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."