Grief is so often described as coming in waves; where, for one moment, you'll be fine--things seem perhaps even dealable--then BAM. A wave of grief crashes into shore and soaks you--sometimes knocks you down completely. The littlest thing can cause this wave of grief to hit you out of (seemingly) nowhere...
...Waking up from a nap and reaching down to feel the comforting hard baby bump of your belly, like you'd gotten into the habit of doing, then suddenly feeling what you had temporarily forgotten during that wonderful, numbing slumber--that only deflated, flabby skin and stretch marks remain--with no baby to ease the pain of the "battle wounds."
...Seeing pictures, commercials, etc. of pregnant women and new mothers...happily expectant in their fertile glow. Wanting so badly to be one of this seemingly elite group, but instead continuing to struggle through a more cruel type of initiation.
...Walking into the nursery, which was not yet really a nursery, but had been cleared out and had begun to contain the outfits and other few items of baby gear that we had received as gift: little onesies, booties, bibs, etc. All for a little tiny person we already loved so much.
Drew and I have both been trying to begin healing over the past week or so. It hasn't been easy. For me, I have been struggling to heal physically, mentally, and emotionally all at once. Sometimes it feels as if I'm only capable of focusing on one of them at a time. This past week, I have been focusing mostly on the physical part of losing a child at 12 weeks. I had no idea it would be so painful (now, after the fact and from talking to others, I realize so much of it was like the early stages of labor, with contractions getting closer together until I thought I would literally pass out from the pain). And I had no idea that, after all that, it would all continue for several more days, rendering me unable to venture much further than my bedroom, bathroom, and living room couch. I really had no idea.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, prepares you for it. For the complete and utter sadness that accompanies the excruciating pain, the knowledge of what is actually occuring within your body. I had heard of some miscarriages being likened to a really severe period. Not even close. So much worse. In retrospect, I wish my doctor wouldn't have cancelled my D&C after I started miscarrying on my own Monday night. From what I've heard from others, even though it is minor surgery, you can at least be asleep during the worst of it, and wake up knowing that you'll just need a couple of days to heal. For me, having the miscarriage happen on its own instead of being taken care of surgically, they didn't have any answers as to when I would be "done." "You could be going through this for another week, really," one of the nurses told me on Friday afternoon. "You were a bit further along, and it can be more severe."
Drew has been working most of the weekend finishing re-finishing the dresser for LJ's nursery. It is basically done. The crisp white paint, the moon and star drawer pulls. I will have to post a picture of it soon. It was his way of "finishing what he started" in memory of LJ. It is a beautiful tribute.
Meanwhile, I have been finishing the journal I started for LJ. The day I found out I was pregnant, I began a journal, recording my thoughts about pregnancy and the baby growing inside of me, all addressed to LJ. On Friday the 13th, the day we found out we had lost LJ, I wrote my own final entry--my good-bye--to our first child. Since then, I've been adding bits to the still-too-empty pages. Cards of congratulations from friends and family when we first found out we were pregnant. Cards of condolences when we found out we weren't any longer. Pressed flowers from the flower arrangements sent to cheer us up. Maybe I'm just making up reasons not to finish the journal "for good." I guess I'm not ready to close it for the last time, put it away on a shelf. That would make this all true, then, instead of some horrible dream from which I'm still waiting to awake.
Tomorrow I return to work. I am dreading it. I know that most people (most of whom now know) won't ask me about things, will let me talk about it when I'm ready. But I don't want to be there. I don't want to see the looks of people, seeing the difference between my body then and now, and either saying what feels, to me, to be inappropriate yet well-meaning comments, or worse--nothing at all.
People have said to me, "Well, at least you guys know you can get pregnant." This is by far the most common comment, so I am not picking on anyone in particular by calling it out specifically. I know it is meant as a ray of light during this dark time. If it happened the once, it can happen again, right? All hope is not lost.
But just think about it for a second. Would you say that to someone who didn't have a hard time getting pregnant who just lost a child? Isn't it a given for them? That these "normal" people, people who haven't struggled with infertility, can get pregnant? It would never be a comfort for a "normal" couple who had just lost a child. Of course they know they can get pregnant. But is that any comfort at all to the loss of this particular child? It seems like the "fertile people" equivalent of saying, "Well, you can always have another." As if anything would ever be a substitute for this child you'd loved and lost. I don't mean to sound harsh...I don't know, perhaps I do. I waver between absolute despair and intense anger and bitterness on almost an hourly basis, so maybe I want to vent my anger at the well-meaning people who don't know any better.
But, deep down, I know there's no reason to be angry at others. It is great, wonderful, in fact, that they don't understand what we're going through right now...I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy. But at the same time, it is such a lonely place to be. Just like, not so very long ago, when I would write here about our infertility struggles, and people wouldn't know what to say. And I can't blame anyone. Until going through it myself, I wouldn't have known what to say to someone else struggling with the same issues, either. And before now, I probably wouldn't have known what to say to someone who has had a miscarriage. I am learning a lot about how to be more empathetic to others. I thought that I was a pretty empathetic person...before. But maybe I wasn't. Maybe I needed to be worked on. "I am being strengthened" after all, right? That is what I'm told. This is all to make me, yet again, a stronger person?Sometimes I just have a hard time understanding why I'm the one who needs all the strengthening.
-Em
