Feel Everything...

So I had a miscarriage last month. 

No. There's really no easy way to put that information out there, so I thought I would just get it out of the way. I had something happen to me last month that I had never dreamed would happen, that I had no comprehension of how to handle. I have been thinking about writing this post and going back and forth on it for weeks now... It's something I've had no way of understanding how to process and honestly, I chose to work to ignore because it is such a foreign, scary, painful thing for me. But I need to get it out. I have been holding it in for a little longer than I should have, and the time has come...

Near the end of October I suddenly couldn't stop eating and my tits got huge and I literally couldn't stop crying. I hadn't given it any thought until my fifth day in a row crying at work, when my co-worker told me that she was going to go get me a test because it was ridiculous that I hadn't even considered the possibility of being pregnant. The following week I took eight tests. I obsessively took tests. Each little line got darker and darker with every test and after the eighth? It was decided. Danie was pregnant. 

If you know me, you know that having a baby is basically something my little heart has wanted for years and after the first test, and the third, and the seventh, my quiet excitement came roaring to a head and I was almost giddy. 

The following weeks turned into total excitement... everyone at work was thrilled and brought me gifts and snacks and giggled with me about the little thing that was happening in my belly. We spent weeks musing about baby names and what colour its hairs would be and what adorable things I would crochet for it. 

Every day when I went home I was plagued by fear, though. The fear of what my sisters would say and the fear of what the boy would say. He was so violently against babies and pregnancy that I was certain he would immediately leave and I'd never see him again when I told him. But there was only so long that I could find excuses for not drinking before he started to suspect something more than, "I'm trying to be more healthy," and "I've decided I've just been hitting it too hard, so I need to take a break."

I went for a real test in a real doctor's office and they confirmed what all those little pink and blue lines had been telling me for weeks. The boy knew why I was going to the doctor, so when I got home he was sitting on the sofa, looking gorgeous as can be in the morning sunlight, waiting for an answer. I came in smiling, still delighted with the excited baby conversations I'd had with my friend on the way home from the doctor, The smile on my face that held so much promise of a tiny creature that I could grow and love for me, meant something different to him; he had interpreted it differently. He thought the smile brought the promise of nothing growing inside of me and everything staying the same as it was. 

But there was something inside of me. And it was half his and half mine and when I told him, I saw part of him break. He got up and went for a walk almost immediately and I was left alone and reeling with my own thoughts. If he would come home, if he would talk to me about it, if things would ever be the same again.

Three hours later he came home with a bottle of my favourite cola and sat with me. He played video games and we didn't talk. Not even one word. We sat in silence as we went about our night. 

And then, in the middle of an episode of South Park, he grabbed my hand and tangled his fingers with mine. In that instant, a wave of relief washed over me that was so heavy that even thinking about it right now, two months later, it still makes my heart hurt. That moment of solid love that I felt, knowing that despite all the fears he had, he was there? That's what I needed in that moment. It washed almost every last bit out fear out of my heart and gave me a safe place to feel even more comfortable and excited about the idea of the thing that was happening inside of me.

We then spilled into weeks of talking about baby names and what we would teach it and what sex we preferred and what ideals we wanted to instill in it and how if it was a girl it would never be let out of the house. We laid in bed and talked about what would happen if we didn't work out as a couple, and how we would make it work. We talked about immunizations and religion and sports we would teach it. 

Then our pets found out. Suddenly, one day, they both became obsessed with laying on my belly. The cat walked up to me and laid his head and paws on my belly and the boy said, without even a second thought, "he's cuddling the baby," and my heart melted. Because no matter what was going to happen with us, I had those brief, fleeting moments of beauty that every girl imagines being a part of after watching too many romantic movies or reading too many books. 

No sooner had those words been spoken, though, things became complicated. I started to bleed. A lot. I started feeling more sick than I had before, and more tired, and more scared. And even then, on the scariest night? He was there. 

And then he wasn't. 

The day I lost the baby, I had never been more terrified. I had spent several of the days prior to that day in the hospital with things being poked into me and blood being taken out of me and tears falling for fear of whatever was happening. My sisters were there, but I preferred to be by myself, often not telling anyone where I was so I could process what was or wasn't happening to this little thing that I had become accustomed to in the previous fourteen weeks.

I was fourteen weeks and three days pregnant, and I was in the hospital by myself waiting. I was sitting with an overly chatty woman who refused to sit in any seat unless it was immediately next to a random stranger and who was super into telling every minuscule detail of her life to anyone who would occasionally glance in her direction. I was sitting with an elderly woman who had fallen and ended up with literally half of her body completely bruised. I was sitting with the overwhelming weight of the world on my shoulders, knowing something wasn't right.

And then it was gone. The baby was gone and I had no idea how to do anything but cry. For days. I holed up in my house and refused to talk to most people and cried until there were no tears left to cry.

My yet-to-be-named baby was the size of a lime. I spoke of it with such great promise and excitement for what I was finally going to be able to experience. I felt giddy and looked forward to my upcoming appointment—the one in which I’d hear my little one’s heartbeat and see it's little body for the first time.

It is a deep and terrifying experience to lay helplessly splayed out and bottomless with a technician sitting silently on a rolling stool feeling around and looking for answers amidst the muted room. I stared at the dimly-lit wall to my left and cried because I couldn't see anything on the screen. I couldn't see the little dark smudge I had seen the weeks prior. I couldn't see anything. I know I'm not a professional, but I know what was missing from the screen, and it was the tiny creature that I had been working carefully to create for the previous fourteen weeks.

I couldn’t stop myself from breaking the silence. “Is it gone?” My voice shook, not wanting to face my reality. She didn't even offer a cursory, "I'm not able to answer that question because I'm just a technician." She was silent, and with that silence came all the answers that I needed. It was gone and so was all the hope that I had built up over the past couple of months.

Back in the hospital room, my sister sitting next to me in her glittery Christmas jumper, which seemed entirely offensive, given the circumstances, the doctor returned and started saying things...

"Just not viable."

"You didn't do anything wrong, the body is just very aware of what will and won't work."

"Future pregnancies are still possible."

"Drink lots of water."

And all I could think was that I had left a lamp on at home and I needed to not be in that room anymore. I needed to be out of that room and building.

I had kept all the photos of each pregnancy test (the ones I took because OMG I needed to show SOMEONE, ANYONE what was happening, because I couldn't talk to the boy about it in the first weeks that I knew.) Up until a week ago, eight photos had been lurking on my phone as a painful reminder of what I lost every time I would go into my gallery to show someone a photo of the pup or my dead piglet. Eight photos that stabbed me right in the heart with their little pink and blue lines.

I have no idea why I had kept them. Maybe it's because they were a reminder to me that I was able to get pregnant, and get pregnant again. Maybe I just wans't able to let go of the reminder that I was at one point.

Seven days later, on Christmas Day, I deleted the two pregnancy applications on my phone, unsubscribed from the pregnancy newsletters that I read daily, and deleted the week-to-week countdown on my personal calendar. I didn’t need the sad notifications reminding me of what could’ve been. I stopped replying to people's messages asking me how I was feeling, how I was coping, if I was eating. I stopped thinking about it completely. I needed to move forward. I was pretending to be strong and doing what I felt I needed to do.

I kept the eight pictures of the positive pregnancy tests that it took to convince me I was expecting and stored them on my phone until a week ago, then I decided that everything needed to be deleted just as if this had never happened—as if this baby had never existed.

As I attempted to erase the painful details that accompanied this experience, my symptoms faded. My bloated tummy, my tender breasts, the constant wave of nausea, and my ability to smell literally anything from a mile away all disappeared as I came to grips with my boyfriend moving out and learning how to live alone again.

I cried every day for six days. And then the tears suddenly stopped. I stopped crying for the baby and for all the loss that I had been carrying with me. I work to stay as busy as possible. I throw myself into my job, my crafts, and my friends in an effort to not have to think about the the loss.

But every so often, I think about it. I feel sad and sometimes still cry as I stumble across a toy someone bought for it, or a thoughtful text that was sent to me wishing me a healthy and happy pregnancy.

I read an article the other day by a woman who had lost her baby and her words put my mind at ease. Made it more simple for me think about what happened without being terrified of what it would stir up...

"It’s okay to run and find a private place to ball your eyes out because one more person announced their pregnancy 'while they weren’t even trying.' It’s okay to feel shameful for your reaction, all while sharing in their joy.

It’s normal to feel sorrow in between the happy moments of your life. It’s okay to feel frustrated when women continuously ask when you’re going to have a baby because 'you’re not getting any younger.' They don’t know your story. I used to be that woman who so carelessly and ignorantly asked that very personal question.

Feel everything.

Know that it’s fine to miss someone you never met. Know that there are no rules to this thing. It’s simply okay to not be okay sometimes. It’s okay to do you."