This has been a very hard year. It did not start out that way. It started with joyful news. Even the loss of my job was joyful in many ways. I was not really happy with the turn the job was taking. My skills were already way beyond the job I had. It was being dumbed down further. It was not a senior level position even though that is the type of candidate they sought. If things had gone as planned, it would not have mattered. Joy was on its way.
I was finally pregnant. We saw this as an opportunity for me to start preparing for our new arrival. We had just started making concrete plans when tragedy struck.
I was showing, so I could no longer hide it. If I had had my way, I would not have told anyone even then – but my body showed the truth of that matter. Some of you know that we lost that very wanted pregnancy at 19 weeks near the end of June. I expect to run into people who will ask about our, now, non-existent, child. It is not a simple matter for us to get pregnant. Endometriosis has made sure of that. The inevitable, “you can always get pregnant,” can, unknowingly, cut someone deep.
While I was still pregnant, I lost my Great Uncle – who I had not been able to see for 5 years. I could not attend his funeral because I was pregnant and working at the time. A trip that long really was not feasible. I took comfort in knowing that I was not attending for a reason that he would have considered a good one. And, now, it just seems like life cheated me of saying good-bye.
Everyone told me how strong I was. How inspirational. I was not strong. Emotionally, I wanted the dead fetus out of me as quickly as possible. The cruelty of carrying a dead fetus was something I felt at a gut level. In truth, I just hurt and wanted to hide away from the world in my own way. This meant I had to take control in whatever ways available to me. I think it was because I knew I had to have a D&C right away. Intrauterine death is not something that always vacates the body completely and safely – especially if your family has a history of hemorrhaging.
If I had crossed the magic timeline that Michigan morons have set so they can torture women I would have made a trip to Canada. I had no desire to deliver a dead baby. None. And anyone who thinks a woman should do that just because of gestational age when other medical options are available should be shot. Such a person is a misogynist, plain and simple. (This law is a result of the Catholic Church’s involvement in Michigan politics.) Another might choose to deliver, that is her right, but to force it upon anyone is cruel evidence of misogyny.
I was so angry and so fed up at everyone – even God. I knew my family had a history of miscarriage. If you have not experienced this, I doubt very much you can actually relate. Granted, I did not know that the when of this history was unusual. Late miscarriages occur in less than 2% of pregnancies. Less than 2% . And the medical community knows almost nothing about the why when the fetus is completely normal.
I also felt alone. Many who I thought might notice and send support were not there. Many others I did not expect were very supportive. My family, knowing this pain, was very supportive. The most painful part was relaying what happened to those I knew who had experienced the same. I knew instinctively they relived their own experiences, and in some ways, that made it hurt even more. It did not help that this happened at a time when many were on vacation or otherwise occupied. I felt like I fell through the cracks. Some of you who knew were there, and you will never know how grateful I was – and still am – of that support. How I hungered for it at the time – while fearing I would offend, or seem needy, if I reached out wanting it. After all, I also had a husband who was dealing with this grief in a very different way.
Now, the obstetric surgeon who performed the procedure was incredibly compassionate. As were the nurses and anesthesiologists involved. My MIL was great as well. My heart ached for my husband. Did I feel guilt for the miscarriage? Eventually. Of course, I knew that was just part of the 5 stages of grief. I was still numb for awhile afterwards. The best thing to do when dealing with something so huge you don’t want to face it is to keep going with the everyday things – and occupy yourself with activities that use your brain in other ways.
That day I came home and baked cookies. For the next three months, I canned like a madwoman – everything from pickles to ketchup to jellies and jams. I don’t really know why. Maybe so I wouldn’t feel so empty. Maybe so I just wouldn’t be able to think about anything but canning – something that is very dependent on weights and measures if you don’t want to poison someone. Knitting was too meditative. It left too much room in my mind to think. To dwell on the pain that could, if I was not careful, consume me.
Our baby was chromosomally normal. DH and I immediately contacted our reproductive endocrinologist to inform him, asking how soon we could start again. Three months until my body would be ready. In three months we could think about starting again. This was a second trimester miscarriage. The vast majority of miscarriages occur in the first trimester – it takes longer to recover from a second trimester loss.
I decided that I wanted the full miscarriage panel and was very, very angry that when I had asked previously about that – mentioning the family history of miscarriage – I had been shrugged off. I had told the reproductive endocrinologists this. I had told the obstetricians this. I had even told the high risk pregnancy specialist this. It seemed to me that none of them heard me until after I lost the baby. I should say that all of the doctors – except, maybe, the high risk specialist – are doctors I trust and whose abilities I believe in. I was, once again, the statistical outlier. A family history of late loss (some with living children) is nowhere documented in the medical literature.
I had the miscarriage panel done and found out I had two blood clotting genetic tendencies. Now, I trust a reproductive endocrinologist to help me get pregnant – but they are not a hematologist. I decided to get a referral to the hematologist. I got more blood tests and he found another gene that read like my family’s medical history. It was fascinating in a morbid kind of way.
With this knowledge in hand, we tried again. We failed. I had to stop. The failed cycle was the definition of Murphy’s Law. All that could go wrong, while looking like it was right, did. I think my mind and body rebelled. I’m pretty sure I had messed up my medications. When the doctor went in for the eggs, there was one egg and lots of endometriomas. Endometriosis ate my ovary. By some miracle, we made it to transfer. I’m not sure how or why. Of course, the cycle failed anyway.
At this point, I was just numb, exhausted, and broken. I had been moving forward and moving forward because I couldn’t stop. If I stopped, I would feel all of it. The full weight of the disappointment and hurt of this year. A year that had started with such hope, only to have it snatched away by an ultrasound.
I achieved nothing that I set out to do this year. None of the challenges. I sought refuge in my urban fantasy novels and graphic novels. Vampire Urban Fantasy is mostly safe from pregnancy storylines. I couldn’t even handle historicals that were written by childless authors. Anything too close to reality caused pain. Surprisingly, even Battlestar Galactica – when I started rewatching parts of Season 3 – had a tone about reproduction that made me feel a knot in my stomach. If it wasn’t light and fluffy – except for Planet Hulk , I couldn’t take it. Movies that had never bothered me before, were too dark and violent to handle. Something inside me seems to have changed.
Our baby would have been born around Thanksgiving if all had gone as planned. We should have been celebrating with our baby this Christmas instead of being trapped in Michigan. Neither of us felt like going to any parties where there might be children to remind us of our loss. It was too raw all over again. The Holidays are hard for those who have had losses – and to expect people to choose to be happy is incredibly immature on the part of the other.
When the blizzard came, it felt like the world, itself, had turned on us. We had a short window to make a very long drive – if we missed it, we could not make our trip. A trip we very much wanted to make – or at least I did. (DH does not like long car trips. I don’t like plane trips.) The entire northern half of the continental US was under a blanket of snow and ice making driving treacherous – possibly deadly. When roads are being closed and flights are being canceled, it is wise not to try to make a trip happen.
I was going to knit a sweater and knit down my stash. The only thing left that I am knitting is a pair of socks. I started the socks before we conceived this year. I was knitting them while I was pregnant with the intention of having them for labor and delivery. As odd as it sounds, a part of me thinks that if I finish this pair of socks, it will be easier to put all the failures of this year behind me. Ironically, they are orange and green – the colors of fertility. Isn’t it odd how we relate unrelated things to events and tragedies? I do not want to carry knitting these socks into 2009. I am down to the edging and I have two days. I think I can finish. If you knit, you might understand what I mean. But, then again, maybe not.
Of course, there all of the things that I have been avoiding returning to – cleaning out our basement, organizing my craft supplies, and, various and sundry tasks that were being done in preparation of a new arrival. Many of which were not nursery based. They are still reminders of our failed pregnancy.
Believe it or not, I am not actually depressed. I am sad. I don’t like being sad. I keep reminding myself that, as a Christian, Christ did not promise this life would be one of prosperity and ease. No. He told us that to follow Him was to pick up our own Cross to bear just as He had borne the Cross and the Crucifixion so that He could be reborn and allow us that same opportunity.
I will not pretend that this year has not been hard. It has been incredibly difficult, physically and emotionally. How can I compare my trials to the trials of Christ? It sort of puts things in perspective. Will we try again? I do not know. I will not discuss that in a public blog. I chose to share this to show that despite some pretty difficult times, I can persevere.
In 2009, I am hoping that I can leave this hurt behind me and find new hope and new beginnings. Where they might take me, I don’t know.
written and read by Philip Pullman (with a full cast) is a dark children’s novel of the type more reminiscent of 19th century morality literature than modern children’s novels. The book captures attention, but the characters are not very sympathetic.
written and read by Chris Hedges (additional narration by Eunice Wong) is one of those books that should not have to be written if people paid attention to the events of the 1980s. I remember Pat Robertson stating what his goal was – and he is fast achieving that goal. He, and his ilk, wish to make the United States of America a theocracy – despite our considerable secular history. Sorry, if you really know history, you know that calling the USA a Christian nation is like calling the Sahara Desert a tropical paradise! 