Confession

I hear/see this phrase a lot: “I’m/You’re so blessed to be able to stay home with my/your kids!” You’d be hard-pressed to find someone who would honestly say that being a stay-at-home parent is ridiculous, stupid, or pointless. But many are eager to pity those who work outside the home when they have children. Allowing someone else to take care of your children all day long is a travesty, a great disservice, just plain awful. It’s so sad that you can’t afford to stay home with the children you chose to have. Why have kids if you spend your entire week somewhere they aren’t, letting someone else raise them?

I’m going to put something on the table that virtually no one wants to hear and no one is ever brave enough to say: I’m so blessed to be able to have a career outside the home.

Before you scroll to the bottom to leave an angry comment, hear me out.

No, my situation is not perfect. Yes, there are times I should be spending more positive energy on my children. And yes, my house suffers because most nights I just don’t freaking feel like doing the dishes, starting the laundry, or sweeping the floors after spending an entire day responding to and sending emails, answering calls, writing articles and press releases, and attending meetings. Allow me to point out, though, that many stay-at-home moms I know admit publicly that they, too, struggle to keep their house clean and find the energy to fold the laundry, and don’t always utilize the hours they are at home with their kids in a positive way. But they’re physically home with their kids and that’s just…right. What a blessing! (And it truly is.)

The truth is–and this is important–I LOVE WHAT I DO. I love having a career. I love working in an office. I love my coworkers, my field of work, and my life. Some Mondays I am actually excited to get out of bed because I get to go spend an entire day in an environment where my professional skills are valued and my opinion matters; where for eight hours I get to ask all the questions I want, listen to fascinating stories, and then retell those stories so others can enjoy them, too. I feel blessed to do what I love and love what I do, and ON TOP OF THAT have two well-behaved (most of the time) children and a happy, monogamous marriage.

The other side to that truth is–and this is also very important–I LOVE MY CHILDREN. I love having a family. I love coming home to two beautiful little girls as excited to see me as if I’d been abroad for a month and had just come home. I love their creativity, their intelligence, their senses of humour, and watching their amazing minds develop. I live for weekends. In addition to finally having time to run errands, work in my garden, and clean my bathroom, it’s also time for me to spend extra quality time with my family. More talking, more crafts, more going to fun places like the children’s museum, the zoo, the playground, and the beach. I have the opportunity every evening and weekend to really focus on my kids because during the weekdays it’s my time to enjoy the other part of my life. The other part I love just as much as being home with my children.

The old adage claims ‘different strokes for different folks’ and although sometimes I struggle to live my life as though that’s true, it really does explain why people make different choices from each other. Why some moms do everything in their power to stay home with their kids and others revel in the opportunity to work somewhere outside of that environment.

So yes, some moms are blessed to stay home with their children. But that does not preclude me from also being blessed, though my lifestyle is pretty close to opposite of theirs.

I, too, am blessed to have the life I have.

Followup

On Friday my doctor called and left a message. “I just got your pathology report back and I wanted to talk to you about plans for this weekend and next week. So if you could give me a call back as soon as possible, I’d appreciate it. Thanks!”

Honestly, I had no idea what a pathology report was. I mean, I figured it was test results, but I didn’t know what had been tested. The fact that she wanted to talk to me urgently about “plans” for the weekend and days following worried me. It’s never a good thing when your doctor has immediate plans for you and you haven’t even been consulted yet.

I stood in the kitchen, leaning against the sink. Hands shaking, I dialed her cell number and listened to it ring. I almost hoped she didn’t answer.

But she did.

“I’m so glad you called back. Your pathology report shows that the tissue retrieved during surgery did not contain fetal cells. This happens frequently because they get a large sample of tissue and can’t test every cell, so if the small portion they do test doesn’t happen to be part of the fetus, the test will come back negative. I am very confident I removed all product of conception during surgery, but just to be sure, so we don’t risk infection, I’m going to call in some prescriptions for you. We’ll also do an ultrasound next week to make sure the uterus is clean.”

I think I said “okay” about 16 times as she spoke, and that was probably about it. She prescribed some cytotec to clean out anything left behind, and added a week to the two-day antibiotic round she’d originally prescribed.

I hung up the phone feeling nothing but dread. I had opted for the surgery, in part, to avoid cytotec and what it brings with it, and here I was being told to use it anyway.

By the next morning I had decided that four more days wasn’t going to kill me (most likely), and that, based on the confidence my doctor had that she had been successful in removing all “product of conception,” I was likely going to be just fine between then and the ultrasound. If something showed up on the ultrasound we’d revisit our options and I’d do what needed to be done at that point.

My ultrasound was scheduled for Wednesday morning. Husband decided to come with me for moral support. Of course, as luck would have it, both girls got sick on Tuesday and we had to keep them home on Wednesday, meaning I would have to go to the ultrasound alone. Again.

I wasn’t too bothered by this, actually. I’ve done difficult things on my own before and then found comfort in the care of others afterward. This would just be one of those things.

All Wednesday morning as I prepped for work, sat at my desk with one eye on the clock, and drove to the clinic, my mind was trapped in the room in which I’d had my last ultrasound. It was grey. All of it. The floor, the walls, the ceiling, the window covering, my gown, the equipment…even the doctor’s face. The only other colour was black–my doctor’s clothes.

I pulled into the clinic parking lot with my heart pounding. I didn’t want to do this again. I walked up the slight incline to the clinic door. I don’t want to do this again. I pulled open the door and walked inside the lobby, built and decorated in the late 1980s or early 1990s with pastel pinks and teals and awfully cheesy faded posters on the walls. I don’t want to be here. Not like this. Somehow I held my voice steady as I checked in at the desk, and I managed to sit down near the edge of the room, looking out the windows and ignoring my shaking hands. This sucks.

Baby registry, pregnancy, and newborn magazines glared at me from every flat surface in the room.  A young woman probably pregnant with her first stood at the desk scheduling her weekly appointments from now until her due date, June 6. She laughed and chatted with the receptionist. I looked away and focused on the television.

Morning TV talk shows are drivel.

I heard my name from the doorway to my left. Automatically I rose from my seat and walked toward the voice. A woman close to retirement age led me to the scale, her office, the exam room. Her glasses were really big. They were probably new around the same time the clinic was. Maybe before.

A gown. The table. A paper sheet. Stirrups.

“This will be cold…” said Big Glasses. Like your voice?

I stared straight at the ceiling while she did her thing. My head naturally wanted to turn to watch the images on the screen beside me. Every other time I’d done this there was a squirming baby, a beating heart, a little face and arms and feet. This time, I didn’t want to see. I didn’t want to see The Nothing.

One hot tear crawled down each side of my face and tickled the inside of my ears. I pressed my teeth into my inner lip so I could focus on that pain instead.

Though it probably was quite short, the ultrasound felt like it lasted forever. Finally it was over and I sat up. She left. I dressed. I sat in a chair.

I waited.

Twenty minutes passed. Thirty.

A poster on one wall showed the developing fetus each month of pregnancy. Another advertised 3D ultrasound imaging. They should have a room free of this paraphernalia, just for people in a situation like mine. 

Still I waited.

Big Glasses had called me “sweetie” when she’d left me and her voice was tender. Did that mean she saw something? Was she trying to make me feel comfortable before I got the bad news? Was that pity in her voice?

Finally, the door opened. A woman I’d never seen before walked into the room with one of the brightest smiles I’ve ever seen. Not because her teeth were unnaturally white or shiny, but because the sentiment behind the smile was real. She meant that warmth and care and approachability. She meant every iota of it.

My gut ached. I had no idea what she would tell me. For half an hour I’d sat expecting and imagining the worst case scenario–she hadn’t gotten it all; I could pay for another surgery or take the cytotec and go through the hell I’d tried to avoid at home.

“There’s a scant amount of fluid in the uterus, but everything looks good.” She asked about any bleeding I’d experienced, if I’d taken the medications prescribed, how I was feeling. Her energy surprised me. Everyone else in the office seemed to find it too big an effort to smile and instead chose to hone their focus on everything business. But this doctor…her reddish blonde curly hair was pert and she was shorter than me (that’s saying something). The smile never left her face for a second while we talked in that dim exam room, and her posture was open and friendly toward me–a patient she had never met before.

My emotions were stormy at best–I couldn’t decide how to feel in that moment. Again, the numbness. I almost couldn’t even smile. I felt frozen and stiff and overwhelmed.

With a cheeky twinkle in her eye she leaned forward as though she were sharing a secret and asked, “When do you think you might try to get pregnant again?” It wasn’t an inappropriate question, and she asked it as though she were my best friend–and in that moment, she almost was. Honestly, I appreciated her approach. I told her I wasn’t sure. “We haven’t talked about that yet.”

Business concluded, she opened her arms like a happy grandmother and gave me a sincere hug. She wished me well and opened the door, pointing me toward the lobby.

In a daze I checked out at the desk, then pulled open the door to the sunshine. Though I fought hard, there was no stopping the flood blurring my vision. I managed to get into the driver’s seat before completely losing control. I sat there in the parking lot, surrounded by trees and singing birds and all things spring, crying for a reason I wasn’t sure I understood.

It was over.

But the relief battled with the devastation of finality, and I cried because the war had to exist at all.

Aftermath

I’ve never been truly depressed before. I’ve had down moments and I’ve spent some time crying in the past. But last week it occurred to me that this is what it feels like to be truly clinically depressed. No motivation, no energy, wanting to sleep all the time, crying at the drop of a hat alternating with moments of complete lack of emotion of any kind, snapping at people because you’re just plain cranky and when you realize you’re treating them poorly you start crying all over again, feeling in a misty haze as you wander around pretending to be normal. Anger alternating with extreme sorrow. Then just not caring at all.

Or maybe that’s not depression. Maybe this is just grief.

I want to talk about this, share it, post about it on Facebook…but I feel so selfish being this anguished about an 8-week-old fetus when I know people who have lost babies and children they felt, knew, loved. It’s hard not to feel inferior. Like I’m being ridiculous to grieve like this and dwell on something so common.

Then there’s the jealousy. Every baby picture hurts my heart because I simultaneously want to squeeze and hug and kiss all over them…and want to cry and scream at the cosmos for taking that reality away from me this time.

And after that I feel guilty because I have two amazingly smart and beautiful and sweet girls who are my world. I should be focusing on them, not the baby we’ll never know. And I can get pregnant again. We will have that third child. Some people had not only the reality of a child they loved reversed, but the dreams of any future children dashed in one fell swoop. So I feel guilt for not being grateful for what I have and spending so much time mourning what I’ve lost.

This isn’t my first bout of guilt since that awful grey Thursday. The first round came a day or two after finding out there was no heartbeat and it came in the form of, “What did I do?” Did I drink too much coffee? Did I work too hard while visiting a pregnant friend to help her prep the house for her baby? What about that one Sunday when I spent an hour or two raking and bending and picking up debris and squatting and kneeling? Did I overdo it on the carbs this early? Was it because I forgot to start taking my prenatal vitamins until I was six weeks along? What did I do to hurt my baby when I should have been protecting it? How did I kill my baby?

And now we’re at 11 days since we found out we lost our baby. And I’m smiling. And laughing. And feeling joyful again. The sun came out on Saturday and it was the first really sunny sky since The Day had happened. I hadn’t realized what an effect the rainy grey and dreary days had on my psyche until I saw the sun in all its glory. Sunday was a happy day–I did an on-the-job interview, worked in my yard, went grocery shopping, got coffee, watched my kids play outside, read a book, and went to a graduation party. I laughed and joked and talked and smiled. It was a pretty normal spring Sunday. The first day I didn’t feel numb or close to tears. 

Image: staythecourseblog.com

It’s strange…there’s a little feeling of guilt in me over that, too. I feel like I should be sadder for longer than I have been. Not that I’m “over” what has happened, nor am I any less affected by the reality of what it all means. But the fact that I once again feel genuinely happy in my life is both hugely relieving and a little guilt-inducing, like I’m not honoring the baby like I should. Like I put on a “woe is me” show to garner sympathy and then jumped right back into being me. Like it was all an act. Or like I dreamed it all. A horrible, gut-wrenching, heartbreaking nightmare of a dream.

There’s no perfect answer to how I “should” be feeling. The only truth is that I’m feeling how I feel and that’s just part of the journey. A journey that has changed my life.

My Miscarriage Story, Pt. 6: Telling Little Miss

Telling Little Miss

Today we went to church. I knew she’d probably be there, so for the entire drive there I silently prepped myself to see my dear friend who is due within two weeks of when we were. She’s tiny and beautiful and I knew she’d be showing, now at 10-12-ish weeks. I had been thrilled to be expecting alongside her; pregnancy is always more fun with a friend who shares the journey with you, no matter how many times you’ve done it before. Two friends here in town and a close relative all announced pregnancies within two weeks of our announcement, and I was so excited to be in such good company. I dreamed of baby get-togethers while on maternity leave and my child having a cousin so close in age to get to know.

But today wasn’t dreamy. I knew it would be hard. So I gave myself a mental pep talk as we neared the church. Within moments of entering the building I saw her. She smiled at me, looked me in the eye, and told me it was good to see me. We hugged. I could see in her eyes that she was sincerely glad we’d come to church that day, and though her words were simple, I knew in her heart she meant so much more with that hug than just “welcome to church, my friend.” And I loved her for it.

I managed to hold myself together for about 30 seconds before I quickly shuffled to the door and dropped our church bag on the bench outside. My vision blurred with tears and through muted sorrow I heard my 4-year-old. “Mommy, what’s wrong? What is it, Mommy?” I looked down at her beautiful blue eyes, her brow furrowed in concern as she peered up at me. “What’s wrong, Mommy?” she demanded, pushing her way in front of me and touching my arm intently.

She needed to know. I had wanted to tell her for a week–well, “wanted” is a misnomer–but had never felt the moment was ready. Now here I was with her full attention, and as worried as she was, she was adamant that I tell her why I was crying.

So I just said it.

“The baby that was in my tummy died. And that makes me sad.”

The tears spilled down my cheeks as Husband put his arm around me. I sat down on the bench and Little Miss fell against my chest, tears dripping down her own sweet face now. “I’m sad, too, Mommy,” she said quietly.

We made it back inside with dry-ish faces, though Little Miss didn’t want me to leave her in her classroom. So I sat there with her, and she climbed up on my lap. She didn’t sing the songs and though I tried I found it very difficult.

When her class was over we went into Miss Bennett’s classroom. My sweet pregnant friend approached Little Miss and complimented her ensemble for the day. Instead of saying thank you, Little Miss blurted out to her, “My mommy was going to have a baby, but it died and now she’s not having a baby anymore.” I heard it, saw the tears in her eyes, and couldn’t choke back the sob that instantly rose to my throat. I dropped what I was holding, fell to my knees next to my sweet, precious daughter, and held her tightly as we cried. My friend grabbed us tissue and helped Little Miss dry her eyes.

People were walking past us; we were in the doorway of the classroom, in front of a busy hallway. I didn’t care. One mom asked if anything was wrong and I didn’t want to explain it so I smiled and said, “We’re okay.” I don’t think she believed me.

As we knelt there on the floor, a soggy tissue in my hand, we talked–my friend and I. Little Miss interrupted and with eyes full of innocence, said, “Mommy, you should have gotten the baby out before it died!” Somehow I explained to her that it was only “this big” (holding my fingers an inch and a half apart) and could never have lived outside my tummy. That it didn’t grow like it should have. That we’d try again.

We made our way to church, where a member sang special music that pushed me to tears again. A song I’ve known since I was a teenager.

People say that I’m amazing

Strong beyond my years

But they don’t see inside of me

I’m hiding all my tears

They don’t know that I go running home when I fall down

They don’t know who picks me up when no one is around 

I drop my sword and cry for just a while

‘Cuz deep inside this armor

The warrior is a child

 

Little Miss has hugged me many times today, and told me this afternoon, “I’m sorry the baby died, Mommy, and I’m sad for you.” I hug her back and kiss her sweet soft cheek and say, “Me too, sweetie. But I’m ever so glad I have you.”

My Miscarriage Story, Pt. 5: Today

 

Today

Today is the day after. I opted to stay home from work today to give myself extra recuperation time based on stories and advice from friends who sent me heartfelt messages of love and support, all with stories of their own. I’m glad I made this choice. I’ve spent my day on the couch doing a little bit of work but mostly browsing Facebook, chatting with dear friends who never shared their experiences publicly but want me to know they understand my pain…and blogging. I’m a writer. I need to get these feelings out on “paper.”

Today it’s raining. I’m alone at home, practicing self-care with coffee, gourmet chocolate-covered Oreos (a birthday gift from a friend), a heating pad, Morten Lauridsen, and Tylenol with Codeine. My back is killing me, probably from so many hours spent sitting in the same position in a hospital bed yesterday. I’m stiff and slow-moving.

Today I read a friend’s graphic story of her miscarriage at 16 weeks–the pink and lifeless baby at her bedside in the dark of midnight, sobbing with her husband, being told the scar tissue was too much and she’d never get pregnant again, heavy bleeding for a month, almost dying herself. Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but I did a Google image search for what a baby looks like at 16 weeks. I imagined my friend looking at that precious baby–and yes, it looks like a baby–lifeless in her hands. And I sobbed.

Today I did something I don’t recommend this soon after the loss of a child. I did another Google image search. I lost my baby at 8 weeks and I searched for what a baby looks like at 8 weeks. I wanted to see what it was I’d lost. What I’d had taken away from me. What I’d never had the chance to know or hold or kiss.

Today I sobbed…am sobbing.

Despite the early loss, it was still my child. As a Christian I have hope of seeing that child someday; perhaps an angel will place him/her in my arms–a perfect, beautiful, precious baby. Someday.

Today one of my best friends in the world met her beautiful baby boy. Tomorrow another of my best friends will meet her precious baby boy. Two other friends and a relative announced their pregnancies around the same time we did, and have due dates within weeks of ours. I’m thrilled for them. I’ve smiled at pictures and congratulated them. And I want to snuggle their babies. But I’ve also cried. That sweet baby in the photo is what mine should have grown to be. They get to hold their babies. They get to hug and kiss and rock their babies. Mine is dead. And while I know my experience is not unique–many thousands of women have been through something very similar to this–that doesn’t change the fact that right here, right now, something is missing in my life. Someone is missing. And that baby-shaped hole will never be filled no matter how many children I have.

When I was researching what having a miscarriage was like, one aspect that was blatantly missing was the stories. I couldn’t find the stories I wanted to read from women who had been through what I was experiencing. I wanted to know what to expect, what others had felt, and that it was going to be okay. I wanted to know I wasn’t alone.

Apparently miscarriage isn’t a topic many people talk about. Perhaps it’s because no one knew the child. Maybe it’s because it’s messy and no one wants to talk about the blood and guts and gory part of this horrendous experience. Maybe there aren’t very many people like me who want their deepest, darkest feelings aired in public for all to see. Vulnerability is never comfortable. And grief is as vulnerable as it gets. A friend of mine who has been through this three times said, “As parents we feel the need to protect our babies, no matter the age, and to lose them feels as though somehow we didn’t do our jobs well enough.” And perhaps that misplaced feeling of self-blame contributes to the lack of stories available to those of us experiencing this nightmare.

Regardless of the reason, the fact remains that I couldn’t find what I needed to get me through a very dark time. And that is why I’m blogging all of this. I hope that by putting my story out there, when another mother searches desperately for hope and help as she sits in a darkened room with her grief and piles of soggy tissues…she’ll find it here.

Another friend who has been where I am said, “It’s not easy, no matter where in pregnancy the baby was lost. It’s as real as any other death, except with other deaths, one can be grateful for knowing the person. Here, so much potential is lost, and you didn’t even get the chance to know who you’re mourning, and that’s part of what hurts so bad, too. The loss of a new future family to imagine, the loss of innocence, the loss of life you’ve created together.”

Her words brought me to tears because she’s absolutely right. Her words mirror what another friend said to me when I shared the news with her privately the day after. She said to me that it may feel like nothing now, it may feel strange to mourn a person I never knew, but the baby isn’t the only thing we’ve lost. We’ve lost all the dreams we had for a future as a family of five. That baby was part of our future that was unexpectedly and dramatically ripped from us. All the plans we’d made that would take place after November 23, 2014, included a newborn baby. Holiday travel. Maternity leave. Buying a second vehicle. None of that matters now. When we head out west for Christmas it will be just the four of us. There’s no longer urgency on procuring another vehicle or moving Miss Bennett in to share a room with Little Miss. Paying extra for the premium insurance plan this year turned out to be essentially pointless.

And we still have to tell Little Miss. At school she talks with her friends about how her mommy is having another baby. She makes comments to us about “when the new baby comes.” She’s excited about sharing a room with her little sister so the new baby can have the other bedroom. She’s already picked out names–one for a boy, and one for a girl–that we should call the new baby. And we have to tell her there is no new baby anymore. We have to explain to our 4-year-old what death is. I will cry. She will be sad. And we will all grieve together.

One thing I want to accomplish with these blog posts is legitimacy. I want any mother who reads these to understand that she is not alone, and that everything she’s feeling–grief, anger, jealousy, disappointment, even numbness–all of it is legitimate and normal. The physical road is different for everyone in this situation, but many of the emotions are similar. We can stand together and cry together because we understand each other. The loss is real, no matter when or how or why it happened, and there’s nothing anyone can do or say that can fix it.

Right now I can’t write the future of this story. I can’t predict how I’ll feel in a month, a year, a decade. So if you’re looking for the “it will all be okay” ending, I can say it because I believe it, but I can’t say it from experience. Just minutes ago I texted one of my best friends, “I am not okay.” Because today…I’m not. Today, my heart hurts. Today, I’ve done more than anyone’s fair share of crying. Today, I’m broken.

But today is not the end. Today is not all there is.

And I am not alone.

 

My Miscarriage Story, Pt. 4: Surgery

Author’s Note: This blog post is the story of my experience choosing and having a D&C (dilation and curettage) following a miscarriage. It may or may not be something everyone wants to read, and it’s perhaps a bit more graphic than some may feel comfortable reading. If you’re interested, read on. If not, scroll to the bottom for a link to the next part of the story.

 

Surgery

When the doctor offered this outpatient surgery option as one of three possibilities the day we found no heartbeat, I immediately rejected it. Surgery is a scary thing anyway, but to imagine having surgery on one of the most private, miraculous parts of my body was absolutely out of the question.

I had originally opted for the Cytotec. At least then I’d be able to schedule the pain and bleeding and experience it in the comfort of my own home. But after hours of research and talking with other women who had gone that route–and learning that Cytotec was also called ‘the abortion drug’–I couldn’t do it. And I couldn’t just wait around for nature to run its course, either. Every day that went by with nothing happening my anxiety level grew. I hated not knowing. I hated that I was waiting on my body to do something it may or may not ever get around to doing. I hated the idea of having to flush my own baby down the toilet.

So I began to look again at the D&C option. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to go this route, so I talked to Husband and on Sunday evening, lying together in the dark while he rubbed my back and ran his fingers through my hair, we decided to look into having the surgery.

It took two days of phone calls, figuring out insurance coverage, and playing the mediator between the clinic, the hospital, and my husband, trying to make sure I understood everything enough to communicate the facts so we could make an informed decision. Did I mention I was working full-time throughout all of this? I had plenty of distractions to keep me from feeling anything at this point.

On Tuesday afternoon the clinic called and told me my surgery was scheduled with the doctor I’d requested. I was to check in at the hospital’s outpatient surgery office at 8:30 Wednesday morning for a 10 a.m. surgery.

At 8:27 Wednesday morning Husband and I checked into the waiting room. A little after 9 a.m. a white-haired lady with big glasses and a sweet smile led me to my pre-op room.

It was cold. The thermostat said 70 degrees but I would’ve placed money on it being closer to 60. Or maybe it was just nerves. They gave me a plastic bag with handles that said “Patient Belongings” and told me to put all my clothes in there. I had to take off all my jewelry, including my wedding ring, and don the ever-loved hospital gown with the gape in the back. I laid on the bed and the nurse covered me with a heated blanket (I now want a blanket heater installed in any house I live in from here on out) while I settled in to watch “Dogs 101” on Animal Planet.

Two nurses came in a few minutes later to start my IV and get my electronic pre-operation paperwork done. She told me my doctor was running a bit behind because she’d been called in to deliver two babies already that morning. “Babies sure do have their own schedules!” the nurse cheerfully said as she tapped away on the computer. “They sure do…” I offered with a smile, thinking to myself that she probably didn’t really realize what she was saying to a patient who was about to have what should have been a baby sucked out of her like a dust bunny from under a bed.

Husband was escorted in and we waited. The anesthesiologist came to discuss procedure with us, answered questions, and left. Husband read Terry Pratchett in the corner while I tried to stay comfortable in the bed, now watching “Animal Cops: Houston.”

I was strangely calm. We were here, this was happening, and I didn’t have to worry about my body doing anything naturally, being caught off-guard with massive bleeding and cramps, and traumatizing my children with the whole experience. In a few short hours it would be done. This chapter would end and we could start the next part of the grieving process.

My doctor came in and did her thing on the computer, then explained exactly what was going to happen: They would put me under anesthesia, prop my legs up in stirrups, insert a speculum in my vagina, and use a tubular vacuum-like machine to suck out all the tissue from my uterus. Then she would gently scrape the walls of my uterus to make sure all the tissue was gone to avoid infection. The process of prepping me and then waking me up when it was over would take much longer than the actual procedure.

When the nurse came to wheel me to the operating room Husband kissed me and then we were off. It was kind of a fun ride, honestly. I mean, who doesn’t want to tour around a random building while reclining in a bed? Beats walking, that’s for sure. The huge door to the OR opened, the nurse tied her mask around her head, and pulled me into the room. I glanced around; the walls were grey, the floor was grey, the ceiling was grey. Large lights hovered above a tiny narrow bed and everyone in the room wore blue. All I could see was their eyes.

I joked with them that they needed some pictures or something, like at the dentist where they have nature photos pinned to the ceiling. They laughed and agreed as I scooted onto the tiny operating table. The room was freezing. Even more than the pre-op room. I saw the leg props with stirrups where they’d place my feet for surgery. If I thought too much about the room and how cold and unwelcoming it was, and what exactly was about to happen, I’d panic. So I ignored it. They covered me with another heated blanket and put the oxygen mask over my nose and mouth. “Deep, slow breaths,” they said, then they explained they were administering the anesthesia.

My legs were tingling. I heard muted voices and soft sounds of people walking down a hallway and opening and closing cupboards. Someone was next to me. I forced my eyes open but they would only stay open for a moment. This happened several times before I could keep them open long enough to see where I was. My throat was parched. Outside my room a clock on the wall said 12:20. There was a vase of daffodils on the desk where a nurse sat at a computer. Another nurse with dark hair and beautiful, friendly eyes, smiled at me from my bedside.

Every five minutes or so I opened my eyes again and looked at the clock. All I wanted to do was sleep but I felt the need to force myself awake. With my eyes half-open I mumbled something to the nurse about what was on my legs. She explained what they were called (three letters, but I don’t remember what they were) and that they were to keep blood clots from forming. I don’t know how much time passed before I said, “I already asked about what’s on my legs, didn’t I?” She kindly explained again and I said, “That’s what I thought you said.”

I asked for a drink and the nurse offered me ice chips, then spoon fed me a few times. I enjoyed them with my eyes closed. I felt like I could sleep for a year. At some point Husband came in.

The nurse helped me into the chair next to my bed where I rested and sipped some cranberry juice. I could keep my eyes open now, but I felt like they had not only taken the contents of my uterus during surgery, but somehow also my entire supply of energy.

When I finally felt up to getting dressed and going home, someone told me it was 2:00. I was incredulous. I felt like I’d just woken up. I think the combination of extremely low blood sugar (I hadn’t eaten since 8:45 the night before) and the after-effects of the anesthesia were contributing heavily to my lack of energy or alertness.

The nurse helped me into the wheelchair and together she and Husband walked me down to the hospital entrance. Husband went to get the car and the nurse and I chatted about how beautiful the building is. I asked her about her shift length and she shared she enjoyed having weekends off. I climbed into the car, the nurse wished us well, and then we left.

For the rest of the afternoon I sat on the couch in an exhausted daze; we ate our Taco Bell food and watched an episode of “Psych” during which I fell asleep on Husband’s shoulder. I felt nothing. Just exhaustion.

After sleeping the afternoon away I felt fine all evening. My brain and body were a little more sluggish than usual, but overall I felt good. There was no cramping, no bleeding (I hadn’t bled at all since leaving the hospital), no pain at all…and emotionally I felt completely normal. The relief of knowing I didn’t have to sit around unknowing and unprepared anymore was immense, and I reveled in it. That night I went to bed telling myself they’d taken all my hormones, too, so the crazy emotions of pregnancy wouldn’t contribute to sudden outbursts of tears anymore. I could control myself and my emotions again. I was moving on.

Even so, a few hot tears squeezed beneath my lashes as I pressed my head into my pillow. I wasn’t even sure why.

 

My Miscarriage Story, Pt. 3: A Birthday & A Decision

A Birthday & A Decision

Last year I turned 30. Such a momentous occasion warranted a notable celebration, so I got together with one of my best friends and we went to the mall and got my ears pierced–something I’d wanted to do since I was 18. Then we took Little Miss and Miss Bennett with us to get Blizzards at Dairy Queen and enjoyed the ice cream at a local park before playing on the playground. The next evening some other wonderful friends hosted a party for me–my first (and so far only) Dinner in the Dark party. We blindfolded ourselves and ate our meal without being able to see. We played dinner party games and laughed. A lot.

This year was different.

My family sang to me and gave me a container of one of my favourite sweets: candy corn. We skipped church in favor of a family bike ride in the local beach town on Lake Michigan. We played on a playground and then, because it was much colder than we’d hoped, we ate our intended picnic inside while drinking the best hot chocolate in the state, made from warm, melted dark chocolate and milk.

But despite the beautiful sound of the waves on the lake, the gorgeous blue sky and fluffy white clouds, the fresh air and exercise we desperately needed…between every moment of enjoyment was a gaping hole of fear. Would the bike ride initiate the miscarriage process? Would we have to rush home with me sitting on a towel in the car until I could get to the safety and security of our bathroom at home? Would our children be terrified by my cries of pain? What would the “tissue” look like? Would it look like a baby? Could I actually bring myself to flush it down the toilet?

Questions with absolutely no answers. Fear with absolutely no relief.

During all of this I had absolutely no time to feel grief. I didn’t feel the need to cry. I was completely disconnected from the fact that I had, in fact, lost a child. My brain told me it was “tissue” like the doctor said. A “product of conception.” Her technical jargon actually helped me maintain the numbness and focus on the terror I had of the event itself.

I somehow made it through the day, almost forgetting it was supposed to be a special day. I don’t even remember what we did in the afternoon. We put the girls to bed, watched some episodes of BBC’s “Robin Hood” on Netflix, and then went to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

I was brushing my teeth when it happened. I barely spit the toothpaste out in time before I collapsed against the sink, sobbing. It came completely out of nowhere–I felt absolutely nothing until that precise moment and it all came bubbling up in a split-second.

Husband was there next to me in an instant, and we stood together in the middle of our ocean-themed bathroom while I cried. After a few minutes when I’d calmed a little, he took my hand and led me from the bathroom into Little Miss’s room. We brushed the hair out of her face and kissed her cheek and watched her as she rolled over and mumbled into the covers. Silently, we left her room and went to Miss Bennett’s. It was like she was waiting for us because she immediately stood up and reached for us. We held her and kissed her before putting her back to bed, wrapped in a snuggly pink blanket.

We have two beautiful, sweet, healthy girls. Every day we love them and we hold them and we kiss them. Every night we pray that we’ll sleep well and be safe and healthy and happy. And we are. We are happy.

I went to bed that night and dropped a few more tears on my pillow. The next night Husband and I had a heart-to-heart in the dark and decided that a D&C was the way to go for us. On Monday morning I called my doctor.

 

My Miscarriage Story, Pt. 2: “Numb”

Numb

I got in the car and tossed the bag in the passenger’s seat. Then I noticed my mouth was dry and my heart and head were pounding. I could have attributed that to the fact that I was getting over a bad head cold and that everything from my neck up was so congested I felt like the world was in a stuffy, muted haze. But I knew it was a result of what had just happened. My brain was trying to process and my heart was refusing.

It was a 20-minute drive back to my office. I spent those 20 minutes in silence, feeling like I shouldn’t be driving because I couldn’t focus and kept realizing I was on a road I didn’t remember turning on, and creating a mental list of all the positive aspects of no longer carrying a viable pregnancy.

What kind of crazy person is told her baby is dead and then proceeds to consider all the good things about that? What good can there be about losing a child?! What was wrong with me?!?

I pushed those thoughts out of my head and focused on the positives:

• I can start the exercise routine I should have started long before now and was lamenting I hadn’t done before getting pregnant.
• We don’t have to worry about the logistics of traveling cross-country over Christmas with a 5-year-old, a 2 1/2-year-old, and a 3-week-old.
• I don’t have to significantly reduce my carbs this summer.
• I can tell my pregnant friend who borrowed my maternity clothes there’s no rush to get them back to me.
• I can go back to my regular caffeine intake.
• We don’t have to move Miss Bennett into Little Miss’s room just yet.
• We don’t have to buy another car this year.

It was at this point I realized what time it was; I needed to go pick Little Miss up from school. I went through the motions of stopping by her school, taking her to the sitter’s, driving back to work, and sitting down at my computer to finish out the afternoon at the office. The juxtaposition of what I’d learned just an hour before and the normalcy of the rest of my life and the rest of the world was mind-boggling. I had no idea what to think, do, or say.

So I laughed. I joked with people. It was business as usual. But it was all in my head. Everywhere else I was numb.

I told a few people. My closest friends, our family. All through email or text. I didn’t want to say the words out loud yet. If I could keep it on “paper” it was just a story I was sharing and I could maintain the distance. All the while, however, I kept asking myself why I wasn’t breaking down. Why I wasn’t crying. I’m an incredibly emotional person. Hallmark commercials, and sometimes even Budweiser commercials, have made me cry. Yes, I even cried at the end of “Toy Story 3” and just last week I sobbed through an entire episode of “Bones.” Why was the death of my own baby not pushing me to collapse into a puddle of tears and snot?

That evening the normalcy continued. Dinner, cleanup, jammies, worship, bedtime for the girls, TV shows for me and Husband, then bed. The next morning we got up, dropped the kids off at the sitter’s, and went to work. I called the doctor and requested a prescription for Cytotec, a drug used for many purposes including inducing the labor-like process that rids one’s body of a lifeless fetus. If I was going to bleed heavily for a couple of hours and be in intense pain, I wanted to be able to plan it so I wasn’t out and about when it started.

That afternoon I spent hours online searching for information about what happens in a miscarriage. What does it look like? What does it feel like? I shared the news with my mommy group on Facebook. We’re a very close-knit group of around 100 women (about 40 of whom are regularly active in the group), mostly Christian, and over the last 4 years since I started the secret group we have supported each other through job searches, across-the-world moves, miscarriages, difficult in-laws, divorce, the death of a child, and more. I knew they’d be there for me.

After articles, blogs, and personal conversations with others who have gone through a miscarriage, I changed my mind about the Cytotec–also known as the abortion drug. According to all I’d heard and read, the process was going to hurt like hell whether I used Cytotec or just let it happen naturally, so why put myself through additional emotional trauma, too?

So I started thinking more seriously about a D&C (dilation and curettage). At this point I knew I couldn’t talk to my doctor about it until Monday, so I still had the weekend to wait and worry.

The anxiety was overwhelming. I was acting normal–talking, laughing, playing with and disciplining my kids, making and eating food–but inside, between every “normal” interaction, I was terrified. Anything that remotely felt like a menstrual cramp sent my heart into a panicked flutter. Was it starting? How fast would it happen? How long before the bleeding began? Should we call someone to take the girls for the rest of the day? I was nervous, scared, and anxious every moment. The only relief was being distracted by my adorable children, my amazing husband, and immersing myself in as much normalcy as I possibly could.

The next day was my birthday.

 

My Miscarriage Story, Pt. 1: Finding Out

Author’s Note: I realize that miscarriage stories are nearly “a dime a dozen.” With proven rates of up to 25 percent of pregnancies resulting in miscarriage, this is hardly an isolated event. However, writing is my therapy, and while sharing my experience may not mean anything to anyone else, it helps me process what has happened, what is happening, and what is still to come. If you are sharing the journey with me, welcome. If you have been here yourself and can relate more than anyone should to what I am experiencing, I’m sorry. I stand with you in solidarity and support. Thanks for visiting, and please feel free to contact me if you’d like to connect.

 

* * * * *

 

Finding Out

The day before Husband’s birthday in March I took a pregnancy test. It was positive. Elated, we shared the news immediately with family and close friends, and not too far behind was our public announcement on Facebook. We’d had two successful pregnancies resulting in beautiful children already, so we didn’t feel a need to wait until after the first trimester was behind us, like many first-time parents do these days, just in case.

For some reason the coming weeks brought with them a strange feeling of paranoia, that we should not have told the world quite yet, and that we could still easily lose this baby. I mentioned my ridiculous fear to my best friend in passing, and that was the most of it.

On April 24, at nearly 9 weeks, I had my first OB appointment. This being old hat to me, I went alone and expected a rundown of all the facts and information I already knew, followed by an official estimated due date and scheduling my next monthly appointment. This is what I got, except that instead of scheduling my next monthly appointment, I scheduled my lab appointment for my glucose test and left the nurse’s office with a pastel pink bag full of pregnancy paraphernalia and a bottle of orange-flavoured syrup in preparation for my 10-week glucose test.

When I finally got to meet Dr. Trussmeyer* (an hour and 20 minutes after my scheduled appointment start) I immediately liked her. She was professional yet kind and soft-spoken with a friendly smile. We talked all about how schedules would go (which I already knew), chatted about how I’d had gestational diabetes for both my previous pregnancies which meant it was likely I’d have it again (which I already knew), and chatted a bit about how long she’d been an OB and why she’d left the big city for a farm town in the middle of Michigan.

As I watched the ultrasound picture on the screen by my head, Dr. Trussmeyer didn’t speak. This wasn’t abnormal to me; many US technicians are quiet while they work and only say something when they’re pointing out a body part so the black and white mass starts looking more like a child to the untrained eyes of its parents. I was about to ask a question when she said quietly, “I don’t see a heartbeat.”

Even this did not alarm me. The fetus was barely an inch long; I’d guess the organs were barely the size of a pencil eraser at the most. Technology is amazing, but it’s not witchcraft.

I swallowed my question and just watched the screen as she searched again.

“I’m going to go see if I can find a colleague to check for me,” she said, standing and removing her gloves. “We never diagnose a miscarriage on our own.”

Tossing her gloves in the garbage she stood by my side and said, “Feel free to sit up; I’ll go see if Dr. Cooper* is available. I hate to leave you alone like this…” she trailed off, knowing there was no alternative. Then she left.

Still, I wasn’t worried. I laid there in the silent, dark exam room, staring at the empty sonogram screen, muttering prayers toward a God I know was listening and watching. I think I said something like, “Help the second doctor find the heartbeat, God. It’s there, the baby is just turned a funny way so the heart is hard to see. Help this second doctor find it easily. Thanks.”

My phone was on the counter by the screen, so I picked it up and texted Husband. “Well… The first doctor can’t find a heartbeat. She went to get a second doctor before diagnosing a miscarriage.”

It didn’t feel awful to say that. It didn’t feel real. It was like I was sharing the plot of what should have been an emotional movie with someone who was missing the opening scenes and I didn’t want them to be lost when they arrived. It was someone’s reality, but it wasn’t mine.

Dr. Trussmeyer came back with Dr. Yoon* who quickly introduced himself and immediately went to check for a heartbeat. I silently shot another prayer heavenward, probably the same as the first time, as I watched the screen, straining to see any semblance of movement.

“I see no heartbeat,” said Dr. Yoon matter-of-factly. His bedside manner was nowhere near the level of my doctor’s. “I concur with Dr. Trussmeyer. I’m sorry.” He stood, removed his gloves, and disappeared. I couldn’t even tell you what his face looked like, to be honest.

After checking my ovaries, Dr. Trussmeyer helped me sit up, then sat down on her stool with her laptop on her knees. In her quiet voice she told me she was going to give me a lot of information, and that it was going to seem like a blur. She told me if I had any questions later to feel free and call in. As she carefully ran down the list of things she needed to share with me, I wondered what she must think of me. When she said, “The first question that is often asked in this situation is why it happened,” I looked at her and said wryly, “There’s no answer is there?”She smiled back and shook her head. “No, there isn’t.” I was smiling, I was chatting. I wasn’t crying. I was sure she thought I was crazy.

Looking back I realize she likely understood completely. She’s been an OB for nearly a decade and in that amount of time I’m sure she’s had to tell more than her share of women that their babies were no longer living. She’s probably seen any and every reaction possible. I think what I was truly wondering was what was wrong with me that I wasn’t more upset than I was.

She told me to come back in two weeks for a follow-up. I got dressed and left the exam room.

At the checkout desk the receptionist pulled up her calendar, assuming (understandably) that I’d be coming back in a month. “Okay, we have your appointment set up for next week for the lab work…let’s look at next month,” she said, clicking away.

“Actually, I need to cancel that appointment next week and make one for two weeks from now.”

“Oh, no problem, we can reschedule.”

“No, this is a different appointment…”

There was a mother and daughter standing next to me at the counter, waiting their turn to check out. I wasn’t ready to admit to anyone that I had lost my baby, and I certainly wasn’t willing to blurt it out for the first time to an unfriendly receptionist at a doctor’s office I’d never been in before and some strangers who happened to be within listening range. I didn’t know what to say.

The receptionist looked up, confused. “Oh, okay…” she looked back at her calendar. “You’ll need to see Dr. Trussmeyer again, then?” When I conceded, she seemed to catch on. The appointment was made and I walked out of the building, still carrying that pastel pink bag of paraphernalia that no longer meant anything to me.

 

* Not their real names

Christmas Books for Preschoolers 2

Last year I put together a review list of the Christmas books I’d gotten from the library and read to Little Miss. The idea was to create a reference for subsequent years as I searched for holiday books. I didn’t want to forget the fantastic books…and I wanted to avoid the awful ones. I also wanted to have a quick way to make reading recommendations to other mamas who wanted the same thing.

See That List

Below is this year’s list and review, for a similar purpose. Please feel free to add your own suggestions and recommendations in the comments.

Merry Christmas, Thomas! by A. Vesey
A cute story about Thomas, a cat (no, not the train) who really wants to know what his Christmas presents are. He even gets himself into some trouble in the process. Comically written with even a couple of lines slipped in just for the parents reading the book, the pages are colourful and cute and the story is endearing. This book may be almost as old as I am, but like good wine, good books only get better with age. I’d definitely check this book out again.

Waiting-for-Christmas Stories by Bethany Roberts
Although perhaps a bit long for a typical preschooler’s attention span, this book is actually made up of several short stories, and could easily be read in segments, one or two stories at a time. Each tale tells the story of a different rabbit family member as they prepare during the final hours of Christmas. The pictures are bright and quite adorable; the stories are simple with elements of humour, fun, and reality as well as magic; each page has a good amount of text and large pictures.

Gigi, God’s Little Princess: The Perfect Christmas Gift by Sheila Walsh
This is one of the most annoying, stupid Christmas books I’ve ever read. I’ve been tempted to hide it under the couch so my daughter forgets it exists until I can get it back to the library, but…with my luck I’d forget it was there, end up incurring a $60 replacement fee and wouldn’t that just be ironic? Gigi is an only child (and it shows) who wants nothing but princess items for Christmas. She’s been told (apparently) that she’s a princess because she’s a child of God, but she takes the concept to a whole new level. Though the drawings are well-done, their style looks more early 90s than the 2006 print date the colophon claims. Stupid story, uninteresting pictures, and absolutely no good lesson at all. I will never have this book in my house again if I can help it.

The Polar Express by Chris Van Allsburg
A classic. What has always enchanted me about this book is the paintings.  They are phenomenal. I love the colour, the lighting/shading, and the emotion his pictures portray. What makes it doubly cool is that the author and illustrator are one and the same. After watching the movie a couple of times I am always surprised at the succinctness of the story in the book, but the story is no less enjoyable. The story is of a doubting boy who almost misses out on his chance to see Santa and the North Pole…and finds that he believes after all. The movie emphasizes the aspect of friendship much more than the book, which centers more around the boy’s unbelief and change of heart and the magic of believing.

Little Whistle’s Christmas by Cynthia Rylant
This book is a case of adorable illustrations making up for the fact that the story is sadly lacking. A real guinea pig who resides in a toy store (for some reason) interacts with all the toys when they come to life at night in the shop. Together the friends write a letter asking Santa if he was the one who made them. Eventually they get a note back confirming it was him, along with a pile of “spare parts” for any toy in need (including vanilla cookies for the ever-hungry lion). To say nothing of the fact that toys in a toy store shouldn’t need extra parts, the story is weak and uninteresting. At least the pictures are cute, colourful, and big.

Apple Tree Christmas by Trinka Hakes Noble
This is a super sweet book. But it really isn’t for preschoolers. It’s quite long, with a lot of text on each page, and I think a typical preschooler would have a hard time sitting through a book this long, no matter how engaging the pictures. The drawings are adorably well-done; very realistic, artistic, and colourful. This is the story about a homestead family in the 19th century whose survival is partly reliant on their apple orchard. One tree in particular is their favourite, and when an ice storm tears it down, the children are heartbroken. Their father, however, finds a way to keep the tree and make Christmas special for everyone. I wouldn’t mind owning this book, actually. It’s well-written and such a cute story.

The Hawai’i Snowman by Christine Lê
What’s adorable about this book is that it’s a married couple who wrote and illustrated it, and they wrote it for their daughters. A tiny snowman from the mountains wishes he could go somewhere for Christmas. When he sees a shooting star the moon offers him a wish and suggests he pick a place to visit. The snowman chooses Hawai’i and along the way he uses his own body to help two new friends survive. As a result of his generosity, Santa gifts the snowman a lifetime of enjoying the cold and company of the North Pole. The pictures in this book are beautiful and extremely realistic. The bright colours and vivid detail are spell-binding and the story has a good lesson, as well. I’d rate this one an A.

Silent Night by Will Moses
Definitely a winner, I immediately fell in love with the story and imagery of this book. The words the author chooses to describe scenes and situations are poetic and perfect, but not flowery or superfluous. And while Moses doesn’t have a great grasp on painting attractive human faces, he did a gorgeous job illustrating a Vermont country village in the 19th century with an old-timey, reminiscent feel. The book tells the story of a family about to experience the most memorable Christmas of their lives, but it’s broken into sections titled with lines from the well-known carol. The exact situation is purposely left ambiguous until nearly the end of the book, but the story is beautiful–in more ways than one–and I absolutely love this book.

Santa Comes to Little House by Laura Ingalls Wilder
Always a fan of Wilder’s “Little House” series, I of course loved this story. I do think it’s a little long and elaborate for a preschooler, but the story is fabulous, and not just because it’s part of her “Little House on the Prairie” series. The simplicity of their lives, and the dedicated, special friendship the Ingalls family shares with Mr. Edwards are both huge lessons in and of themselves, especially in regards to the Christmas spirit we all admire and seek out. Great artwork, heartwarming story, and a first-hand look at American history.

Once Upon a Christmas Eve by Kathy-Jo Wargin
As far as imagery goes, I think this is my favourite from this batch of books. Part of it is the cool, quiet blue cover in contrast to the bright white and exciting red most Christmas books use. The story is a bit weaker than I had hoped, but I think that’s mostly the word choice and actual writing, rather than the plot itself. When a young girl decides to find out for herself if the legend is true that at midnight on Christmas Eve animals are given the gift of speech, she finds herself lost in the snowy woods…but then something exciting happens, and she has the best Christmas experience of her life. The paintings are lovely in this story, and I absolutely love the realistic detail the illustrator included. I’d check this book out again, and wouldn’t mind owning it, if only for the pictures.