Well, I've been in a bit of a rut lately. It feels a little out of character to share all this, but I'm starting to discover that letting it out is sometimes easier than holding it in. So, we're about to get real here. I wrote this several months ago.
I felt angry at my body, I felt out of control, I kept thinking maybe the baby is still okay, none of this makes sense. I called the doctor again on Monday morning and was told to go to the emergency room. The ultrasound tech there was very, very quiet. I didn't want to ask. I finally said, Do you see anything? She said, "No, I don't see anything. I can't find it. There's nothing here." It was already gone.
And just like that, my baby was lost. There was a baby in there, I didn't see it but I knew it was there. And then, it was gone. I don't know where it went. In a spiritual way, I feel like I actually knew that baby. He is still real even if I won't ever rock him to sleep and cradle his head and wake up to his cries in the night.
I keep thinking, why is this so hard? What makes this so sad? Why isn't there a name for this grief? This ambiguous sadness, of not even really knowing who or what I lost. I want to put a label on it, then put it in a box, and bring it out to examine when I feel emotionally capable, which might be in a few weeks, months, or years. But that's not how it works. So I tell myself that I'm fine. I'm fine. And some of the time I am. But that's not how it feels. It feels like I had a baby that was a part of our family and now it's lost.
Somebody told me, "It will hit you at the strangest times." It hit me when I got off the plane to come home, and I see a guy holding a sign that says "Mama Bear" to welcome his pregnant wife. And all I can think is: I lost my baby. It feels like my heart was ripped open, and time is slowly stitching it back together but the emotions are still trying to rush out before they get closed in on. Another reason why it's hard to talk about. I don't necessarily always feel like having a total emotional breakdown in front of every person who asks me how I've been or when we're thinking about having another baby. But the weird thing is, sometimes I do.
I have gained some strength over the last few months from sharing the burden when the time seems right. When close friends have lightheartedly asked when Mariah gets a new brother or sister, instead of smiling through gritted teeth and pinching myself so I don't cry, I've just shared what's up. I guess I don't mind when people ask personal questions as long as they're comfortable getting a personal answer. A friend that I've known for a couple years shared with me that she lost three pregnancies in between her first and second child. I had no idea. Another friend was able to talk with me about the miscarriage she had before her first baby was born. It's so, so very common, of course I wonder why it's still so hard to talk about.
When I started to open up in the smallest way, I realized that I've just joined the sad club of grieving mothers. Some are still grieving and when you mention your own loss they immediately tear up and hug you and let you cry. Some think about their own loss as just a distant memory that time made right. I don't know how I'll feel in a few more months or years which is partly why I wanted to write things now, while I'm still feeling the sharp pain of having lost a life that was supposed to mine.
The day I went to the hospital, when the needle that drew my blood was removed from my arm, it hurt really bad. Later that day, I complained that my arm was still hurting. Over the next few days, it seemed to get worse, not better, like the center of the pain had started to spread through my whole arm, to the point where I avoided even using my left arm because it hurt so bad. In some ways I didn't mind having the physical pain to focus on because it was more manageable than all the emotional garbage. Several weeks later, I read something in an article that said one of the most common complaints from women during pregnancy loss or infertility is of arms hurting. It's a psychological thing, of arms aching to hold the child that will never be; it's called "empty arms syndrome". Oh good! I thought, my arm was probably fine the whole time I'm just crazy. But, I'm crazy in the same way that a lot of other people are crazy so I guess that makes it normal.
Somebody shared with me that the one positive thing that came out of having a miscarriage was increased empathy. At the time my thought was "Well I'd rather keep my baby and have less empathy and just call it good" but too bad that's not the way it works. I'm not quite to the point where I can say I'm GLAD this happened, but I guess I can say that increased empathy has been a real result, on a deeper level than I expected. That's another thing about going through personal tragedy. Suddenly I look around and realize how many other people are also probably in pain. It makes you want to be just a little more kind and a little more patient with the world. There's enough hurt going around for everyone.
I came across this at just the right time:
In October, right around Mariah's first birthday, we found out we had a new baby coming to join our family. I was elated. Like, cried tears of joy, danced around the living room, drove straight to Matt's work (see pic below) to break the news happy. We had been thinking about this second baby since before Mariah was even born and had felt ready for awhile. Yep we were one of those couples that starting talking about getting pregnant again when Mariah was only a few weeks old. So when we found out we were expecting again we talked constantly about the new baby. Suddenly every thought that passed through my mind was about what our family would be like in 9 short months.
Then, things changed. There were two small spots of blood. So small, if I had been in a hurry I might not have even seen. I had heard that a small amount of bleeding in early pregnancy is actually pretty common, and nothing to worry too much about. Still, I couldn't sleep all night long. I knew. Something was wrong.
Miscarriage is one of those things that I think people don't like to talk about. I actually wouldn't even say the word while I was pregnant for fear of cursing the baby. I'm superstitious like that. Pregnancy loss is something that I had always silently begged to never happen to me because I didn't know if I was capable of dealing with it. Still, I guess I had never given much thought to why people don't talk about it. Now I guess I understand a little bit of why. It's really sad, it's really messy, and there's usually no explanation for why.
Even after the scare, I tried to put it out of my mind, took Mariah with me on a plane to California the next day, and happily, maybe foolishly, shared good news about our growing family. The next night I dreamed of blood. Lots of blood. I dreamed I lost the baby. When I woke up it scared me that I had dreamed that, but I did my best to block it out. That night, it started coming true. I knew. I was so scared. I fell to my knees right then and prayed to God to please save this baby. Please, please, please let this baby be okay. We are so ready, we want this baby to come so much. I cried until my tears ran out for the baby I was losing. I called the on-call doctor. She said not to be worried, that things actually sounded like they will be fine. But I knew better.
I felt angry at my body, I felt out of control, I kept thinking maybe the baby is still okay, none of this makes sense. I called the doctor again on Monday morning and was told to go to the emergency room. The ultrasound tech there was very, very quiet. I didn't want to ask. I finally said, Do you see anything? She said, "No, I don't see anything. I can't find it. There's nothing here." It was already gone.
And just like that, my baby was lost. There was a baby in there, I didn't see it but I knew it was there. And then, it was gone. I don't know where it went. In a spiritual way, I feel like I actually knew that baby. He is still real even if I won't ever rock him to sleep and cradle his head and wake up to his cries in the night.
I keep thinking, why is this so hard? What makes this so sad? Why isn't there a name for this grief? This ambiguous sadness, of not even really knowing who or what I lost. I want to put a label on it, then put it in a box, and bring it out to examine when I feel emotionally capable, which might be in a few weeks, months, or years. But that's not how it works. So I tell myself that I'm fine. I'm fine. And some of the time I am. But that's not how it feels. It feels like I had a baby that was a part of our family and now it's lost.
Somebody told me, "It will hit you at the strangest times." It hit me when I got off the plane to come home, and I see a guy holding a sign that says "Mama Bear" to welcome his pregnant wife. And all I can think is: I lost my baby. It feels like my heart was ripped open, and time is slowly stitching it back together but the emotions are still trying to rush out before they get closed in on. Another reason why it's hard to talk about. I don't necessarily always feel like having a total emotional breakdown in front of every person who asks me how I've been or when we're thinking about having another baby. But the weird thing is, sometimes I do.
I have gained some strength over the last few months from sharing the burden when the time seems right. When close friends have lightheartedly asked when Mariah gets a new brother or sister, instead of smiling through gritted teeth and pinching myself so I don't cry, I've just shared what's up. I guess I don't mind when people ask personal questions as long as they're comfortable getting a personal answer. A friend that I've known for a couple years shared with me that she lost three pregnancies in between her first and second child. I had no idea. Another friend was able to talk with me about the miscarriage she had before her first baby was born. It's so, so very common, of course I wonder why it's still so hard to talk about.
When I started to open up in the smallest way, I realized that I've just joined the sad club of grieving mothers. Some are still grieving and when you mention your own loss they immediately tear up and hug you and let you cry. Some think about their own loss as just a distant memory that time made right. I don't know how I'll feel in a few more months or years which is partly why I wanted to write things now, while I'm still feeling the sharp pain of having lost a life that was supposed to mine.
The day I went to the hospital, when the needle that drew my blood was removed from my arm, it hurt really bad. Later that day, I complained that my arm was still hurting. Over the next few days, it seemed to get worse, not better, like the center of the pain had started to spread through my whole arm, to the point where I avoided even using my left arm because it hurt so bad. In some ways I didn't mind having the physical pain to focus on because it was more manageable than all the emotional garbage. Several weeks later, I read something in an article that said one of the most common complaints from women during pregnancy loss or infertility is of arms hurting. It's a psychological thing, of arms aching to hold the child that will never be; it's called "empty arms syndrome". Oh good! I thought, my arm was probably fine the whole time I'm just crazy. But, I'm crazy in the same way that a lot of other people are crazy so I guess that makes it normal.
Somebody shared with me that the one positive thing that came out of having a miscarriage was increased empathy. At the time my thought was "Well I'd rather keep my baby and have less empathy and just call it good" but too bad that's not the way it works. I'm not quite to the point where I can say I'm GLAD this happened, but I guess I can say that increased empathy has been a real result, on a deeper level than I expected. That's another thing about going through personal tragedy. Suddenly I look around and realize how many other people are also probably in pain. It makes you want to be just a little more kind and a little more patient with the world. There's enough hurt going around for everyone.
I came across this at just the right time:
"The truth is, rarely can a response make something better. What makes something better is connection."
You are so very loved. Thank you for sharing.
ReplyDeleteThanks Adrienne, I always admire your strength to write about difficult things.
DeleteBeautifully written as usual. I'm so sorry you are going through this trial. I think writing it down helps you and possibly others who mourn a loss. I love you!
ReplyDeleteYes writing it all down has been very cathartic and helps to lift some of the burden! Love you too.
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