You know, it's so interesting. Every time I think I've backed off and taken a breather from thinking about the loss, something happens to remind me just how much it still hurts. I was reading another woman's blog about her losses and struggles and it just brings it all back. Strange how another's pain can resonate so strongly with me. It's like my pain is a bell, and others' pain can touch it and cause it to reverberate.
In some ways I see that as a good thing. It helps me keep on track with this grieving thing. It helps me to face what's going on in my heart instead of ignoring it. It helps me to feel. But in other ways, I resent it. Sometimes, I don't want to feel. I want to ignore. I want to escape. I want to pretend that I'm doing OK, that I'm not hurting as much as I really am inside.
Either way, the pain is real, and crying over someone else's blog post isn't just about being sad for them, it's about being sad for me too. Sad for what was loved, and lost. Sad for what could have been. Sad for myself--well, if you've been reading my blog, you know it's just one big pity party, after all. Hah. Honestly though, I'm not blogging about this in order to get someone else to feel sorry for me. I'm doing this because I'm trying something, anything, to get past this hurt and to move forward with my life. And if writing about it helps that, then by golly, I will write. I'm not sure yet whether it's helping, but it does feel good to get it out. So thank you, dear readers, for being a part of this process for me. Hopefully, one day I can look back and see the healing process taking place. Right now I just feel like it's all darkness and pain. But eventually, something's gotta give.
Boy, looking back, I can see just how naïve I was. I was naïve about miscarriages, in the first place, that they could happen to me. I thought, nah, that won't happen, I'll be fine! My first pregnancy was fine, what do I have to worry about? Then, after it happened, I was naïve about the grieving process. I thought, oh, give it about 6 months or so, I should be OK, right? Hmm...no. In 4 months it will be 2 years---2 years, people! since the miscarriage happened, and I'm still not OK! Maybe someone needs to put some literature out there about miscarriages and how they can completely ravage your soul. I'm sure there are some people that bounce back just fine, and have a nice little uncomplicated grieving spell that resolves appropriately and they can look back and be grateful, somehow, that their baby died. Then there are those of us, like me, that are just not happy doing things the easy way and have to go and do some complex, fruitless, senseless grieving saga that just goes on and on. Ugh. Here's to being "unique" and marching to the beat of your own drum. Cheers!
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Friday, September 6, 2013
Death
A short post for tonight. It's late and bedtime beckons. But I have realized something--since the miscarriage, no matter what I do, it seems I am dogged by anxiety and fear. It takes different forms at different times. Before I got pregnant with my youngest, I would worry about my older son and I getting killed or injured in a car accident when I drove. I would worry about my husband. I would worry about someone breaking into our house and killing us. Now, I worry about the baby. Oh, I worry about his reflux and I worry when he cries that he's in pain. But in reality, the deeper, underlying fear is, I worry that my baby will die. Death, always death, is the common theme. I fear death, because it is a shapeless, faceless foe who I cannot fight.
Even now I feel anxious in the pit of my stomach. How long can I go on feeling this way and still be healthy? I worry for myself that I'm going to end up with some sort of physical ailment or neurological disorder. I don't want that, and I don't want to be anxious when I hold my baby, because I know he can feel it. I also know that my older son is sensitive and he can feel others' emotions. But I feel powerless to do anything about it.
If I could afford counseling, I would go, but I don't have insurance and a single session is $200. For that money, I could buy a mess of groceries. No, it's not doable at this point. Maybe at some future date. At least for now there are things like Tension Tamer tea and Calms tablets. They do help. I just wish I could let go of this fear. But when Death visits you, you can no longer delude yourself into thinking it will never happen to you. Because it can happen to anyone.
Even now I feel anxious in the pit of my stomach. How long can I go on feeling this way and still be healthy? I worry for myself that I'm going to end up with some sort of physical ailment or neurological disorder. I don't want that, and I don't want to be anxious when I hold my baby, because I know he can feel it. I also know that my older son is sensitive and he can feel others' emotions. But I feel powerless to do anything about it.
If I could afford counseling, I would go, but I don't have insurance and a single session is $200. For that money, I could buy a mess of groceries. No, it's not doable at this point. Maybe at some future date. At least for now there are things like Tension Tamer tea and Calms tablets. They do help. I just wish I could let go of this fear. But when Death visits you, you can no longer delude yourself into thinking it will never happen to you. Because it can happen to anyone.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
Fear
Yesterday, I met with a woman from our church. I was both looking forward to it and dreading it at the same time. Here's why.
A few weeks ago, I started emailing our pastor, trying to somehow get some answers or help in moving past this gaping hole in my faith. He tried to answer my questions as best he could, but of course it didn't magically fix the problem. He suggested some books I could read, which I have looked into a few of them, and put a few more on hold on the library (still waiting on a couple). I think he could see that something more was needed---or perhaps more accurately, that I am a tough case and he needed some backup. Here is what he said in one of his emails:
I would encourage you to get in community. Dealing with pain and grief in isolation only causes the matter to get worse. Community helps us to gain perspective, grow in and through difficulties, and have a support structure that can help us through every type of situation. We have a number of great ladies in our leadership here who I know would love to call you, connect with you, or even take you out for coffee sometime, if you’d be open to it.
That sounded really great, but inside, I panicked a little. I've spent the last year and a half trying to keep this inner struggle pretty much a secret, even from my husband. He knows the struggle is there, but he doesn't know the proportions of it, nor exactly where it stands currently. When most of your friends and all of your family share your faith, it can be a great thing---until something happens and you're not sure you want to be a part of that faith anymore. Then it's really not that wonderful anymore. There is a tremendous pressure to conform, to "straighten up", and to just fall into step with what everyone else is doing. So, a struggle of these proportions would put me radically out of sync with everyone else. I'm sure my mom or my sister might have an idea that something is maybe a little amiss with me spiritually, but I'm pretty sure they would be pretty blown out of the water if they knew exactly how amiss things really are.
So when the pastor suggested getting together with other people---specifically for the purpose of sharing my pain and grief, I did panic a bit. At first I said no thanks. I'd already taken a huge step outside my comfort zone by emailing him. I wasn't sure I wanted to let anyone else in on this secret I've carried. But after a couple more weeks of reading books, and running into all the closed doors in my mind, I realized this: I am stuck. I don't think I can get myself out of this. I don't know what else to do. I can't afford to get professional counseling---even just one counseling session would cost me about half to three-quarters of our grocery budget for the month. And I'm sure I'd need many, many sessions. So, a bit reluctantly, I agreed to meet with someone. I'm sure the pastor was thrilled to be able to pass off his "project" to someone with a little more time on their hands, haha. Honestly, he's a really nice guy and I doubt it was anything like that, but I know I'm a project, and a difficult one at that. Pastors don't always have a lot of free time, and I hate to tie him up when he's got more important things to do than try to untangle someone's private inner mess.
Yesterday was the big day. Luckily, I got to meet the woman on a Sunday in church prior to showing up at her house, so that made it a bit easier. I'll call her M. M was very sweet with my 3 year old son, getting down on his level and asking him if he wanted to come to her house for a visit. She was sweet and engaging. I felt better after having met her. Still, I think I was a bit of a ball of nerves when I first arrived. It didn't help matters that my youngest was screaming his little 3-month old head off by the time we made it to her house. What is it with little babies not liking their car seats? Or is that only my children who have had that problem? M came out to meet me after I'd pulled up and thankfully helped carry my diaper bag and purse inside, so I could get the screaming kid out and my 3 year old (who was doing just fine, thankfully). The baby settled down once he wasn't being restrained in a 5-point harness, and M's teenage daughter was kind enough to entertain my oldest while M and I visited.
I'm not sure if she planned it ahead of time, but M took a little time opening up to me about her life story a bit, and that in turn helped me to be open about my own struggles with the miscarriage and my faith. I wasn't sure if the pastor filled her in or not, so I just told it all as succinctly as I could. She listened, we talked for what seemed like an hour or so, had some tea and cookies, and my oldest came back in the room and had some lunch. The baby fell asleep. M talked with me some more, then told me she hoped we could meet together again. She had to leave to pick up her son, so we said goodbye, and I got the kids back in the car and headed for home.
Overall I'd say it went well. Somehow I feel worse, though. Probably because I'm cracking open that can of worms---the mess that is me, on the inside. Usually I can just ignore it, because why obsess over something you can't do a dang thing about? That only led to extreme frustration for me, so I learned to stay busy mentally, ignore the problem, and just go on the best I could. Laying it all out in front of someone else who is obviously not in the same boat I am, was difficult. Difficult because it made me face the music. I would love to make the jump as quickly as I can from examining myself internally to fixing the problem, but unfortunately, I don't think that's going to happen. I can only trudge through the mire as best I can until I reach the other side.
Why does the grieving process have to be so disgustingly long and painful? Isn't spending 6 months wallowing in misery enough? I got pregnant after that length of time, and I think the pregnancy and new baby gave me something to think about other than my loss, and gave me a break from the drudgery of working through the grief. But here I am, now a year and a half later, baby in arms, and no closer to the "end" than I was when I got pregnant. I'm still just as stuck as I was then. Not that the grief process really has an end, mind you. It just changes as you go along. But I'm not really sure if I want to do this. I mean, I'm desperate to find some change. To get through this, to master whatever is holding me back. But as for what it takes to get there---ugh, I'm not sure I want to go through that. It just makes me angry again.
Why do I have to do this? What did I do to deserve it? Who was the one who thought this thing up anyway? You know, this pain/grief/death/dying thing? Whose idea was that? Was it God's? He's the one who gave us the capacity for experiencing pain. I can only surmise that God wants us to experience pain. He created us to feel every exquisite detail when we bash our foot against a chair leg or we accidentally grab that hot pan with our bare hands. Why was it important to create nerve endings for every little pain that comes along? A paper cut, a sliver. A bee sting, a bruise. I'm sure that wasn't absolutely necessary. If God is God, He could have made us able to feel pleasure without feeling pain so acutely. Or at all, for that matter! Sure, we are fearfully and wonderfully made--I've no doubt about that. But why the pain? Why the suffering? Why did God create us for the capacity for those things? Does He enjoy seeing us suffer? Does he somehow take delight in our agony? I can only suspect that He designed us to experience it, and to me that seems unnecessary and wrong. I suppose God enjoys us using our nerve endings to feel, regardless of whether it is pleasure or pain. But I sure don't have to enjoy it. No, I'm not capable of enjoying pain. That is not in my makeup. Maybe others can find some sort of meaning in it, some way to make friends with it. But for me, Pain will always be my mortal enemy.
So what is my fear? My fear is that this meeting with this woman, M, is my last hope to right whatever is wrong inside me. My fear is that somehow it may fail and I will be doomed to live the rest of my life without an "anchor for my soul". To live without even the assurance of where my soul will rest on my body's dying day. To be lost forever in the void.
A few weeks ago, I started emailing our pastor, trying to somehow get some answers or help in moving past this gaping hole in my faith. He tried to answer my questions as best he could, but of course it didn't magically fix the problem. He suggested some books I could read, which I have looked into a few of them, and put a few more on hold on the library (still waiting on a couple). I think he could see that something more was needed---or perhaps more accurately, that I am a tough case and he needed some backup. Here is what he said in one of his emails:
I would encourage you to get in community. Dealing with pain and grief in isolation only causes the matter to get worse. Community helps us to gain perspective, grow in and through difficulties, and have a support structure that can help us through every type of situation. We have a number of great ladies in our leadership here who I know would love to call you, connect with you, or even take you out for coffee sometime, if you’d be open to it.
That sounded really great, but inside, I panicked a little. I've spent the last year and a half trying to keep this inner struggle pretty much a secret, even from my husband. He knows the struggle is there, but he doesn't know the proportions of it, nor exactly where it stands currently. When most of your friends and all of your family share your faith, it can be a great thing---until something happens and you're not sure you want to be a part of that faith anymore. Then it's really not that wonderful anymore. There is a tremendous pressure to conform, to "straighten up", and to just fall into step with what everyone else is doing. So, a struggle of these proportions would put me radically out of sync with everyone else. I'm sure my mom or my sister might have an idea that something is maybe a little amiss with me spiritually, but I'm pretty sure they would be pretty blown out of the water if they knew exactly how amiss things really are.
So when the pastor suggested getting together with other people---specifically for the purpose of sharing my pain and grief, I did panic a bit. At first I said no thanks. I'd already taken a huge step outside my comfort zone by emailing him. I wasn't sure I wanted to let anyone else in on this secret I've carried. But after a couple more weeks of reading books, and running into all the closed doors in my mind, I realized this: I am stuck. I don't think I can get myself out of this. I don't know what else to do. I can't afford to get professional counseling---even just one counseling session would cost me about half to three-quarters of our grocery budget for the month. And I'm sure I'd need many, many sessions. So, a bit reluctantly, I agreed to meet with someone. I'm sure the pastor was thrilled to be able to pass off his "project" to someone with a little more time on their hands, haha. Honestly, he's a really nice guy and I doubt it was anything like that, but I know I'm a project, and a difficult one at that. Pastors don't always have a lot of free time, and I hate to tie him up when he's got more important things to do than try to untangle someone's private inner mess.
Yesterday was the big day. Luckily, I got to meet the woman on a Sunday in church prior to showing up at her house, so that made it a bit easier. I'll call her M. M was very sweet with my 3 year old son, getting down on his level and asking him if he wanted to come to her house for a visit. She was sweet and engaging. I felt better after having met her. Still, I think I was a bit of a ball of nerves when I first arrived. It didn't help matters that my youngest was screaming his little 3-month old head off by the time we made it to her house. What is it with little babies not liking their car seats? Or is that only my children who have had that problem? M came out to meet me after I'd pulled up and thankfully helped carry my diaper bag and purse inside, so I could get the screaming kid out and my 3 year old (who was doing just fine, thankfully). The baby settled down once he wasn't being restrained in a 5-point harness, and M's teenage daughter was kind enough to entertain my oldest while M and I visited.
I'm not sure if she planned it ahead of time, but M took a little time opening up to me about her life story a bit, and that in turn helped me to be open about my own struggles with the miscarriage and my faith. I wasn't sure if the pastor filled her in or not, so I just told it all as succinctly as I could. She listened, we talked for what seemed like an hour or so, had some tea and cookies, and my oldest came back in the room and had some lunch. The baby fell asleep. M talked with me some more, then told me she hoped we could meet together again. She had to leave to pick up her son, so we said goodbye, and I got the kids back in the car and headed for home.
Overall I'd say it went well. Somehow I feel worse, though. Probably because I'm cracking open that can of worms---the mess that is me, on the inside. Usually I can just ignore it, because why obsess over something you can't do a dang thing about? That only led to extreme frustration for me, so I learned to stay busy mentally, ignore the problem, and just go on the best I could. Laying it all out in front of someone else who is obviously not in the same boat I am, was difficult. Difficult because it made me face the music. I would love to make the jump as quickly as I can from examining myself internally to fixing the problem, but unfortunately, I don't think that's going to happen. I can only trudge through the mire as best I can until I reach the other side.
Why does the grieving process have to be so disgustingly long and painful? Isn't spending 6 months wallowing in misery enough? I got pregnant after that length of time, and I think the pregnancy and new baby gave me something to think about other than my loss, and gave me a break from the drudgery of working through the grief. But here I am, now a year and a half later, baby in arms, and no closer to the "end" than I was when I got pregnant. I'm still just as stuck as I was then. Not that the grief process really has an end, mind you. It just changes as you go along. But I'm not really sure if I want to do this. I mean, I'm desperate to find some change. To get through this, to master whatever is holding me back. But as for what it takes to get there---ugh, I'm not sure I want to go through that. It just makes me angry again.
Why do I have to do this? What did I do to deserve it? Who was the one who thought this thing up anyway? You know, this pain/grief/death/dying thing? Whose idea was that? Was it God's? He's the one who gave us the capacity for experiencing pain. I can only surmise that God wants us to experience pain. He created us to feel every exquisite detail when we bash our foot against a chair leg or we accidentally grab that hot pan with our bare hands. Why was it important to create nerve endings for every little pain that comes along? A paper cut, a sliver. A bee sting, a bruise. I'm sure that wasn't absolutely necessary. If God is God, He could have made us able to feel pleasure without feeling pain so acutely. Or at all, for that matter! Sure, we are fearfully and wonderfully made--I've no doubt about that. But why the pain? Why the suffering? Why did God create us for the capacity for those things? Does He enjoy seeing us suffer? Does he somehow take delight in our agony? I can only suspect that He designed us to experience it, and to me that seems unnecessary and wrong. I suppose God enjoys us using our nerve endings to feel, regardless of whether it is pleasure or pain. But I sure don't have to enjoy it. No, I'm not capable of enjoying pain. That is not in my makeup. Maybe others can find some sort of meaning in it, some way to make friends with it. But for me, Pain will always be my mortal enemy.
So what is my fear? My fear is that this meeting with this woman, M, is my last hope to right whatever is wrong inside me. My fear is that somehow it may fail and I will be doomed to live the rest of my life without an "anchor for my soul". To live without even the assurance of where my soul will rest on my body's dying day. To be lost forever in the void.
Monday, August 5, 2013
Further Thoughts
All right so I'm posting twice in one night. So shoot me.
It's a little crazy how you can be one person on the outside and another entirely on the inside. I think if my friends or family knew the feelings I keep buried, they would be rather shocked and overwhelmed. I think they would wonder why I never said anything before. Well, I have some very good reasons why I don't say the things I'm saying here, to anyone who knows me in real life. Reason #1 is, I don't want to hear all the things they would say to try to make sense of my craziness. First they would just be blown out of the water and want to know what happened to get me where I am. Then, they would try to fix me. They'd try to say something to answer the unanswerable. They would try to fix the unfixable. And in so doing, they would make my pain seem like---like it was wrong of me to be hurting. That my pain was silly, stupid, unreasonable, crazy. That it didn't match up with the reality of what had happened---that over a year and a half ago, I had a miscarriage.
That makes me think of something. This month---the month of August--was when she would have been due. My baby would have been a year old this month. That pains me.
Anyway, since it's been well over a year, my pain apparently is supposed to be all better now, all gone, dissipated, dried up, poof---vanished. Mostly likely I shouldn't even be mentioning the miscarriage anymore. So, that's what I attempt to convey: that I'm all better. I'm OK! Really! I have a new baby now, and I am so happy. My new baby has completely made me forget I was ever sad about losing the last one. When in reality, while I love my new little guy, he does not REPLACE a life lost. You can't just "go out and buy a new one" when it comes to babies. Heck, that doesn't even work for pets! WHY would people think it works for BABIES?!? Even a kid whose pet goldfish has died, will easily tell you that buying a new goldfish just isn't quite the same as their beloved Goldie. (Or whatever name they decided to name it.) So if even with a pet fish, of all things, it is still sad to lose one even after it's been replaced, then why, why, I ask you, do people seem to think you can replace a child? It's stinking ridiculous! Oh...I know why! Here's why...because a goldfish, you spent time with. You named him, you watched him swim slow circles in his bowl. You spent long moments talking with him about life and love and all that matters. You fed him. You cleaned his bowl. You got rather attached to him. But unborn babies---oh everybody knows you can't bond with an unborn baby, right? It's just a nobody until it's born. (Pardon the heavily-ladeled serving of sarcasm.) As a three-time mother, I can easily say, yes, you CAN get attached to your unborn baby. You CAN bond with them. You can even get a sense of what their little personality will be like.
With my newest little baby, I recall having a dream about giving birth to him. I was only about 4 1/2 months pregnant, right about halfway. I wrote out my dream, because it was sweet to me. It helped me feel like I was able to bond with my son more, because up until that point I was just scared that I'd lose him and not really able to enjoy the process. Well I just re-read that dream entry a few weeks ago, and I was startled by the fact that the baby in the dream, in my mind's eye, looked like my baby does. And his personality was the same. It was my baby. Before he was even born, I had a glimpse of what he was going to be like. I'm sure that doesn't happen to everyone. Heck, it didn't happen to me with my first baby. But I now know that mothers really can know their unborn children. They get a feel for that baby's soul before they even make their entrance into the world. And that---that is what they mourn when a baby dies too soon. They are mourning their real child---their child's personality, individuality, and the bond that they shared with them, however briefly. You can't replace that with a new pregnancy, nor a new child held in the mother's arms. Because it will never be the same personality, the same individual as the one that died. That baby is dead, and no one can bring it back.
The flip side of all these dark feelings is, I think I might be a little crazy for having them. I think I must be too self-centered. I must be just cynical. I must be depressed. I must be having a mid-life crisis. Everyone else seems to do OK. Even people who have a spouse die, or a parent. They grieve, they mourn, and then they move on. They find the silver lining. Why am I still so hung up? Why is my world, as I know it, over? Why can't I find joy in life again? It's been long enough, I think. In the passage of time, it's been chronologically long enough. But in my heart, there will never be enough time. Because it will never be right. It will never be OK that my baby died. It will never be, "Oh it must have been God's will. We don't know the reason, but we just have to trust." It will never be, "These things happen." It will never be, "Sure, my baby died, but I have found something in it to be grateful for." It will forever be, in my heart, "Something terrible, awful, has happened, and nothing can ever make it right again." THAT is how it is when someone dies. No one can ever say anything to make it any better. But what can help, what can help that person feel just a little less pain, is for people to say, "It's the most awful thing that could happen to someone, and I'm so sorry it happened to you." And to cry with you. And to ask you how you're doing with it a month later, 6 months later, a year later. 2 years. And to let you know that they remember the one you lost. That they remember that your baby would have been a year old, or how your baby might have been learning to stand, to pull themselves up, to cruise the furniture, to walk. The smiles you will miss, never hearing the words "Dada" or "Mama" come out of their mouths. Not even having a grave to visit, nor a picture to gaze at. Never even knowing for sure your dead child's gender. The color of their hair. The way they would look. And having everything in the world around you just go on as if nothing ever happened at all.
It's a little crazy how you can be one person on the outside and another entirely on the inside. I think if my friends or family knew the feelings I keep buried, they would be rather shocked and overwhelmed. I think they would wonder why I never said anything before. Well, I have some very good reasons why I don't say the things I'm saying here, to anyone who knows me in real life. Reason #1 is, I don't want to hear all the things they would say to try to make sense of my craziness. First they would just be blown out of the water and want to know what happened to get me where I am. Then, they would try to fix me. They'd try to say something to answer the unanswerable. They would try to fix the unfixable. And in so doing, they would make my pain seem like---like it was wrong of me to be hurting. That my pain was silly, stupid, unreasonable, crazy. That it didn't match up with the reality of what had happened---that over a year and a half ago, I had a miscarriage.
That makes me think of something. This month---the month of August--was when she would have been due. My baby would have been a year old this month. That pains me.
Anyway, since it's been well over a year, my pain apparently is supposed to be all better now, all gone, dissipated, dried up, poof---vanished. Mostly likely I shouldn't even be mentioning the miscarriage anymore. So, that's what I attempt to convey: that I'm all better. I'm OK! Really! I have a new baby now, and I am so happy. My new baby has completely made me forget I was ever sad about losing the last one. When in reality, while I love my new little guy, he does not REPLACE a life lost. You can't just "go out and buy a new one" when it comes to babies. Heck, that doesn't even work for pets! WHY would people think it works for BABIES?!? Even a kid whose pet goldfish has died, will easily tell you that buying a new goldfish just isn't quite the same as their beloved Goldie. (Or whatever name they decided to name it.) So if even with a pet fish, of all things, it is still sad to lose one even after it's been replaced, then why, why, I ask you, do people seem to think you can replace a child? It's stinking ridiculous! Oh...I know why! Here's why...because a goldfish, you spent time with. You named him, you watched him swim slow circles in his bowl. You spent long moments talking with him about life and love and all that matters. You fed him. You cleaned his bowl. You got rather attached to him. But unborn babies---oh everybody knows you can't bond with an unborn baby, right? It's just a nobody until it's born. (Pardon the heavily-ladeled serving of sarcasm.) As a three-time mother, I can easily say, yes, you CAN get attached to your unborn baby. You CAN bond with them. You can even get a sense of what their little personality will be like.
With my newest little baby, I recall having a dream about giving birth to him. I was only about 4 1/2 months pregnant, right about halfway. I wrote out my dream, because it was sweet to me. It helped me feel like I was able to bond with my son more, because up until that point I was just scared that I'd lose him and not really able to enjoy the process. Well I just re-read that dream entry a few weeks ago, and I was startled by the fact that the baby in the dream, in my mind's eye, looked like my baby does. And his personality was the same. It was my baby. Before he was even born, I had a glimpse of what he was going to be like. I'm sure that doesn't happen to everyone. Heck, it didn't happen to me with my first baby. But I now know that mothers really can know their unborn children. They get a feel for that baby's soul before they even make their entrance into the world. And that---that is what they mourn when a baby dies too soon. They are mourning their real child---their child's personality, individuality, and the bond that they shared with them, however briefly. You can't replace that with a new pregnancy, nor a new child held in the mother's arms. Because it will never be the same personality, the same individual as the one that died. That baby is dead, and no one can bring it back.
The flip side of all these dark feelings is, I think I might be a little crazy for having them. I think I must be too self-centered. I must be just cynical. I must be depressed. I must be having a mid-life crisis. Everyone else seems to do OK. Even people who have a spouse die, or a parent. They grieve, they mourn, and then they move on. They find the silver lining. Why am I still so hung up? Why is my world, as I know it, over? Why can't I find joy in life again? It's been long enough, I think. In the passage of time, it's been chronologically long enough. But in my heart, there will never be enough time. Because it will never be right. It will never be OK that my baby died. It will never be, "Oh it must have been God's will. We don't know the reason, but we just have to trust." It will never be, "These things happen." It will never be, "Sure, my baby died, but I have found something in it to be grateful for." It will forever be, in my heart, "Something terrible, awful, has happened, and nothing can ever make it right again." THAT is how it is when someone dies. No one can ever say anything to make it any better. But what can help, what can help that person feel just a little less pain, is for people to say, "It's the most awful thing that could happen to someone, and I'm so sorry it happened to you." And to cry with you. And to ask you how you're doing with it a month later, 6 months later, a year later. 2 years. And to let you know that they remember the one you lost. That they remember that your baby would have been a year old, or how your baby might have been learning to stand, to pull themselves up, to cruise the furniture, to walk. The smiles you will miss, never hearing the words "Dada" or "Mama" come out of their mouths. Not even having a grave to visit, nor a picture to gaze at. Never even knowing for sure your dead child's gender. The color of their hair. The way they would look. And having everything in the world around you just go on as if nothing ever happened at all.
Sunday, August 4, 2013
Savage Beast
I'm practicing avoidance again. I don't want to deal with this grief crap. You know why? Because it never seems to get me anywhere. Except angry, depressed, and sad. I don't like feeling that way, with no apparent purpose, so it's easier to just pretend I'm OK and go on. Although usually I have moments where I can look inside myself and know I'm not OK. And that's painful to see. 'Cause things are kind of a mess in there.
Way deep down, I feel empty, numb, hurt, alone. Loose at ends. Unsure of myself, unsure of how to go forward. Unsure how to frame my entire existence. I want to go back in time, to a place where I was certain of who I was, of my beliefs. Although heck, I've always been unsure of myself, of where I was heading, of what my purpose in life was. I just had a semi-solid belief system that made me feel like I had some sort of foundation I was resting on. Now I am the same me--lost! But this time with no foundation.
Life has a way of sort of ripping your heart up out your throat and shattering it into a million pieces. You realize that the cheerful, fun loving person you once were, say as a child, will never breathe again. It's a sad day when that truth stares you in the face, because I think pretty much everyone would love to be cheerful and carefree. However, being that way comes with a price---the price is, that you close your eyes to all the imperfections, the injustices, and the savagery of the world around you. For you, those things don't exist, and in return, you don't have to bear the burden of knowing them. But then you grow up a little and realize that they do exist, and there's nothing you can do to change the world or make it a better place to live in. It inexorably closes in on you and shows you that it is in charge. So, you retreat into yourself, and sort of just limp along in life and get by. You survive. But you never forget. And you can never go back.
Way deep down, I feel empty, numb, hurt, alone. Loose at ends. Unsure of myself, unsure of how to go forward. Unsure how to frame my entire existence. I want to go back in time, to a place where I was certain of who I was, of my beliefs. Although heck, I've always been unsure of myself, of where I was heading, of what my purpose in life was. I just had a semi-solid belief system that made me feel like I had some sort of foundation I was resting on. Now I am the same me--lost! But this time with no foundation.
Life has a way of sort of ripping your heart up out your throat and shattering it into a million pieces. You realize that the cheerful, fun loving person you once were, say as a child, will never breathe again. It's a sad day when that truth stares you in the face, because I think pretty much everyone would love to be cheerful and carefree. However, being that way comes with a price---the price is, that you close your eyes to all the imperfections, the injustices, and the savagery of the world around you. For you, those things don't exist, and in return, you don't have to bear the burden of knowing them. But then you grow up a little and realize that they do exist, and there's nothing you can do to change the world or make it a better place to live in. It inexorably closes in on you and shows you that it is in charge. So, you retreat into yourself, and sort of just limp along in life and get by. You survive. But you never forget. And you can never go back.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Stormy Seas
I feel angry again. I wish I could figure out a way to get past that. I feel angry that I had things taken away from me. I had the baby taken away from me, and with it, other things too...I had my innocence taken away. My ability to have more children. Oh sure, I could go on to have more besides my little two month old boy I have now, but now with my medical history, I'm in the high risk pregnancy category. And neither I nor my husband want to go through a difficult pregnancy again. We also don't want to push our luck with having another miscarriage if we were to try again. And, our two month old has some medical problems of his own (kidney problems inherited from me), so we don't want to risk having another one that has the same problems. I think having him was our last chance at having kids, and I don't want to push my luck. I also struggle with depression and am on medication for it, and it always gets worse in pregnancy and in the postpartum period. I don't want to spend another 9 months or more battling depression. Because when you're pregnant, they worry more about the baby than they do you, so if that means restricting the antidepressant medication that you need, then they will do it. Regardless of whether you feel like complete crap or not emotionally, every day. If you can still eat enough for the baby, and you don't feel like killing yourself, then it doesn't matter if your marriage is tanking because of your awful mood or if you feel like you're neglecting your three year old toddler. So long as the baby's ok---it's all good. Or so the medical community thinks. So, I can't sacrifice another year of my life to this mood disorder on the hopes of having it pay off in the end. I feel angry about that because I feel like it's partly because of the miscarriage that I have had that choice taken away from me.
I'm also angry that I don't have a little baby girl. All my teen/adult life I have wanted a girl. Two girls, in fact. Now I have two boys. My sister, she was going to have the boys in the family, and she did have two boys, but she also went on to have a little girl. I feel cheated. I wanted girls, so I could pass on things like sewing, knitting, painting, cooking/baking, cross-stitch, quilting, beadwork, and things like that. I don't think little boys would appreciate me trying to teach them how to knit or make quilts. After we lost the one baby, I thought I would like to have 3 kids altogether. And who knows---if I were able to try again, I might be able to have a little girl. But it's too risky to try again. What if something happened to me and my two boys ended up having no mother? I can't risk myself on the chance that I could get a girl. I could very well have 3 boys. I don't know that I want that many boys. I love my boys, but they are a handful.
If I had had the baby instead of her dying, I might have had a little girl. See, I don't know for sure the gender of that baby that died, because he or she was too little to tell the gender on a scan. But I just feel like she was a girl, whether that is true intuition or wishful thinking, I don't know. What I do know is that whether she was a she or a he, I would have welcomed either one.
My mom says if I don't have a girl, then I can just enjoy my niece, and look forward to girl grandbabies, but how can that be fulfilling? I want one of my own. My sister's daughter is not my daughter. She's a lovely, beautiful girl, and she's precious. But she's not mine. I also don't want to adopt---I just know that's not me. I don't want to deal with the potential problems emotionally that an adopted child has, from being torn from their parents at a young age. Even babies that are given to their new parents at birth, can still have emotional scars. I don't really want to go through another pregnancy, but at least that child would be mine.
It's so hard to get past the "I am angry that I lost so many things" to a place of acceptance and seeing the silver lining. Somehow, people seem to do that. But I have no idea how. How do you get from one place to another? How do you make that transition? I feel like I could get lost in my anger if I thought about it too much. At this point I don't see anything good from losing that baby. I don't see how it could be good for me---it has destroyed me.
I'm also angry that I don't have a little baby girl. All my teen/adult life I have wanted a girl. Two girls, in fact. Now I have two boys. My sister, she was going to have the boys in the family, and she did have two boys, but she also went on to have a little girl. I feel cheated. I wanted girls, so I could pass on things like sewing, knitting, painting, cooking/baking, cross-stitch, quilting, beadwork, and things like that. I don't think little boys would appreciate me trying to teach them how to knit or make quilts. After we lost the one baby, I thought I would like to have 3 kids altogether. And who knows---if I were able to try again, I might be able to have a little girl. But it's too risky to try again. What if something happened to me and my two boys ended up having no mother? I can't risk myself on the chance that I could get a girl. I could very well have 3 boys. I don't know that I want that many boys. I love my boys, but they are a handful.
If I had had the baby instead of her dying, I might have had a little girl. See, I don't know for sure the gender of that baby that died, because he or she was too little to tell the gender on a scan. But I just feel like she was a girl, whether that is true intuition or wishful thinking, I don't know. What I do know is that whether she was a she or a he, I would have welcomed either one.
My mom says if I don't have a girl, then I can just enjoy my niece, and look forward to girl grandbabies, but how can that be fulfilling? I want one of my own. My sister's daughter is not my daughter. She's a lovely, beautiful girl, and she's precious. But she's not mine. I also don't want to adopt---I just know that's not me. I don't want to deal with the potential problems emotionally that an adopted child has, from being torn from their parents at a young age. Even babies that are given to their new parents at birth, can still have emotional scars. I don't really want to go through another pregnancy, but at least that child would be mine.
It's so hard to get past the "I am angry that I lost so many things" to a place of acceptance and seeing the silver lining. Somehow, people seem to do that. But I have no idea how. How do you get from one place to another? How do you make that transition? I feel like I could get lost in my anger if I thought about it too much. At this point I don't see anything good from losing that baby. I don't see how it could be good for me---it has destroyed me.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
The Story, Part II
(Continued from last post.)
After I was sufficiently awake from the anesthesia, they got me into a room. In the OR, they had told me they were going to catheterize me and empty my bladder, so I had thought they had done that. When I got into the room, either they told me I hadn't or I realized it myself--I can't remember which. So I figured, instead of getting all settled in first, I figured I should go ahead and pee and get that over with. I told the nurses and they asked if I felt good enough to do that. I thought I did, so I got up slowly and headed to the bathroom. One of the nurses came with me. I sat down on the toilet, and pretty soon the nurse is asking me if I feel lightheaded. I don't remember if I answered or not. Next thing I remember is hearing someone calling my name over and over. I finally realized they wanted me. I slowly came out of it and I think there were like 5 nurses there, one of which was a beefy male nurse who is right in front of me calling my name. He told me they were going to get me up into the bed. I was able to get back in bed with assistance, and they told me I'd need to use a bedpan. Oh lovely.
I tried the bedpan but didn't have a lot of luck with it. Later on they let me use the bedside commode which was better, but still tough to go with nurses watching you!
They released me the following afternoon. I was feeling really weak still and not 100%, but I guess hospitals tend to need to kick people out for insurance reasons, so they sent me home. My hubby wasn't too happy that they sent me home so early, either, but my mom said I could come over to her house and stay there as long as I needed till I got back on my feet. So we prepared to spend the night there. I just laid on the couch--didn't have much energy for anything and my heart would pound if I got up too fast.
Later that same evening, I started feeling a shooting pain going from my collarbone up into my jaw on the right hand side. I did not like the feeling---it made me nervous that I was having some sort of heart attack or something, because I had heard that was one of the symptoms that women need to watch out for. My hubby wasn't convinced, but we called the hospital and talked to a nurse, and she advised we go back to the ER. So we went back, leaving my son once again with my mom, and checked back in again. This routine was getting way too familiar. They did some blood tests first and it came back with an indicator of a blood clot, so I got a chest x ray and a CT (with contrast) of my chest. The CT showed a small blood clot in my right lung. My hubbs was actually surprised. I was a bit surprised too, but I knew that something was wrong, and it was nice to be validated, at the least. They admitted me and started me on blood thinners. I ended up getting a room in the cardiac wing of the hospital. I also got to have a blood transfusion, because I guess they were worried about putting me on blood thinners after having hemorrhaged so badly just the day before. Let me tell you, that transfusion was wonderful. Prior to getting it, I was feeling so vulnerable, teary, and scared. My husband wanted to go home for a bit and check on our son but I didn't want him to leave, even though my sister and a close friend of mine were there with me. After I got the transfusion, I felt a new strength, of course physically but also mentally and emotionally. I felt I could cope again.
I got a lot of visitors, it seemed, while I was in the hospital, a total of 5 days including the first day I was there after the miscarriage. I ended up sharing a room with another woman, which at first I felt strange about because I was used to having my own room, but ended up being nice because she was a really nice lady and shared my faith, so we talked to each other through the curtain separating our beds. It was nice having the company during an otherwise very vulnerable/lonely time in my life.
My husband came and went, as he needed to help take care of our son and our pets at home, and I told him he should sleep at home anyway because I know he doesn't get good sleep in hospitals, and also because I thought I might sleep better alone too, without having to worry whether he was sleeping or not. My sister spent one night with me, I believe it was the first night, before I had come back with the blood clot in my lung. That night we stayed up late talking, and she slept right in my hospital bed with me. It was very comforting---she and I shared a bedroom as little girls growing up, and many times I'd crawl into her bed or she into mine.
I was released on Sunday, January 29th. My doctor wanted to release me on Saturday, but my husband wanted to make sure I didn't get sent home too early again, like the last time. So the doc obliged and kept me one more day. I still was having occasional chest pain, but my doctor assured me this was normal, that the blood thinners were working on dissolving the clot and in the meantime, I would still have symptoms of it.
At our home I had a tough time just climbing the stairs to our second-floor apartment. My heart was pounding and I was huffing and puffing by the time I made it up. It took probably a month before I felt better. It was tough having to take it slow, because I would feel a little better, then I'd try to push myself and end up exhausted and have to take it easy again. Two steps forward, one step back. But eventually I was on the upswing and feeling better---at least physically. It would be a long time before I felt better emotionally.
After I was sufficiently awake from the anesthesia, they got me into a room. In the OR, they had told me they were going to catheterize me and empty my bladder, so I had thought they had done that. When I got into the room, either they told me I hadn't or I realized it myself--I can't remember which. So I figured, instead of getting all settled in first, I figured I should go ahead and pee and get that over with. I told the nurses and they asked if I felt good enough to do that. I thought I did, so I got up slowly and headed to the bathroom. One of the nurses came with me. I sat down on the toilet, and pretty soon the nurse is asking me if I feel lightheaded. I don't remember if I answered or not. Next thing I remember is hearing someone calling my name over and over. I finally realized they wanted me. I slowly came out of it and I think there were like 5 nurses there, one of which was a beefy male nurse who is right in front of me calling my name. He told me they were going to get me up into the bed. I was able to get back in bed with assistance, and they told me I'd need to use a bedpan. Oh lovely.
I tried the bedpan but didn't have a lot of luck with it. Later on they let me use the bedside commode which was better, but still tough to go with nurses watching you!
They released me the following afternoon. I was feeling really weak still and not 100%, but I guess hospitals tend to need to kick people out for insurance reasons, so they sent me home. My hubby wasn't too happy that they sent me home so early, either, but my mom said I could come over to her house and stay there as long as I needed till I got back on my feet. So we prepared to spend the night there. I just laid on the couch--didn't have much energy for anything and my heart would pound if I got up too fast.
Later that same evening, I started feeling a shooting pain going from my collarbone up into my jaw on the right hand side. I did not like the feeling---it made me nervous that I was having some sort of heart attack or something, because I had heard that was one of the symptoms that women need to watch out for. My hubby wasn't convinced, but we called the hospital and talked to a nurse, and she advised we go back to the ER. So we went back, leaving my son once again with my mom, and checked back in again. This routine was getting way too familiar. They did some blood tests first and it came back with an indicator of a blood clot, so I got a chest x ray and a CT (with contrast) of my chest. The CT showed a small blood clot in my right lung. My hubbs was actually surprised. I was a bit surprised too, but I knew that something was wrong, and it was nice to be validated, at the least. They admitted me and started me on blood thinners. I ended up getting a room in the cardiac wing of the hospital. I also got to have a blood transfusion, because I guess they were worried about putting me on blood thinners after having hemorrhaged so badly just the day before. Let me tell you, that transfusion was wonderful. Prior to getting it, I was feeling so vulnerable, teary, and scared. My husband wanted to go home for a bit and check on our son but I didn't want him to leave, even though my sister and a close friend of mine were there with me. After I got the transfusion, I felt a new strength, of course physically but also mentally and emotionally. I felt I could cope again.
I got a lot of visitors, it seemed, while I was in the hospital, a total of 5 days including the first day I was there after the miscarriage. I ended up sharing a room with another woman, which at first I felt strange about because I was used to having my own room, but ended up being nice because she was a really nice lady and shared my faith, so we talked to each other through the curtain separating our beds. It was nice having the company during an otherwise very vulnerable/lonely time in my life.
My husband came and went, as he needed to help take care of our son and our pets at home, and I told him he should sleep at home anyway because I know he doesn't get good sleep in hospitals, and also because I thought I might sleep better alone too, without having to worry whether he was sleeping or not. My sister spent one night with me, I believe it was the first night, before I had come back with the blood clot in my lung. That night we stayed up late talking, and she slept right in my hospital bed with me. It was very comforting---she and I shared a bedroom as little girls growing up, and many times I'd crawl into her bed or she into mine.
I was released on Sunday, January 29th. My doctor wanted to release me on Saturday, but my husband wanted to make sure I didn't get sent home too early again, like the last time. So the doc obliged and kept me one more day. I still was having occasional chest pain, but my doctor assured me this was normal, that the blood thinners were working on dissolving the clot and in the meantime, I would still have symptoms of it.
At our home I had a tough time just climbing the stairs to our second-floor apartment. My heart was pounding and I was huffing and puffing by the time I made it up. It took probably a month before I felt better. It was tough having to take it slow, because I would feel a little better, then I'd try to push myself and end up exhausted and have to take it easy again. Two steps forward, one step back. But eventually I was on the upswing and feeling better---at least physically. It would be a long time before I felt better emotionally.
Tags:
blood clot,
hospital,
miscarriage,
recovery
The Story, Part I
Sharing "the story" is part of making sense of the madness. In light of that, I wanted to share more of mine.
* Be forewarned: this story involves blood and gets a bit graphic. If that is going to gross you out, then I suggest you find some other reading material. *
I got pregnant in November 2011. On January 22nd, 2012, a Sunday, I had some spotting/bleeding. I called the advice nurse on my insurance and they recommended either waiting till morning and going to my doctor's office, or going to ER. We went to ER because I wanted to find out what was going on.
At the ER they did an ultrasound and it was discovered that there was no heartbeat on the baby. Baby was measuring about 7 1/2 weeks when by dates, I should have been around 12 weeks. For some reason I felt sad, but ok with it, at that point. I don't know if it didn't sink in, or if I didn't process the meaning of it, or maybe I was in denial--but I was calm. "That's sad, but we can try again," I told my husband, and he agreed. We went home and told my parents, who were watching our toddler son. My mom was sad for me, but I felt that I was going to be ok. I hadn't passed the baby yet, but I didn't want a D&C. I waited to miscarry at home.
For a couple of days I hovered between resignation and denial. Hope would spring anew that maybe they were wrong and my baby was ok. I took it easy just in case and the bleeding slowed. I thought maybe I was getting better--maybe the baby was all right. My sister and my mom said they were praying for the baby to be healed. I believe this gave me false hope.
Tuesday the 24th, the bleeding kicked up again. In the shower I started to cry, knowing that my body was taking apart the home that had been a safe place for my baby. That night, I started getting cramps and figured it was probably happening. I told my husband I was going to take a nap. I tried to sleep, but couldn't, and went to the bathroom. The blood just kept coming so I stayed there, because I wanted to try to see my baby and say goodbye.
I decided to mention to my husband that I was bleeding, so I told him I might be there awhile. He asked how much I was bleeding and I said I didn't know, because I wasn't wearing a pad at that point (the ER said that if more than 1 pad per hour, to come back). Well, I stuck a pad on, and I bled through it in about 2 minutes. He came in the bathroom and saw how much blood was in the toilet, and how pale my face was, and told me we were going to the hospital. He is an EMT, although he doesn't do it for a living anymore, he could tell just by looking at me that there wasn't time to call an ambulance. (He told me this after the fact---I didn't realize how serious it was at the time). I spent a few minutes getting cleaned up, put one of my son's diapers on to catch the blood, and packing a diaper bag for our toddler and then he shooed me out the door and into the car.
It took about 5 minutes to get there, and by the time I was checked in and getting my vitals taken, I had blood running down my leg under my jeans. The nurse asked me for a urine sample, and it took forever in the bathroom to try to get the blood cleaned off enough to pee in the cup. The nurse came in to the restroom, concerned that I was taking so long. I did the best I could and then she wheeled me into a room in a wheelchair. (I found out later that I didn't do good enough--there was still too much blood in the sample so they had to catheterize me to get a clean sample. Oh, joy.)
At some point in here, my mom arrived to take our son home, so my husband could stay with me in the ER.
After getting in the room and getting an IV started in my right arm, the MA/nurse took a preliminary history/physical and then I believe they stepped out to get the doctor. (Things are a little fuzzy at this point.) My husband started to step out the door, but I started to feel funny, so called him back, and told him so. I wanted him close by just in case something happened to me. It's a good thing I said something. He snagged a nurse right away, and in that short time, I started feeling woozy and light-headed, like I wanted to pass out. All of a sudden there were people all around me. Someone elevated my feet and lowered my head, and they threw a second (larger) IV needle into my left arm, pumping fluids into me as quickly as they could. Within a few minutes my head began to clear and I felt better.
When the ER doc came in, he asked his questions, and then did a pelvic exam. He said there was some placenta blocking the cervix so he tried to clear out the blockage. I realized months later that he must have gotten the baby out at that point, because he was putting what he was pulling out into a container of some sort, that the MA was holding. He asked us if we wanted to get it tested. I had no idea, I'd never had something like this happen before. I looked to my husband, and he shrugged; he didn't know either. I told the doctor probably not, that we didn't have a reason to get it tested at this point. (Little did I know that after the fact, I would wish I had gotten it tested.)
The ER doc didn't feel he was able to clear away all the placenta that was blocking the cervical opening, so he talked with another doctor that was there, I believe she was an L&D doc. He told her that he didn't think he was able to get it all, and she recommended a D&C, which we were in agreement about, because of all the bleeding. I had wanted to pass the baby at home, but I was ok with getting a D&C at this point, because the process was well underway and it wouldn't change the outcome. And of course, with the crazy hemorrhaging, if I didn't have the D&C, I would probably end up bleeding to death.
In short order they packaged me up and got me heading for OR. I remember they had a hard time getting my wedding ring off. They were finally able to remove it and they wheeled me back. I wished my husband could go with me, because I felt a bit nervous---and vulnerable. He couldn't of course, but he kissed me and off I went. They got me onto a table in the OR and the anesthesiologist got the gas going. He seemed peppy and upbeat, and I can't recall if he had me talking/answering questions, or if he had me count backwards or something, but very soon I was dead to the world. I didn't remember anything until the recovery room. I always seem to get really talkative after general anesthesia. I have only had it once before but had the same thing happen. I was trying to talk and carry on a conversation almost before anyone could understand my slurred words.
This story is going to be a long one, so we'll consider this an intermission and I'll write more later.
* Be forewarned: this story involves blood and gets a bit graphic. If that is going to gross you out, then I suggest you find some other reading material. *
I got pregnant in November 2011. On January 22nd, 2012, a Sunday, I had some spotting/bleeding. I called the advice nurse on my insurance and they recommended either waiting till morning and going to my doctor's office, or going to ER. We went to ER because I wanted to find out what was going on.
At the ER they did an ultrasound and it was discovered that there was no heartbeat on the baby. Baby was measuring about 7 1/2 weeks when by dates, I should have been around 12 weeks. For some reason I felt sad, but ok with it, at that point. I don't know if it didn't sink in, or if I didn't process the meaning of it, or maybe I was in denial--but I was calm. "That's sad, but we can try again," I told my husband, and he agreed. We went home and told my parents, who were watching our toddler son. My mom was sad for me, but I felt that I was going to be ok. I hadn't passed the baby yet, but I didn't want a D&C. I waited to miscarry at home.
For a couple of days I hovered between resignation and denial. Hope would spring anew that maybe they were wrong and my baby was ok. I took it easy just in case and the bleeding slowed. I thought maybe I was getting better--maybe the baby was all right. My sister and my mom said they were praying for the baby to be healed. I believe this gave me false hope.
Tuesday the 24th, the bleeding kicked up again. In the shower I started to cry, knowing that my body was taking apart the home that had been a safe place for my baby. That night, I started getting cramps and figured it was probably happening. I told my husband I was going to take a nap. I tried to sleep, but couldn't, and went to the bathroom. The blood just kept coming so I stayed there, because I wanted to try to see my baby and say goodbye.
I decided to mention to my husband that I was bleeding, so I told him I might be there awhile. He asked how much I was bleeding and I said I didn't know, because I wasn't wearing a pad at that point (the ER said that if more than 1 pad per hour, to come back). Well, I stuck a pad on, and I bled through it in about 2 minutes. He came in the bathroom and saw how much blood was in the toilet, and how pale my face was, and told me we were going to the hospital. He is an EMT, although he doesn't do it for a living anymore, he could tell just by looking at me that there wasn't time to call an ambulance. (He told me this after the fact---I didn't realize how serious it was at the time). I spent a few minutes getting cleaned up, put one of my son's diapers on to catch the blood, and packing a diaper bag for our toddler and then he shooed me out the door and into the car.
It took about 5 minutes to get there, and by the time I was checked in and getting my vitals taken, I had blood running down my leg under my jeans. The nurse asked me for a urine sample, and it took forever in the bathroom to try to get the blood cleaned off enough to pee in the cup. The nurse came in to the restroom, concerned that I was taking so long. I did the best I could and then she wheeled me into a room in a wheelchair. (I found out later that I didn't do good enough--there was still too much blood in the sample so they had to catheterize me to get a clean sample. Oh, joy.)
At some point in here, my mom arrived to take our son home, so my husband could stay with me in the ER.
After getting in the room and getting an IV started in my right arm, the MA/nurse took a preliminary history/physical and then I believe they stepped out to get the doctor. (Things are a little fuzzy at this point.) My husband started to step out the door, but I started to feel funny, so called him back, and told him so. I wanted him close by just in case something happened to me. It's a good thing I said something. He snagged a nurse right away, and in that short time, I started feeling woozy and light-headed, like I wanted to pass out. All of a sudden there were people all around me. Someone elevated my feet and lowered my head, and they threw a second (larger) IV needle into my left arm, pumping fluids into me as quickly as they could. Within a few minutes my head began to clear and I felt better.
When the ER doc came in, he asked his questions, and then did a pelvic exam. He said there was some placenta blocking the cervix so he tried to clear out the blockage. I realized months later that he must have gotten the baby out at that point, because he was putting what he was pulling out into a container of some sort, that the MA was holding. He asked us if we wanted to get it tested. I had no idea, I'd never had something like this happen before. I looked to my husband, and he shrugged; he didn't know either. I told the doctor probably not, that we didn't have a reason to get it tested at this point. (Little did I know that after the fact, I would wish I had gotten it tested.)
The ER doc didn't feel he was able to clear away all the placenta that was blocking the cervical opening, so he talked with another doctor that was there, I believe she was an L&D doc. He told her that he didn't think he was able to get it all, and she recommended a D&C, which we were in agreement about, because of all the bleeding. I had wanted to pass the baby at home, but I was ok with getting a D&C at this point, because the process was well underway and it wouldn't change the outcome. And of course, with the crazy hemorrhaging, if I didn't have the D&C, I would probably end up bleeding to death.
In short order they packaged me up and got me heading for OR. I remember they had a hard time getting my wedding ring off. They were finally able to remove it and they wheeled me back. I wished my husband could go with me, because I felt a bit nervous---and vulnerable. He couldn't of course, but he kissed me and off I went. They got me onto a table in the OR and the anesthesiologist got the gas going. He seemed peppy and upbeat, and I can't recall if he had me talking/answering questions, or if he had me count backwards or something, but very soon I was dead to the world. I didn't remember anything until the recovery room. I always seem to get really talkative after general anesthesia. I have only had it once before but had the same thing happen. I was trying to talk and carry on a conversation almost before anyone could understand my slurred words.
This story is going to be a long one, so we'll consider this an intermission and I'll write more later.
Ramblings
I feel disappointed in the reading material I checked out from the library. Here I thought these books would help. Now I feel like, I still don't know if anything will help my spiritual situation.
My pastor offered to have me meet with some ladies in leadership, to just have some support and opportunity for conversation. I can't decide--I'm really stuck on this one. If I say no, then I'm probably turning down something that will be helpful. But if I say yes---then I have to open up to someone in person and I haven't done that with anyone about the miscarriage except my own husband. I also haven't done that with the spiritual issues I have, except again with my husband.
It's a scary prospect, mostly because it seems like most people don't know how to respond when you talk about a miscarriage. Most people seem to think that hey, it's a sad thing, but really not a huge life-changing deal. I know because that's kind of how I looked at it before it happened to me. I thought it was more like a sad disappointment that wouldn't leave a big dent in someone's life. Little did I know! Mostly too because people just don't talk about it. I know that I'm part of that problem, I haven't talked to hardly anyone honestly about it. I want to, but I'm afraid---I'm afraid of judgement, of someone not understanding, of someone saying something like "Well you have your beautiful baby now," or "Well it's over now," or "It's not good to wallow in your grief." My sister made a comment that was similar to the last one soon after the miscarriage and so I haven't really talked to her much at all about it. Which is sad, because I though with her having had a miscarriage herself some years ago, she would understand.
When I talk about how I feel, I don't want people to try to distract me from those feelings. I don't want them to try to point out some silver lining or something I should be grateful for, as if it were wrong to feel sad. I want people to listen, express sympathy, and ask me leading questions to encourage me to tell the story. Because that's what helps the most, telling the story. The more a grieving person tells it, the easier it is to make sense of it.
My pastor offered to have me meet with some ladies in leadership, to just have some support and opportunity for conversation. I can't decide--I'm really stuck on this one. If I say no, then I'm probably turning down something that will be helpful. But if I say yes---then I have to open up to someone in person and I haven't done that with anyone about the miscarriage except my own husband. I also haven't done that with the spiritual issues I have, except again with my husband.
It's a scary prospect, mostly because it seems like most people don't know how to respond when you talk about a miscarriage. Most people seem to think that hey, it's a sad thing, but really not a huge life-changing deal. I know because that's kind of how I looked at it before it happened to me. I thought it was more like a sad disappointment that wouldn't leave a big dent in someone's life. Little did I know! Mostly too because people just don't talk about it. I know that I'm part of that problem, I haven't talked to hardly anyone honestly about it. I want to, but I'm afraid---I'm afraid of judgement, of someone not understanding, of someone saying something like "Well you have your beautiful baby now," or "Well it's over now," or "It's not good to wallow in your grief." My sister made a comment that was similar to the last one soon after the miscarriage and so I haven't really talked to her much at all about it. Which is sad, because I though with her having had a miscarriage herself some years ago, she would understand.
When I talk about how I feel, I don't want people to try to distract me from those feelings. I don't want them to try to point out some silver lining or something I should be grateful for, as if it were wrong to feel sad. I want people to listen, express sympathy, and ask me leading questions to encourage me to tell the story. Because that's what helps the most, telling the story. The more a grieving person tells it, the easier it is to make sense of it.
Friday, July 19, 2013
Realizations
Today I made a connection. I know that I worry a lot more post-miscarriage than I did before it. Things like imagining what I'd do if someone broke into my house, how I would feel if my husband died, how it would look if one of my living children died, etc. And I see now where that stems from: the feeling of me, as a mom, failing. When I lost the baby, I felt that I failed in my duty to protect the little life in me from harm. So if I can fail at that, I can fail to protect my living children from harm, say from an intruder or accident or any other external force. I can fail to protect my husband, too (even though that's not really my job, I still want to make sure he doesn't get hurt either).
Because the unthinkable happened to me, I now have lost the naiveté that would allow me to think, "It would never happen to me." I used to think, well, I'm a Christian! So God will protect me from bad things happening to me! God will protect my children, my unborn, my family from harm. Well, I learned otherwise. Being a Christian doesn't protect you from bad things happening. God doesn't protect us, like I originally thought. I'm not even sure why people say that He does, because bad things happen to good people all the time. People get hit by cars, murdered, abducted, raped; they fall ill, they get cancer, they die. And sure, you go to heaven, but what about the families left behind, ravaged by their grief? Did God protect them from that? No. He stood by and let it happen. He doesn't cover us with His hand while the plague passes us by...no, he just lets it all hit us full force.
As you can see, I've hit a major pothole in my faith. Something I thought was a given---God's protection---has been pulled out from under me, and it's really made me question my faith. Does God even care? Does He even love me? If He loved me, He would protect me from harm, wouldn't He? If He loves me, doesn't He love my unborn baby? Does He love anybody, or is it just an illusion? The hard questions come when you're faced with the reality of death. When it's no longer an abstract concept, but it has touched you with its cold, clammy fingers, then you begin to look deep within yourself for answers. And many times, those answers you had down pat really don't hold up water anymore.
Because the unthinkable happened to me, I now have lost the naiveté that would allow me to think, "It would never happen to me." I used to think, well, I'm a Christian! So God will protect me from bad things happening to me! God will protect my children, my unborn, my family from harm. Well, I learned otherwise. Being a Christian doesn't protect you from bad things happening. God doesn't protect us, like I originally thought. I'm not even sure why people say that He does, because bad things happen to good people all the time. People get hit by cars, murdered, abducted, raped; they fall ill, they get cancer, they die. And sure, you go to heaven, but what about the families left behind, ravaged by their grief? Did God protect them from that? No. He stood by and let it happen. He doesn't cover us with His hand while the plague passes us by...no, he just lets it all hit us full force.
As you can see, I've hit a major pothole in my faith. Something I thought was a given---God's protection---has been pulled out from under me, and it's really made me question my faith. Does God even care? Does He even love me? If He loved me, He would protect me from harm, wouldn't He? If He loves me, doesn't He love my unborn baby? Does He love anybody, or is it just an illusion? The hard questions come when you're faced with the reality of death. When it's no longer an abstract concept, but it has touched you with its cold, clammy fingers, then you begin to look deep within yourself for answers. And many times, those answers you had down pat really don't hold up water anymore.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Mental Musings
A little background...
A year and a half ago, I had a miscarriage. I was 12 weeks along by dates, but the baby only measured 7 1/2 weeks. It ended up being a grueling experience that involved life-threatening hemorrhaging, an emergency D&C, a transfusion, a pulmonary embolism (blood clot in my lung), a 5-day hospital stay, and 4 months of blood thinners. It was not pleasant, to say the least. At first, I think I had too much other medical "excitement" going on to fully process the miscarriage--I didn't cry about it until well after I was back home. In the hospital, I had the need to keep it together, so I could emotionally survive being stuck there and feeling so alone and vulnerable. Once I was home in a safe place, though, I was able to fall apart a little. Well, more than a little.
I thought I had processed my grief. I got pregnant again 6 months later, and now I have a beautiful baby boy, who is 2 months old. I thought I was done feeling sad about my loss. But grief has a way of cycling back into the forefront when you least expect it. I realize now that I still have a lot of work to do on it. So, I intend to have a journal of sorts about what I'm thinking and feeling about this. Some of it might seem irrelevant, silly, or strange. But it's how I feel...and it feels good to get it out.
I feel guilty that I took antidepressants early in the pregnancy. I even had the thought, what if I get pregnant? But I dismissed it and figured it was OK because I had taken that same antidepressant while pregnant with Ethan. I tried to put it out of my head the fact that I hadn't taken any antidepressants during the first trimester with Ethan---I felt that my mood was poor enough that I needed to take them. But had I known that it could cause me to lose the baby---in essence, that it was possible it would kill the baby---I would never have taken them.
I felt ambivalent about the pregnancy at first. I feel guilty about that too, that maybe she wasn't loved as much as my other two children. I did get more involved in the pregnancy as time went on, but for awhile, I wasn't sure I wanted to be pregnant. We had just moved cross-country and I was stressed out, and needed time to settle in, but I ended up getting pregnant probably somewhere along the way on the long drive. It's possible I conceived while we stayed a few days at my husband's aunt's house prior to arriving here.
I feel sad that I never bought a single baby item for that baby. Everything I have to commemorate her life, I bought after the fact.
I feel angry that it's possible the chlorine in the tap water caused me to miscarry. I read that chlorine raises the risk of miscarriage by 50%. I don't know if that's true, but if it is, the fact that we didn't have a water filter for the first year of living here put me at risk. And possibly killed my baby. Partly my fault, and partly the fault of the city water system...and our fault for moving away from Alaska in the first place. I wonder if that's why I didn't conceive the whole time we were in Pennsylvania? Perhaps the chemicals in the water kept me from conceiving?
I feel sad to think that my body betrayed me. Instead of sheltering the little life growing inside me, it helped to kill it. My body decided that the life wasn't good enough anymore and decided to just get rid of it. Why couldn't I keep it?
A year and a half ago, I had a miscarriage. I was 12 weeks along by dates, but the baby only measured 7 1/2 weeks. It ended up being a grueling experience that involved life-threatening hemorrhaging, an emergency D&C, a transfusion, a pulmonary embolism (blood clot in my lung), a 5-day hospital stay, and 4 months of blood thinners. It was not pleasant, to say the least. At first, I think I had too much other medical "excitement" going on to fully process the miscarriage--I didn't cry about it until well after I was back home. In the hospital, I had the need to keep it together, so I could emotionally survive being stuck there and feeling so alone and vulnerable. Once I was home in a safe place, though, I was able to fall apart a little. Well, more than a little.
I thought I had processed my grief. I got pregnant again 6 months later, and now I have a beautiful baby boy, who is 2 months old. I thought I was done feeling sad about my loss. But grief has a way of cycling back into the forefront when you least expect it. I realize now that I still have a lot of work to do on it. So, I intend to have a journal of sorts about what I'm thinking and feeling about this. Some of it might seem irrelevant, silly, or strange. But it's how I feel...and it feels good to get it out.
I feel guilty that I took antidepressants early in the pregnancy. I even had the thought, what if I get pregnant? But I dismissed it and figured it was OK because I had taken that same antidepressant while pregnant with Ethan. I tried to put it out of my head the fact that I hadn't taken any antidepressants during the first trimester with Ethan---I felt that my mood was poor enough that I needed to take them. But had I known that it could cause me to lose the baby---in essence, that it was possible it would kill the baby---I would never have taken them.
I felt ambivalent about the pregnancy at first. I feel guilty about that too, that maybe she wasn't loved as much as my other two children. I did get more involved in the pregnancy as time went on, but for awhile, I wasn't sure I wanted to be pregnant. We had just moved cross-country and I was stressed out, and needed time to settle in, but I ended up getting pregnant probably somewhere along the way on the long drive. It's possible I conceived while we stayed a few days at my husband's aunt's house prior to arriving here.
I feel sad that I never bought a single baby item for that baby. Everything I have to commemorate her life, I bought after the fact.
I feel angry that it's possible the chlorine in the tap water caused me to miscarry. I read that chlorine raises the risk of miscarriage by 50%. I don't know if that's true, but if it is, the fact that we didn't have a water filter for the first year of living here put me at risk. And possibly killed my baby. Partly my fault, and partly the fault of the city water system...and our fault for moving away from Alaska in the first place. I wonder if that's why I didn't conceive the whole time we were in Pennsylvania? Perhaps the chemicals in the water kept me from conceiving?
I feel sad to think that my body betrayed me. Instead of sheltering the little life growing inside me, it helped to kill it. My body decided that the life wasn't good enough anymore and decided to just get rid of it. Why couldn't I keep it?
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