Miscarriage. It's a difficult word to say now. It's a word I try to avoid using, because I've been trying so hard to push it to the back of my mind and focus on anything else. I think I am ready to open up about it now, if only through a blog. A computer screen doesn't talk or give you that look of pity that only makes things worse, so sometimes it's easier to open up to. I'll start from the beginning.
My husband and I have always been on the same page about how many children to have. We want 4 or 5, or however many the Lord blesses us with. The timing on when to have those kids hasn't always been as easy to agree on. We never fought about it, or anything, but I was getting baby hungry again...almost immediately after our first son. I love being a mom, and I love babies, and I want our kids to be (relatively) close together so they can have a good connection. I was thinking 2 years apart would be good, so we could start trying again when our son was 18 months old. I think my mindset had a lot to do with how far apart I was from my older siblings. there's an 8 year gap between my brother and I, and a 10 year gap between my sister and I. I always felt like I was almost an only child, and I envied the relationship between my siblings that came from being children together for eight years before I was around. I will never share the same life experience or inside jokes, and I didn't want to do that to my own children. So when Jude was a year and a half, I started dropping hints to my husband about having another. The thing was, though, we were much more financially stable when we decided to have our first. When Jude was about 6 months old, we moved to Texas, and took a temporary pay cut. That was a hard year, and we were just coming out of it. There were times we had to scrounge to get food or diapers. The idea of doing that to a second child terrified David, and he wanted to make absolutely sure we had enough to provide for another baby before even thinking of conceiving again. That made sense, and it was smart and sensible, but I was still baby hungry. We put it on the back burner for a while, and every so often I would test the waters again to see where we stood. Finally, after at least two promotions, me starting a daycare and having my own income, and buying a house with savings left over, Dave decided we were financially ready. I had my IUD removed at the end of June, when Jude was almost 2 and a half. Saturday, September 26, I got a positive pregnancy test. I was too excited to contain it, and I wasn't worried about anything going wrong (I figured if something did go wrong, I'd want to tell everybody anyway to get comfort, instead of keeping it secret) so I told everybody. I made the rounds telling all my family and friends and people at church...I had my Halloween costume (bun in the oven) in mind and my facebook announcement all planned out... I was dreaming of that tiny little newborn and thinking of how I would decorate the nursery, and middle names...I had just thrown one of my best friends a baby shower, and I was hoping for one of my own. Four women at church were pregnant, and my best friend from college who lives in another state was also pregnant, so I was so happy to
be included. My kids would be over three years apart, which is more than I was hoping for, but still a good gap. I was feeling great, and very happy that I wasn't feeling any morning sickness, so I was expecting another smooth pregnancy, like my first.
I was nothing but excited for my 8 week appointment. My husband had the day off, and we took our son and got a babysitter for the kids I babysit. I was expecting to see the ultrasound, show Jude the new baby and get him excited, get some pictures, kiss my husband, maybe hear the heartbeat. None of that happened. The doctor did my ultrasound, and it didn't look anything like it did with my first. I asked "Is there a baby in there?" half joking. The doctor said something to the effect of "well...I'm not sure" I was hoping, if anything, it was a false positive because I had gotten such a cheap home test, but my heart sunk. I tried to hold back tears as she explained that they needed to take some blood to find out what was going on. I had been spotting for two days, but I had googled it and reassured myself that was normal. She said maybe I wasn't as far along as I should be, or maybe I had a missed miscarriage, or maybe the sack had formed, but no baby had ever formed. I had to give blood and come back on Monday to give more blood before I would know what was going on. Not knowing was torture. The uncertainty and confusion, and then worrying that the stress would hurt the baby (if there was a baby) made it hard to think about anything else, or even function. In possibly the greatest timing of all time, half an hour after that appointment I found out I would get to keep another two year old boy (who I had taken care of for three days earlier that week) for the next year and a half. That's an entirely different story, but it gave me something to take my mind off of the bleeding, and the anticipation for Monday's appointment. It made things harder, in some ways, but mostly it gave me something to pour my heart into as I thought about the love and attention this boy needed. On the flip side, on Friday I had 6 toddlers to take care of all day, when all I wanted to do was curl up in bed and cry. Alone. All day. That obviously wasn't a possibility, so I did the best I could, which wasn't great. I had break downs several times that day and on Monday.Having all of the kids wanting to constantly be held and needing my full attention and energy almost broke me. I had no energy to run around and play with them. I just wanted a break. On Tuesday morning they called and confirmed the miscarriage. I already knew, because I had been bleeding for almost a week, and I knew that wasn't good. I cried for a while, especially while telling people. I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't want to tell my family and hear "I'm so sorry" a hundred times. I told my mom to tell my family, but I told my sister, because she had been through a miscarriage of her own. I didn't want to talk to anybody who hadn't been through it themselves, because only they knew how it felt and what to say. My best friend from another state was going through the same thing on exactly the same weekend, so I talked to her. I also talked to one of the moms I babysit for, because she had had two, and my mother in law, who has had three. Outside of those women and my husband, nobody had anything helpful to say. Nobody knows what to say, because it's so taboo to even talk about it. All they can say is "I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can do to help? It's all part of God's plan. It will all work out. It will be ok. You can always have more. There's always next month..." I know they had good intentions, but anything they said just made me feel worse. They didn't know how I felt, and in a way, anything they said just made me feel more hurt or angry. There's nothing they could do to help. And I knew I would have more children, but I wanted that one. I didn't want to tell anybody face to face, because they would give me that look that just makes me break down, because all I see in their eyes is pity, and that's not what I wanted.
Part of me was relieved, because I didn't know if I could handle a baby right now on top of the other two toddlers and my daycare. That little thought just made me feel guilty, though, because of course I wanted that baby, no matter how difficult it would be. Dave was very supportive and understanding, but he didn't feel the pain and grief as intensely as I did, because it wasn't a part of him. After Tuesday afternoon, the healing went faster than I expected. I was stronger than I thought I would be. I could tell people I was fine and act normal and happy. For the most part, I was. I am. Over two weeks later, I'm still feeling the residual hormones from the pregnancy and I still have my bad moments. I have good days and bad days. Sometimes I have random outbursts of anger or depression, but for the most part, I'm ok. It will always hurt, but I am trying to focus on other things and look ahead. The biggest part of recovering has been the sheer exhaustion. There are some days I just don't have the energy to do anything, and when Jude begs me to play, it breaks my heart that I can't, because I just don't want to get up off the couch. Other days, I have this crazy energy and I want to get all these projects done so I have something else to put my mind to. I still don't want to talk about it. I may never want to talk about it. Somehow saying it out loud makes it feel...more trivial, I guess, because there's no way to describe it and show the proper respect to that baby without breaking down. I can understand, now, why nobody opens up about their experiences until they find out it's happened to somebody else. Only those who have gone through it know what it's like, and they don't have to say anything. Just knowing that they know is enough to feel less alone. It has been a rough couple of weeks, with a lot of ups and downs, but I am recovering, and I am ok.
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