to a miscarriage. I once thought that it wasn't that big of a deal. But the truth is, it's not possible to know how wrong these things sound unless you're on the receiving end.
"It's God's plan." Because someone in pain wants to feel like God, should they believe in such a thing, is torturing them. Go Old Testament.
"It's Nature's way, something was wrong with it, this is for the best." Yeah, thanks for reminding me that the universe is a cruel place and our lives are filled with random uncertainty. I totally got that from the miscarriage. Don't rub it in.
"You can have another one, there will be a next time." Maybe this is true, but I wanted *this* one. I was planning for the future of *this* one. I mentally understand that I can in fact try again, but my heart is broken because my child is dead.
"At least it was early, it wasn't really a baby yet." I didn't actually hear this one, but this is one that I have used to make myself feel better about someone else's miscarriage. It's absolutely false to think that a dead child was not still at some point a living thing, even if it died as a ball of cells or a tiny worm-like creature. It was not conscious or sentient, but it was alive, and it was my child, the product of two loving parents. There is truth in saying that the miscarriage itself was physically easier because of the early stage of pregnancy, but I don't think emotionally that it matters. It was a future, it was connection, it was wondering if it was a boy or a girl, if it would have Jeremy's beautiful brown eyes and dark curly hair. The destruction of the prospect of a life was even more powerful for me than some other traumatic events I've experienced, much to my surprise.
I think the nicest thing that anyone said to me was "I'm sorry, I know how excited and happy you were." That made me feel so validated, that my feelings of loss were real. But the person sharing that had a miscarriage of her own years ago, so she knows what it's like to be in these shoes. In fact, in telling other people about the babyloss, I learned that so many had losses of their own, perhaps too painful to mention until I mentioned mine. It was though there was this common thread of pain running through human history, touched by so many lives who stayed silent, not wanting to relive their pain. But why silent? I found so much solace in the words of others, in knowing that what they felt and what I feel are the same, and they survived. Even my doctor has experienced two of her own. This explains the depth of her compassion. She too has seen the face of hell and stood on its edge and let the flames destroy her innocence.
In other instances of grief, I have been counted on as the 'strong one', one who made phone calls, who helped with arrangements, who could coordinate while others sat watching, bathed in tears. But not this time. It was as though every instance of grief that I had pushed aside in favor of work or sanity bubbled up inside me like a spring, every unresolved moment came through and so my tears and my emptiness were magnified. I could no longer escape them. The death of several grandparents, both parents, and even a few beloved pets stayed in my mind. It was as though this was my reckoning of grief - all my hopes for the future of this pregnancy were destroyed. I spent the next week after the miscarriage spotting into a pad, and after days and days I wanted it all to be over. No more spotting. No more crying. No more deep dark places where my mind would go. I was tired of it, I just wanted to feel okay, be able to not feel hatred towards a friend who told me to smile. My teeth would grind together in my jaw, and I would say, 'no', or 'I don't want to'. A few people who didn't know my circumstance proceeded to lecture me about how things could be worse. Oh no, they really couldn't.
And I got so tired of the platitudes. Somewhere, I logically realized that this is something people say to make themselves feel better. As with any loss, most words are inappropriate and might make a person feel worse. Like sympathy cards. The part that bothers me is that I know that in the past, I have thought some of these phrases myself, and perhaps even said them, in response to a miscarriage. I once thought that it wasn't that big of a deal. But the truth is, it's not possible to know how wrong these things sound unless you're on the receiving end.
"It's God's plan." Because someone in pain wants to feel like God, should they believe in such a thing, is torturing them. Go Old Testament.
"It's Nature's way, something was wrong with it, this is for the best." Yeah, thanks for reminding me that the universe is a cruel place and our lives are filled with random uncertainty. I totally got that from the miscarriage. Don't rub it in.
"You can have another one, there will be a next time." Maybe this is true, but I wanted *this* one. I was planning for the future of *this* one. I mentally understand that I can in fact try again, but my heart is broken because my child is dead.
"At least it was early, it wasn't really a baby yet." I didn't actually hear this one, but this is one that I have used to make myself feel better about someone else's miscarriage. It's absolutely false to think that a dead child was not still at some point a living thing, even if it died as a ball of cells or a tiny worm-like creature. It was not conscious or sentient, but it was alive, and it was my child, the product of two loving parents. There is truth in saying that the miscarriage itself was physically easier because of the early stage of pregnancy, but I don't think emotionally that it matters. It was a future, it was connection, it was wondering if it was a boy or a girl, if it would have Jeremy's beautiful brown eyes and dark curly hair. The destruction of the prospect of a life was even more powerful for me than some other traumatic events I've experienced, much to my surprise.
I think the nicest thing that anyone said to me was "I'm sorry, I know how excited and happy you were." That made me feel so validated, that my feelings of loss were real. But the person sharing that had a miscarriage of her own years ago, so she knows what it's like to be in these shoes. In fact, in telling other people about the babyloss, I learned that so many had losses of their own, perhaps too painful to mention until I mentioned mine. It was though there was this common thread of pain running through human history, touched by so many lives who stayed silent, not wanting to relive their pain. But why silent? I found so much solace in the words of others, in knowing that what they felt and what I feel are the same, and they survived. Even my doctor has experienced two of her own. This explains the depth of her compassion. She too has seen the face of hell and stood on its edge and let the flames destroy her innocence.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Monday - Part 2
We went home. I stayed and Jeremy left for work. He had some things he needed to finish in person, and I couldn't blame him for wanting to stay busy. I wished I had something that I could stay busy with, but there wasn't really much I felt that I could do. The sadness was beginning to surround me, to permeate every waking thought, and I was sinking. I laid in bed for while, listening to music that would soothe me. Nothing seemed real, and everything was real. The phone calls I had made four days ago would have to be made again, and this time, I couldn't do it. The strength that I always called on in times of grief to help me muddle through was gone.
Then the cramping I had been feeling on and off for several days got worse. Just as I was trying to figure out how long I'd have to be out of work for this to run its course, I got my answer. Part of me wanted to laugh, saying, 'see, I told you medical people I knew what was happening.' The pain wasn't much worse than the worst regular cramps I'd ever had, so I curled up in bed with some ibuprofen and a heating pad. I sent a text to my husband telling him it was beginning, that I was all right, because I was. All the strength sapped out of me by that sadness had been granted a momentary reprieve to carry me through this ordeal. It can probably be attributed to endorphins or adrenalin cancelling out some of the pregnancy hormones that were making me feel crazy and sad, but whatever the reason, I felt peaceful. My body had to do this to keep me healthy, there wasn't a live baby in there, so at some point that afternoon, I surrendered and let it be what it was.
A few times I got up and walked around. It didn't seem to be better or worse whether I was laying down or walking around. So I did get up a few times, checked the mail, stretched a bit, and when Jeremy got home, moved myself onto the couch. He was in the kitchen working on dinner and I remember standing up and going to see what he was doing, since I'm nosy that way. I felt something slide out, not in a painful way, just a weird sensation. Almost immediately the cramping let up and I went to check and see if I needed to change my pad again. (The bleeding had not been as heavy as I expected, but in the interest of my health I was being very careful to make sure everything was as clean as it could be.)
And when I checked, I found a piece of tissue that was the roughly the size of a Kennedy silver dollar. Once again, I was reminded of things I had read, and some women who had expressed comfort in examining the remains of their pregnancies. I didn't really feel any need to dissect what I was looking at, since I knew that it was only going to be a little empty sac and didn't really want to take it out of the covering it was wrapped in. The outside, however, was morbidly fascinating. It was with interest and almost horror that I stared at it. It was made of all these long tube looking structures, some of which had filaments on the end. For a brief moment, it almost looked like hands and arms and legs...but then I realized that even if there had some remnant of an embryo inside, it wasn't old or large enough to have limbs of that size.
It didn't gross me out or freak me out the way I would have thought. In fact, it made me wonder about some of those pro life posters that people outside of women's clinics use to try and keep clients away. What if some of those pictures of hands or arms weren't actually babies, but were just tissue from the support structure inside the womb? It seemed like false advertising. At 6 weeks, a baby doesn't have any limbs, or even a face, just eye spots. I had been looking at those 'see what your baby looks like at x number of weeks' pictures on the internet, and at 6 weeks it kinda looked like a worm. I had been calling it my worm before I realized it never made it that far.
So that was it. I sort of reverently wrapped it up and set it on top of the trashcan. I didn't want to leave it there, I just couldn't do anything about it right then. At that point, the worst of the physical was over. In fact, the entire process had only taken three days, and had been a normal uterine pregnancy with an empty egg. It could have been a life threatening tubal pregnancy. It could have been a fetus whose heart had stopped beating. The egg could have stopped growing inside me and then not tried to come out on its own, causing an infection. It was literally the best of the worst circumstance that I could have had, so I guess I was as lucky as I could be while still losing my pregnancy.
We both called out of work the next day, to spend some time together and just be. Later on Tuesday night, we buried our little blighted ovum at the base of a tree, because that was all that made sense. Whoever it could have been was lost, but all the work that my body had put into making sure that little egg had a safe place to be shouldn't be wasted too. At least this way, it could re-enter life in a tangible manner, nourishing other living things as it returned to the Earth that it came from.
Then the cramping I had been feeling on and off for several days got worse. Just as I was trying to figure out how long I'd have to be out of work for this to run its course, I got my answer. Part of me wanted to laugh, saying, 'see, I told you medical people I knew what was happening.' The pain wasn't much worse than the worst regular cramps I'd ever had, so I curled up in bed with some ibuprofen and a heating pad. I sent a text to my husband telling him it was beginning, that I was all right, because I was. All the strength sapped out of me by that sadness had been granted a momentary reprieve to carry me through this ordeal. It can probably be attributed to endorphins or adrenalin cancelling out some of the pregnancy hormones that were making me feel crazy and sad, but whatever the reason, I felt peaceful. My body had to do this to keep me healthy, there wasn't a live baby in there, so at some point that afternoon, I surrendered and let it be what it was.
A few times I got up and walked around. It didn't seem to be better or worse whether I was laying down or walking around. So I did get up a few times, checked the mail, stretched a bit, and when Jeremy got home, moved myself onto the couch. He was in the kitchen working on dinner and I remember standing up and going to see what he was doing, since I'm nosy that way. I felt something slide out, not in a painful way, just a weird sensation. Almost immediately the cramping let up and I went to check and see if I needed to change my pad again. (The bleeding had not been as heavy as I expected, but in the interest of my health I was being very careful to make sure everything was as clean as it could be.)
And when I checked, I found a piece of tissue that was the roughly the size of a Kennedy silver dollar. Once again, I was reminded of things I had read, and some women who had expressed comfort in examining the remains of their pregnancies. I didn't really feel any need to dissect what I was looking at, since I knew that it was only going to be a little empty sac and didn't really want to take it out of the covering it was wrapped in. The outside, however, was morbidly fascinating. It was with interest and almost horror that I stared at it. It was made of all these long tube looking structures, some of which had filaments on the end. For a brief moment, it almost looked like hands and arms and legs...but then I realized that even if there had some remnant of an embryo inside, it wasn't old or large enough to have limbs of that size.
It didn't gross me out or freak me out the way I would have thought. In fact, it made me wonder about some of those pro life posters that people outside of women's clinics use to try and keep clients away. What if some of those pictures of hands or arms weren't actually babies, but were just tissue from the support structure inside the womb? It seemed like false advertising. At 6 weeks, a baby doesn't have any limbs, or even a face, just eye spots. I had been looking at those 'see what your baby looks like at x number of weeks' pictures on the internet, and at 6 weeks it kinda looked like a worm. I had been calling it my worm before I realized it never made it that far.
So that was it. I sort of reverently wrapped it up and set it on top of the trashcan. I didn't want to leave it there, I just couldn't do anything about it right then. At that point, the worst of the physical was over. In fact, the entire process had only taken three days, and had been a normal uterine pregnancy with an empty egg. It could have been a life threatening tubal pregnancy. It could have been a fetus whose heart had stopped beating. The egg could have stopped growing inside me and then not tried to come out on its own, causing an infection. It was literally the best of the worst circumstance that I could have had, so I guess I was as lucky as I could be while still losing my pregnancy.
We both called out of work the next day, to spend some time together and just be. Later on Tuesday night, we buried our little blighted ovum at the base of a tree, because that was all that made sense. Whoever it could have been was lost, but all the work that my body had put into making sure that little egg had a safe place to be shouldn't be wasted too. At least this way, it could re-enter life in a tangible manner, nourishing other living things as it returned to the Earth that it came from.
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