Grief

{First of all, thank you so much for the kind and uplifting comments on my last post. It helps tremendously to hear from others who have walked this path, and from those who haven't but are sending their love. I will continue to need your prayers because I still have not started bleeding or spotting and we are going on day #9 since the ultrasound. I have some big decisions to make this Friday about what to do next and all I know is that this waiting game is emotional warfare. I just want to move on. Anyway, this is the first post I wrote last week, a glimpse into the grief process. }

4.28.11
I struggled with the decision to post about our loss on this blog. It feels like waving a giant banner for the strangers of the internet, broadcasting the most intensely painful experience I've had to a number of people that I'll never meet. It's even more odd to think about all of the 'aquaintences' of mine who read this blog---ones with whom I would normally never share this story, but who will now know about it. And I hate that some of my actual friends will read this instead of hearing it from me, but I just can't bring myself to spread the news over and over again. The entire concept of a miscarriage is so sad, so personal, and even a little bit shameful and embarrassing. But you know what? The more I thought about it I knew I had to blog about this. How could I not? If I neglected to share this significant part of my life on the blog I might as well just shut the whole thing down and I'm not ready to do that. Miscarriage should not be a topic that women are afraid to discuss, and it should not be something we have to endure alone. Reading about my loss is bound to help someone out there going through the same thing, right? It will absolutely help me to sort it out, and to hear from other women who've survived the same ordeal. Becoming a member of the large miscarriage club is not something I'm proud of, but I will not be ashamed or ignore it, either. It feels very empowering to share this story, in a way it lets me take control over the words and own them, so that I can heal as well. Blogging has always helped me move through hard times and it only makes sense that at my lowest point in my very blessed life, I write about it.


I really don't know where to begin. I sit here today, one day after my thirtieth birthday, living out the reality of a nightmare I dreamed for many weeks. It's been a little more than 48 hours since we had our dreams of baby number two ripped away from us---and in some ways, these past two days have been the longest of my life. The fact that we heard the worst possible news just one day before my big 3-0 is probably the most ironic timing ever, right? Setting up the ultrasound to be right at the 9 week mark, the day before my birthday, seemed like it could be a great gift to celebrate as I left my twenties and entered the next decade. But instead it turned out to be the biggest slap in the face. As I read the kind, unknowing words of friends on Facebook say, 'Happy Birthday, enjoy your wonderful day!' it made me want to cry for about the millionth time in a 24 hour period. What is 'happy' about the saddest feeling I've ever known in my thirty years. And a 'birth' day? How ironic to celebrate the day of my own birth as I mourn the death of an unborn baby inside me. How could I possibly enter into my next year with more pain and sadness? And yet, although my birthday started off really really rough with tears waking me up from my broken sleep and a horrible attitude hovering over my head, it did turn out to be an amazing gift in the end. I forced myself to go to work and see my five patients that day, and stepping outside of my own misery for a bit to help others was more therapeutic than I could predict. My job---the one I love to complain about, and dream of quitting to stay home full time---was the biggest reason I made it through my birthday. Not to mention the flowers, emails, calls, and texts full of heartfelt and comforting words. By the finish of my big day, I had finally gotten the message: I have been blessed with a group of friends and family that truly care about me, who love me no matter what, and who will support me through the worst of times. I definitely felt the love and understood that our loved ones are incredible gifts.

It's really natural to spit out about three token phrases to someone who is suffering from a miscarriage. I'm absolutely positive I've said them all at one point in my life, and I don't regret saying them now that I'm on the other side of the line. All of them mean well but they can't be a quick fix, placed in a nice little box of words, to make the mother feel less pain. I realize that everyone just wants to say the right thing to help, but when you are in the darkest despair it's easy to have a response for everything. I know that is really awful for me to say, and I hope it doesn't make it even harder to come up with words for those suffering.

-'At least you already have one healthy baby.' Very true, we are so blessed to have Truman as the ultimate distraction to our pain, the perfect symbol for life and happiness. But you know what? There are two sides to the coin of having a first child and then a miscarriage. I know how amazing it is to have a new baby. I am in love with being a mother. And to have it be thisclose and then ripped away from me? I am fully aware of what I am losing and it's absolutely heartbreaking to know I will never meet this baby. I will never get to love him or her with every ounce of my being, or get to smell their sweetest newborn scent, or watch them grow into a precious toddler and beyond. I am beyond grateful for Truman and don't mean to sound greedy, wanting more children after him. But I truly feel that our family is not complete with just one. And I wanted this baby more than I can accurately explain.

-'There was probably something wrong with the baby, so it's probably for the best.' Absolutely true, but of course we'll never know if this was the case. And if so---if the baby had a chromosomal abnormality---how can you NOT ask The Question of 'Why?' I know that these things happen. That when the miracle of life begins with just one cell and rapidly divides into thousands, there is a large margin for error. I get that, I really do. But why did my baby have to have a mistake at the cellular level? Does this mean we are more at risk for another abnormality in the future?

-'You'll get pregnant again and have a perfectly healthy child next time.' Really? You have a crystal ball and can predict the future? Because right now, when fate seems like the biggest biyatch in the universe, it seems pretty ridiculous to assume everything will go on to being just fine in the future. What if we don't get pregnant again? Or what if this happens multiple times without explanation? I seriously doubt I would be strong enough to do this all over again.

And really, if God allows me to get pregnant again, how on earth will I ever be able to enjoy pregnancy again? I've always been incredibly neurotic, a worrier, finding it difficult to just relax and be in the moment. Will I even be able to function in the early days of pregnancy again? Or will I literally be so anxious and scared that I'll make myself sick?

Because I like to be a Pollyanna sometimes, I really do try to see the good things in every situation. As far as the timing of this loss, I can honestly say that it's much better finding out at 9 weeks instead of 19 weeks, or 29 or 39. Also much better finding out we've lost the baby now than losing a baby after it's born. It's better that the body knows when something is wrong, and 'takes care of it', so that we do not bring a child into this world with added suffering, pain, medical procedures, and heartache if at all possible . Of course if we did have a child with any disability we would love that child with all of our hearts. But I think it's okay to admit that it would be a difficult life. I am so glad I didn't get an ultrasound at 6 weeks, see the heartbeat then and feel optimistic, and then not find out about this loss until much later. I'm also very grateful that I didn't speak up at my 8 week exam, requesting to squeeze into the Ultrasound room right away, on the off chance they had a random opening right then. I would have been completely alone, without Nate or Truman, and I can't imagine how much worse it would have been then.

But even when I'm doing really well with those happy thoughts, I'll have dark moments hit me hard and it takes awhile to catch my breath. Why is this happening to us? Do we deserve it somehow? Did all of my worries about this very scenario somehow will it to happen? Why would God provide such a precious gift of life and then quickly whisk it away from us in an instant, before it even seemed real? I've had a lot of talks with God in the past two days and I hate to admit that some of my words haven't been the nicest.

I understand that there must be 'mountaintop moments' in life, and also times when we walk in the valley. I'm definitely in the valley right now, struggling to see how God has not deserted me. But I do believe that everything happens for a reason. I believe in heaven, and that life begins in the womb. I think that our world today trivializes life in utero making it seem insignificant, like a baby isn't really 'real' until he or she is born. I wholeheartedly disagree with that statement and choose to believe that my baby was real. I wonder if some people simply will not understand my devastation with this loss, thinking it's silly to be so sad over a pregnancy that only lasted a few weeks. I'm sure there will be some that want me to move on already, to get over it and suck it up. But this little life that briefly passed through my own was my child, with so much potential washed away in a matter of weeks. No matter how short or how long a child touches your life he will absolutely leave a mark. I believe this baby is in heaven and we will meet him someday and I am thankful for the hope and anticipation we felt for the 5 weeks we knew about this child.

The worst part of the whole nightmare is the waiting, the emptiness, the lack of closure. I am still not bleeding yet. My body still thinks it's pregnant. And honestly, I have lost an enormous amount of respect for my physical body in the past days. First it loses the pregnancy, unable to grow the baby into an actual child for us to love. And now? It's not getting the freaking memo. The baby is dead, you idiot. Why won't you just let it go and let me get on with my life? I spent 5 weeks holding my breath with every bathroom trip, praying there wouldn't be blood. And now? I pray that God shows his mercy and lets me start bleeding, shedding the physical and emotional pain in the process. I know that the actual process is going to be absolutely terrifying, and more horrible than I can imagine. But the fact that I'm just sitting here with a dead baby inside of me, waiting for the loss to happen is sickening. If nothing has happened by next week, the doctor thinks I should come in for some medicine to help speed things along. Two days ago that idea sounded disgusting to me. And now it sounds more appealing by the minute. How am I supposed to heal, to move through the grieving process, when I haven't even lost the baby yet?

So here I am, headed into day #3 after everything has changed. Just typing my thoughts for the first time and feeling it all sink in a little deeper. I think I've successfully moved from shock, sadness, despair, and now to numbness and emptiness, with a touch of anger thrown in there for a bit. The grieving process is a wild ride, for sure.