**On October 15th, a wave of light will cross the world as we light candles for the pregnancies we have lost. This is my story, which I initially wrote last year and am finally posting. This week, please take the time to let the families in your life know that their lost babies are not forgotten.**
4:15 am on a cold winter morning. Sitting, hands on belly waiting for my car to warm up. I stare through my reflection at the stars above me, wondering what it will be like to share this with my child one day.
~~~~
Dave and I are standing in line at Starbucks. I'm wondering if the kiddo wants a pumpkin spice steamer. Dave doesn't like the name nugget, that's what we call our rabbit.
Acorn, he says. And it fits.
~~~~
Wednesday morning and I'm putting together a stroller I received from Freecycle. Cramps run down my back and legs every so often and I try to push it out of my mind, as I have work later.
~~~~
Wednesday afternoon and I'm in Erika's bathroom, panicked as I pass a clot, frozen over the toilet, wondering what to do next.
Having left messages in tears with my family doctor, I'm now on the phone with a midwife I've never met, looking out the bathroom window. She's telling me it's okay to take Advil or Tylenol, that it won't harm the baby if everything works out. She cautions me that my stronger and stronger cramps are indicative of a miscarriage.
~~~~
Erika chides me for not yet having called my mom. I hadn't wanted to worry her. I'm afraid of what she'll say. She's at work.
I would want to know, Erika says, and waits for me to promise to call.
My mom's at work and I hear her trying not to cry as I tell her I think I'm losing my baby.
~~~~
Late Wednesday night I'm at the local emergency clinic being checked by a doctor. They take my blood and tell me they don't have an ultrasound machine, so they can transfer me to the bigger ER if I'd like. My mind hurts. My cervix is closed but I'm still passing clots. I
need to have an answer. The uncertainty is unbearable.
We spend the rest of the night waiting at the very very very busy ER. They take my blood and admit us further inside, where we wait hours for the ultrasound. I'm cramping and trying not to think about the day. People sick and in pain in every direction, all wishing they were not here. Anywhere but here, waiting.
~~~~
They escort me down a dark empty corridor to the other side of the hospital. Dave had gone to get a snack and I'm terrified to be separated from him. He finds me and afterward we're escorted back to the ER to wait for the results.
No heart beat. Maybe it's just to early to see it. Eight weeks is on the cusp, after all. The doctor is talking, but it is apparent that everyone feels that the situation is useless. I'm wishing we had never come here, wasted our last night pregnant here. Dave is sniffling and I'm lost as the doctor hands us follow up instructions, a work exemption notice (2 days? I haven't even miscarried yet, I need more than that...), and photocopied literature entitled, "If you are having a miscarriage". I stare at the word.
Me? Nothing in my life has ever gone this wrong.~~~~
I stupidly decided to take care of the kids the next day, hoping their life would inspire me to get out of my panic funk. I'm still in denial. How bad could it get? My cramps are in and out.
As the toddler naps, I rest my head on his bed, crying. My vision is starting to falter from the power behind the cramps. I am all alone and am dreading him waking up. I manage to get him downstairs and put a snack on the table and decide to call his dad. I don't know what to say, I don't know what he knows.
Come rescue your nanny, she's losing her baby and can't take care of yours. He is very kind and I retreat to the bed downstairs, curled up and in pain. My body, my heart. I know it's happening. Somehow I'm on the phone with Jessie.
It's happening. The reception is crappy down here so we hang up. I give in and call for Dave to come get me.
~~~~
I hide in the bathroom to pass the time. And there it is. I remember the doctor saying I would see tissue. Grey tissue. My baby is just the size of a bean, I wonder where he is in all this. It feels morbid to flush the toilet.
~~~~
Dave ushers me outside, loads me in his car. As we drive away, I watch my car get smaller, the questioning look on the seven year-old's face is burned into my eyes. She's almost old enough to understand, yet no one will offer anything.
Nana's sick, she has to go home.~~~~
The scenery goes by. Contractions come and go, wracking my body. I grab onto the door handle and try not to hate my body for what it is doing to me, to my baby.
At home, waves of pain come and go. The cold bathroom floor feels good, I curl into a ball on the floor now knowing the pattern, ready for what is to come. Only, I'm not ready. It's too final.
~~~~
Two days later Dave drives me to the woman's wing of the hospital for my follow up blood test. Dave is at the welcome desk finishing the paperwork. This is where they discharge mothers and their newborns. Families and cameras and brand new car seats covered in fancy new blankets. I call my boss while I choke on my tears.
I can't come in tomorrow, I'm just not up to it yet. Twenty percent of our customers are pregnant, and I know I won't be able to handle it. She asks if everything is alright.
No, I say,
but it will be okay. As I hang up, I wonder if I was too cryptic. But I can't say it yet. The words will not form in my mouth.
~~~~
All these hormones and no baby to use them on.
No baby. How did I get here? I spend most of my time in bed crying. The emptiness is unbearable. At night I can't sleep without music blasting the thoughts out of my head until I crash from exhaustion. I head to the mall and stuff myself a bear so that I have something to hold. It softens the pain of useless longing.
~~~~
Back at work, all the people who I wish knew don't know, and all the people I never even told I was pregnant magically know that I no longer am. A few people approach me. One tells me her friend had been through this a few times, so she knows where I am coming from. I am not heartless, but all I can think is,
I couldn't care less about your friend.A truly caring friend keeps looking sideways at me and asking if I'm okay. I keep saying yes, but knowing this is not true, he keeps repeating himself. Finally, I blow up.
No, I'm not okay. I lost my baby. I'm not at all okay. He was one of the few who had not yet heard. I felt ashamed. And mad at myself that I assumed he would know, since everyone else seemed to.
Two women hugged me.
I'm so sorry, said one.
I've been there, I know, said the other.
I'm so sorry. In me they hugged their daughters, through them I hugged my mom. The hugs got me through the day.
~~~~
Two weeks later I show up at the birth center for what should have been our first check up. The midwife had told me to keep the date and just come in for a follow up, since that's protocol anyhow. Except no one has flagged my file and if I have to explain one more time that it is not a clerical error and I am no longer pregnant, I am going to break down. The nurse taking my blood pressure notes that it is through the roof and asks me if I get anxious in doctors' offices.
I didn't used to, I think. My eyes are burning and all I can do is shake my head. A sticky note on my file would have been nice.
Anything.
~~~~
A week later, two weeks later, almost a month later, and I'm wondering who would think of me on the anniversary. Would anyone? Suddenly I understand loss like never before. Nervously I get a card for a friend whose grown son died in a hit and run last year. One year ago. I remember all the mothers in the store crying that day. I've always felt detached from death, but now I understand how one mother losing her child is real pain for every mother.
I'm afraid to give her the card. What have I lost in comparison? I'm still not a real mother. It feels presumptuous to tell her that I understand the hardest part of losing someone is losing them in memory. I tell her that I think of her and I think of her son, and neither are forgotten.
The day I hand her the card happens to be the very anniversary of the day he died. She cries on my shoulder and thanks me as I hold her tight. Suddenly I understand grief like never before.
~~~~
How are you? becomes a burden. The word
fine no longer rolls carelessly off my tongue. I test myself before each answer.
No, not fine. Not today, not yet. But to say
not well invites looks and offers and I cannot go through my day sharing my pain with everyone. Sometimes I wish everyone knew and sometimes I want to hide behind anonymity.
~~~~
A coworker is proudly parading his new nephew around the store. I'm so happy for them and they had generously planned to give me his newborn clothes. Do I want to hold him? I panic. No, I would probably never return him. I want to turn and run. Choking on spent tears, I escape just in time and watch from afar.
Tell them I'm sorry. They were so kind. I would have liked to meet him, but I just can't.~~~~
It's Mother's Day. Do I count? Was he my son if we only met in our dreams?
~~~~
I can't remember the day I first replied
fine to a casual
How are you, but I remember the feeling in that moment. Relief and fear. If I feel fine, does that mean that I am starting to forget?
I remember the first time I said miscarriage and I didn't stutter and tears didn't burn at my eyes. It was over a year later. Now I say it all the time. I say it because I have a beautiful daughter now, and there is a bittersweet relief in that. She gives me the strength I need to remind people what a miracle every healthy child is.
I
say it because people need to know. Pregnancy loss happens. It's sad, and sad things are taboo in our culture. But to me it's bitter sweet. A beautiful soul chose me for this journey, and we were together only eight weeks. And now I understand the world in a completely different way, and every time I look up at the stars, I send out a prayer to all the lost babies. They existed and deserve to be remembered.
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