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.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Stormy Seas
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?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)