As I write this, it is 1:00 am and I can’t sleep. It may have been the five hour anesthesia-induced nap I had earlier today, it may be that my mind is running 200 mph and won’t slow down, or it may the stupid crickets I can hear out my bedroom window. Regardless, I’m sitting in the pitch black at my kitchen table, hearing the rain on the window, dog at my feet as usual. He doesn’t seem to have a problem sleeping.
This blog entry may come as a shock to some of you, and many of you may be surprised I am sharing so much personal information with others who had no clue anything was going on. In addition to sharing funny stories about my kids, or how I ran over my husband’s golf club, or how I deal with teaching high school students, this is a place for me to share my feelings, my thoughts, and my opinions. So I will break for today with the funny stories and pictures of vacation to share the thoughts running through my head at 200 mph.
I suffered a miscarriage today. My third. Doesn’t get any easier, let me tell you—first, third, planned pregnancy, or an accident. And this one seemed destined to make it—almost two weeks ago my mom and I saw the heartbeat, plugging along. We also learned that this had been a twin pregnancy, but a baby didn’t form in the other sac. Only one baby. So we grieved what might have been—two little babies, but still feeling optimistic this one baby might make it since we’d seen the heartbeat. Monday Bobby and I went back for another ultrasound, and there was no heartbeat. The baby looked like a baby—exactly like it should, just no little thump thump chugging along. She gave me the option of waiting up to two weeks to see if I would miscarry naturally, but I’ve been there, done that. We scheduled the surgery today, and all went well. Except I am no longer pregnant, and I can’t sleep.
I remembered studying in psychology the different stages of grief, so tonight I looked them up.
I can feel the sadness in every pore of my body. The sadness is overwhelming. I find it hard to speak over the lump in my throat, and end up just nodding my head. It was all I could do to hold it together in the doctor’s office. I don’t want to see another pregnant lady or baby for awhile. I don't want to talk to people about it, because I just can't get through two words without tearing up.
Anger quickly replaces the sadness. Why did this happen to me, AGAIN. How can 18-year-old kids (or younger) have babies, and I can’t carry them to term? How can people see what I saw on that ultrasound and then have an abortion? How can people do that? I feel angry when people say, “it was meant to be” or “you’ll have another” or “it was just God’s way.” These things make no sense to a grieving person, and are definitely not a comfort. I’m angry that I gained weight, more since my body thought it was growing two, and now I have nothing to show for it.
Ask Bobby about my irritability. The sweet, patient man brought me flowers today, and I laughed at him because I thought they looked tombstone flowers. I have no patience and am just plain cranky. I’m irritated at this weight gain with no baby to show for it. I’m irritated that I can’t stop crying. I’m irritated that I’m angry. I’m irritated that I feel guilty. I’m more than irritated that I can’t sleep.
Disbelief for me is a quiet thing. The nurse today said I was very calm. It was because I couldn't believe I was here in the hospital going through this again. I can’t believe I won’t be pregnant again. I can’t believe I won’t ever hear the doctor say, “It’s a boy!” “It’s a girl!” I can’t believe I won’t ever get to watch the girls with a baby brother or sister.
Guilt wears heavy on my heart too. I have two beautiful, wonderful, darling little girls. Who is to say I need any more? I have family members and close friends who can’t get pregnant, and would love to have two little girls. Why should I be sad that I don’t have more, when I should count my blessings that I was able to have two? I know they say there was nothing I could have done, but what if that isn’t true? What if the baby’s heart stopped because I went bowling? Or because I carried my daughter? Or because I walked for eight hours in the heat at an amusement park? Who is to say there isn’t something wrong with me?
This pregnancy ran the gamut of confusion, particularly with my emotions. We weren’t trying to get pregnant, it just happened. So at first I was scared—I’d had two miscarriages, couldn’t handle another one. We weren’t ready for another baby, so I wasn’t excited initially. I felt guilty about that. Then I found out about the twin, and grieved that loss while slowly getting excited about the one with the heartbeat. The shock of discovering no heartbeat this week was earth-shattering. Now I’m confused again—am I okay with not having another? Families of 4 seem so much easier, for a variety of reasons. The girls won't have to share a bedroom. We can finally clear out our basement and have a garage sale. After next year, no more day care! These thoughts lead me right back to the guilt—I shouldn’t be having these thoughts; I just lost a baby and I shouldn’t be trying to move on. Millions of people can’t have babies, and I shouldn’t be trivializing the loss of this one.
I’m not writing this to gain sympathy. I’m turning off the comments, and please don’t email me or send me sympathy cards. Please don't try to talk with me about this, or look at me funny the next time you see me. That’s not what I want. I’m using this in the true form it is—my journal. Maybe someone will come across it who has had a miscarriage, and it will bring them peace to understand their emotions are real and they are not alone. That’s what I want. And maybe some sleep.
