Miscarriage

Yesterday was the anniversary of my miscarriage. Is anniversary even remotely appropriate to say as it relates to that life event? In other words, it’s been three years since that happened.

It’s a little hard for me to remember all of my feelings because so much life has been lived between now and then. I’ve read countless blog posts or stories from other women who experienced the same thing over the years, especially right after it happened, and I always felt so much better after relating to others’ experiences & feelings. Sometimes I would read things other women wrote and think “yes, I know you’re feeling that way but what did you do — what happened?” This story is rather long, but it includes the things that may have helped me if I was reading this a few years ago.

My oldest child was only 9 or 10 months old when I realized I was pregnant again. This was not a surprise. He was like a puppy eager to please and I would’ve taken a litter of him. I knew within the first week of this second pregnancy that something felt very strange. Truthfully, I really didn’t feel pregnant. I had remembered all of the nausea, greasy skin, and food aversions from the last (recent) go-around and each day I felt very uneasy that none of that was happening now. When I told two of my friends, I specifically remember saying that I was pregnant but didn’t feel it, as if I was planting the seed for some other news. My mom came to the doctor’s with me because Phil was out of town. The doctor had a hard time finding the baby at that first appointment but when he did, blamed it on something else and didn’t give me a reason to believe that anything was really wrong; he predicted that I just wasn’t as far along as I thought and that I should come back in several weeks. They did blood work in response to my real concern around whether this was going okay, and called me the next day to say it came back fine.

I still had a horrible feeling in my gut. When I think about that time, even with the news that should’ve relieved me, I knew I was losing optimism. Isn’t it so interesting how well we know our bodies sometimes? Fast forward however many weeks until my next appointment, which would have equated to being 11 weeks pregnant, and I felt nervous — the kind where you can’t eat and your armpits are super sweaty. I can distinctly remember the doctor coming in and mentioning my due date of December 23 when he looked at my chart. I wouldn’t even engage in the conversation until we did a sono. He sent me over to the tech who only needed a few minutes of silence to give me my answers. Finally she said “this pregnancy isn’t viable” and I could see the image on the screen. I was mad. It had lingered for months at this point and I resented the experience. I felt crushed and devastated. For weeks following this, I would cry at any random point in the day. Songs, Pampers commercials, folding the clothes that no longer fit Lawrence, the list goes on.

There was an added layer of confusion for me with this experience because I had another baby. I couldn’t believe how sad I felt when I had a healthy and happy child at home. Can’t I just enjoy him right now? My emotions ranged from rage over the time I was missing with my baby from this distraction, to sadness thinking of never giving him a sibling because I couldn’t see past the immediate storm I was in. When I type this, I know that for so many people, this is what their first experience with pregnancy looks like, and that is heartbreaking and depleting. Constantly digging for hope is exhausting & truly unfair. To make matters more complicated feeling, people said odd things during this time period. For those who knew, they were either quick to share their own miscarriage story with me, which was a true blessing, or quick to remind me that I already had a healthy baby at home and that many people have none. Should I feel less sad than I do because I already have a kid? What if everyone around me is judging me for crying because they think I’m luckier than other people who are in this same boat? Those people were usually either men, or old, and oftentimes both. Sometimes when I laid in bed at night I would question whether having told people was the right decision. Hell, I have a blog where I write about the hardest experiences of my life, so I’m clearly more apt to share things and usually don’t regret it. No, I decided: if those people still feel like they should remind me of what I have so they can feel fulfilled by forcing me to check whether my emotions are validated, then they need help, not me. Spoiler: I needed help, too. (Whatever, they still need help.)

I made the decision to go to the hospital for a procedure related to this. I was scared and wanted the physical aspect of this behind me. They couldn’t fit me in for several days and those days felt long and weird. They only existed to bridge the gap between that bad news and then the event that would allow me to start the next part of my life. It feels strange to admit this (but what hell, it’s my story so I will): I felt so much better after that procedure. It was as if I could begin to heal mentally and emotionally only because I could begin to heal physically. On this day, Lawrence was home with his babysitter until Phil relieved her. My sister thought it would be good to get a little air so when we left the hospital she brought me to Wegmans for a sub (in hindsight, how very odd and also incredibly fitting of us). I was still messed up from being under anesthesia for the surgery when she started telling me a story in a very animated way. In (what felt like) slow motion, she waved her arms in the air and I thought she was motioning that someone was about to fall on me, or spill their food all over my head, or something of the sort, and I jumped out of my seat to get out of the way. She didn’t know what was happening and so she jumped out of her seat too. We were standing there. In the middle of the busy seating area of the DeWitt Wegmans. Waiting for each other to explain herself. There was no explanation. When we realized this we laughed hard; the type of laugh that comes from deep within your stomach and makes you cry. It was my first good laugh in a long time. For months after that, I’d remember the moment in the shower or when I was driving and burst out laughing again. And want another Wegmans sub.

Eventually, I went from feeling incomplete and sometimes sad to finding a lot more joy in my life. It took time, and each day was a little bit better than the last. My mom’s friend sent me a text that helped me so very, very much. When people ask me how they can help others who are going through this, I share this message: validate that this is a devastating loss that must be mourned. If you are empathic or sensitive you may think that is obvious. To so many people, it’s not. They feel uncomfortable about your feelings or they want to debate what really happened and why. None of that matters when it was your baby. You need to let all of the emotions that accompany this devastation happen to you, and you don’t owe anyone an apology for it. Friends being kind is so helpful — and even more than thoughtful words, the encouragement to mourn is really comforting. I know I’m lucky that I got pregnant again soon after this experience and that there are many people who don’t. I let the words of other people who wanted to remind me of my fortune with Lawrence, and make me feel strange for feeling so badly, linger in my head for too long. I now know that gratitude and sadness can co-exist; like everything else I’ve written about, I find that time and experience heals these sadness wounds.

A good news day for me celebrating our rainbow baby with Lawrence. This picture is from his ultrasound, not Amira’s, because we lost her pictures. Luckily they all look the same.