I'm Sorry You're Part of This Shitty, Shitty Club

10,000 reasons why miscarriages suck

[disneyladiesfromlastnight]

[thisshittyclub]

Days go by...

...And still I think of you

Years, actually. Almost 2 1/2, in fact. I said it before, I get lazy. And stuff like this is hard. Peeling myself open over and over again was agonizing. Plus, I slowly but surely got to a place where I didn’t feel I needed the catharsis of this every day.

I still had moments of feeling like I’d been slammed to the wall. That someone had snuck up and slid a knife between my ribs, stealing my breath. Moments where I’d be getting ready in the morning and see a curled up piece of paper on my dresser, and I’d open it, revealing the ultrasound pictures of Pip. The only physical evidence I have that he was ever there.

Wait, that’s a lie. I still have the tramadol. I only used about three pills. So it sits on my side table in my bathroom. Untouched.

The last post I wrote was written in mid June. My next few months were basically insanity.

In late June I could feel myself cramping prior to the arrival of my period (again), and I cried on the phone to my mom for another 15 minutes because my period was just not showing up and confirming what I already knew: I wasn’t pregnant. I told her “I wish it would just show up already”, because then I would know.

I was planning on going to a friend’s house in early July in Vegas for a few days. My husband was working nearby and afterwards he and I were going to meet up and fly together to our home state for a week’s vacation. My visit to Vegas was a surprise for my friend’s birthday, arranged by her husband about a year previously.

So a few days before I was set to fly down, she calls me. This woman is a stay at home mom to three littles. Calling is not a regular thing. She told me that her husband had nagged her for weeks to call, but she’d hesitate because she didn’t want to hurt me: she was pregnant with baby number four.

I was of course ecstatic for her, but it was a little sad knowing it would put a bit of a damper on our semi-wild girls night out we were planning.

Every year a few friends and I run a 5k in our city. It’s a tradition of a few years, and hopefully we’ll continue it for awhile. By this point, I’ve had the conversation with my mom, and my husband has left town for the week’s work near Vegas. I rode down to the race with my friend V, and on the way we discussed that although I’d taken multiple pregnancy tests and they all came back negative, I had still not gotten my period. I was about four days late by this point.

The race was fine, we did our usual mix of walking and running. And when she drove me to the airport three days later, still nothing. But my tests were still coming back negative. By this point though, I was pretty sure: I WAS PREGNANT.

So now my friend and I had to turn our “wild night out at a Britney Spears show” into a “sipping water and eating popcorn so we don’t puke from morning sickness” night. It was great. She cried when I told her.

We made the decision to not tell any family while we were home that week, so I had to pretend to be hungover from the night before for a week straight. Luckily, since I don’t drink much to begin with, it was relatively easy. July passed in relative harmony, and my doctor’s appointment was scheduled for mid-August.

August had the mic drop.

My small bit of superstition as a result of my miscarriage was that my last initial appointment was at 7 weeks, and my second appointment was at 11 weeks. Somehow, I felt that this was part of the problem. If I’d waited another week, I would’ve hit the magical “12 week” mark, and then Pip would’ve survived. (Yeah, because that was it.)

This time around, I was determined to do things differently. I waited until I was nine weeks for my initial appointment, which would put my second appointment well over the 12 week mark. Nothing was going to fuck this up.

This post is already way longer than I meant it to be. I’m going to have to leave everyone in suspense for the mic drop.

#75: Refusing to get your hopes up for anything because you’re definitely going to be wrong so why get excited

#76: When something happens you’re not sure if you want to tell anyone or just keep your mouth shut

#77: Being terrified that it’s going to happen again

#78: Still feeling guilty, 2 1/2 years later

[thisshittyclub]

Long time gone

(Note: from June 2016)

Okay, so apparently I suck at this “regular posting” thing. I am not 100% sure what happened to keep me from posting, but I guess I got tired of the mental effort it took every day. That and I forgot my tumblr password. (What can I say? I’m a creature of fleeting passions.)

Here I am, months later, still not pregnant. I broke down in tears last time my period came. I’ve gotten to the point where PMS is almost universally now interpreted by me as signs and symptoms of pregnancy. And my period was right on time, but I wasn’t expecting it. As a result, I felt like crap for about half an hour before the thought occurred to me. My husband and I were about to walk out the door and I went to the bathroom, realized what was happening, and then life went to shit.

My cute outfit suddenly became nothing more than something that wasn’t sweatpants and hating life and ice cream. I just wanted to curl into a ball and die. That feeling, while becoming less common for me lately, still rears its ugly head every so often. I changed into shorts and a shirt and tried not to cry the rest of the day. We eventually had to cut the afternoon short because my cramps were so bad. I wanted drugs, I wanted alcohol, I wanted the pain to stop.

I think that scared me more than just about anything. I’ve never been the type of person to be addicted to substances, with the potential exception of sugar, but I’ve definitely been at the point in my life where I wanted to drink. It was not a great point in my life.

Realizing this, I did the only rational thing I could think to do: I took two over the counter pain pills and sucked it up. Just because I have reasons to drink and take my prescription pain killers doesn’t mean that’s a good reason to. 

#73: Stupid ovulation and period tracking apps that get shit wrong, so you’re not prepared

#74: Cute outfits being the end of life

#75: Getting your hopes up only to end up crying and writhing in pain

[thisshittyclub]

Making a choice...

(Notes: I wrote this shortly after the actual miscarriage. I don’t remember when, but I remember writing this with clarity. I was pissed. I think I opted to not post this because I was trying to avoid being political, but now I’m willing to say it. So if you want to avoid a more political stance on miscarriage and specifically abortion, just skip right over this bad boy. I won’t judge you one bit.)

I’ve rejoined Facebook. The land of the living. Of the perpetually happy, angry, annoyed, amused, and vocal. I don’t know if any of this counts as life, but the sight of adorable smiling children and people gushing about how much these little ones are loved no longer sends me into a tailspin of despair. It just makes me a little sad.

But there are side effects to this. This one was definitely unintended, but it has galvanized me all the same.

I’m liberal. I’ll say that right out. I was raised by a couple educated hippies who both went into knowledge-based fields, and my thoughts represent this. But that doesn’t mean that I’ve surrounded myself with only like-minded people. I have a friend who is staunchly conservative, and we used to have rousing political debates in middle school and high school, with the knowledge that we were arguing for argument’s sake, with zero belief in changing the other person’s mind. So I’m not opposed to dissenting opinions in general.

But this. This infuriated me.

One of my more conservative friends is Catholic, anti-abortion, and one of my best friends. We get along splendidly, but we’re always very careful to avoid talking about political issues. That’s just not our friendship. I don’t judge her for her beliefs, and vice versa.

Tonight, however, she posted an article from National Review. I looked it up. It’s a conservative print and online magazine talking about various topics of the day. It seems to be less of the crazy conservative (AKA, they didn’t seem to support Donald Trump, so that’s something), but they were definitely conservative.

The article is called “When Abortion Stopped Making Sense”.

I’m not going to post it here, because while it’s an interesting read, I don’t specifically feel like indicating I support it. If you want to look it up on your own, go ahead. You’re an adult.

It was written by a woman who, prior to the passage of Roe v. Wade, was fiercely pro-choice. Following the legalization of abortion, she read an article in Esquire magazine talking about a doctor witnessing an abortion and the sight of the fetus trying to survive. And how it didn’t make sense for her that as a vegetarian who was pro-green, anti-death penalty, anti-war, and all other forms of violence, she was so fiercely pro-choice knowing that it killed a life.

I’ll admit, some of her arguments were rather convincing. She sounded like someone who’s been doing this spiel for so long she’s realized the futility of the usual “You’re killing your baby!” shtick and has taken a more roundabout approach: “You’re violating yourself as a woman”.

But still, 3 weeks from the date where I found out I’d had a miscarriage and less than 2 weeks from my actual miscarriage, I’ve become filled with the furious righteous indignation of someone who knows what it’s like to lose someone growing inside of you.

I know what it’s like to have to deal with the emotional turmoil and feelings of guilt, loss, and grief. Mine were intentional. And while I didn’t choose to lose my baby, I in no way grudge anyone who doesn’t feel they cannot be a parent to a child.

I have friends who are fertile Myrtles. They’ve had more than one abortion. They also have children. Not necessarily in that order. I have friends that have had to terminate pregnancies for health reasons and because their unborn child was going to be in an unthinkable amount of pain for a short and unfulfilled life. I’ve had friends who’ve had abortions because the multiple methods of birth control have failed. I have friends who’ve had abortions because of abusive situations and because of wanting to not limit their life choices. I’ve had friends whose unborn children already had names and planned lives by parents who love them. I’ve had friends whose unborn children will haunt them for the rest of their lives, and friends whose unborn children remind them of what they can now accomplish because they’re not a parent.

You, as a woman, have to make the decision that’s right for you at that exact moment. Period. End of sentence. No judgement from me. Ever.

I loved my baby. My Pip. He was here for such a short amount of time, but when he left, he took a piece of me with him. And while I would never wish a miscarriage on anyone who wants their child, there are countless others who feel nothing but a sense of relief. And that’s okay too. I’m not you. I have no right to decide how you feel.

I once read that the ability to create life does not make someone a parent. Just because you can have children doesn’t mean you should. And just because you have children doesn’t necessarily mean you should have more.

We’re not all the same. Some people were born to be parents. I have friends, a couple, who recently celebrated the birth of their second child. Talking to the husband once, he said of his wife “She was made to be a mother.” She loves her children so much and is a great mom. But shortly after they started dating in college, they got pregnant and had an abortion. In their situation, struggling for money, trying to get out of their nowhere towns and make a better life for themselves, it was the right decision. That doesn’t mean they don’t think of that child, and it doesn’t in any way mean they don’t deserve to have their two adorable children now.

Some people might be upset at the prospect of hearing of someone else had an abortion when they want a baby so badly, and my heart goes out to those trying to conceive and having difficulties, I do. But you can’t project your own thoughts and fears onto others. That’s now how this life works.

I don’t think someone becomes less of a woman if they don’t want kids. I really don’t. My biological clock was never racing to give me a baby. I tell people mine wasn’t even plugged in until I was 28. And it didn’t even turn on until I was 29. But if you wanted a baby at 16, congrats. You’re you, and that’s what you wanted.

So by saying that we as pro-choice women have been brainwashed into wanting to commit this violence unto ourselves and then thank those that commit that violence, I say no.

I say no because it’s not the tug of war between mother and child that you imagine. It’s not a battle. It’s a choice. One that a tiny collection of cells has little say in. We are the ones making the decisions because we have the right as women to decide what we can or cannot handle. And if we decide to not put our bodies, hearts, and minds through the violence of pregnancy, childbirth, and child-rearing (because all of these things are filled with a type of violence) then there’s not a damn thing you have to say about it.

And yes, it might hurt me a little if a friend has an abortion after this, but that’s not her fault. She’s not trying to hurt me. She’s making the decision for herself. And I don’t want her child, so why should she make her choices based on what I want? Or don’t, as the case may be. Because ultimately, it’s her choice.

#72: It galvanized my opinions in ways that few things are able to do.

[thisshittyclub]

Waiting Game...

I almost feel guilty. Like a kid who knows they’ve done something wrong, and know they’re going to get lectured about it, but really don’t want to talk about it in hopes of staving off the inevitable yelling.

There’s a chance I might be pregnant again.

It seems silly. I mean, I’m almost 30 years old, married, and clearly capable of having sex and getting pregnant if I want. But when I found out, my doctor told me I should wait at least one month to let my body “kind of reset” itself. It seemed logical. But then so did having sex with my husband. 

I know I’d mentioned in a previous post that sex was not something I was thinking about, but then it was. I wanted the closeness of physical intimacy with the person I love most in this world.

And now here I am, waiting to find out if I just fucked up. Because I wasn’t thinking I could be pregnant. I’ve had at least 3 drinks in the last two weeks or so. And if that means I’ll have to go through this horrible process all over again.

Blaming myself, hoping things don’t go wrong, and wondering if they’re my fault if they do.

Round 2? Here it goes again...? Can’t I just make it through the first trimester and call it good?

#69: Feeling guilty for having sex again, even though you’re a damn adult who can do what she pleases

#70: Feeling scared to be pregnant again

#71: Not being sure if you’re ready to be pregnant again, but wanting it so badly

[thisshittyclub]

Healing

It’s officially been over a month since I found out. It simultaneously feels like it’s been much longer than that and it feels like it was yesterday. And with the exception of the week after, when my husband was home, he’s been gone the entire time. 

To a certain extent, I feel like I’ve been doing this all by myself. Here, in my giant house, avoiding the smallest bedroom, which we’d officially dubbed “the nursery”. I threw all the stuff that immediately reminded me of Pip the day of, and with a few exceptions, I haven’t been in there since. 

There are specific things we keep in there that I didn’t want to move because I didn’t want that room to be tainted. But it still is.

I almost feel like I’m handling it wrong. With few exceptions, I haven’t really been in too many funks. Maybe a few hours once a week. And with I’ve only cried once in the last two weeks. That was two days ago. I was reading a book about a main character who gets abused by her husband. As a family friend is picking her up, he starts explaining how his sister went through something similar and the thing that helped most was to hear “It’s not your fault”, and then he tells her “It’s not your fault” about four times.

To this day, I still feel like it’s my fault. Logically, I can still tell myself it’s not my fault and that I did everything I could and that there was nothing I could’ve done differently, but still. It still feels like my fault.

I’m not sure how much longer this feeling will last, or if it will ever go away. I’ve learned to live with it, the way someone learns to live with a scar they neither anticipated nor wanted. It becomes part of who you are. Only no one can see this one.

What would this scar look like? I sometimes imagine it as thin, tracing along my skin, like someone took a very sharp knife and glided it ever-so-gently over my skin, watching as I gently peeled apart.

I think it would start somewhere up by my temple. Following the hairline by my ear. Softly parting along my jawline. Leaving a faint, subtle mark down my throat. Along the ridge of my collar bone. And finally making a giant circle with an X through it over my heart. A faint, slightly pink scar that is only visible in the right light and at the right angles.

Other times I imagine the scar as multiple, smaller ones. Short, fat ropes of scar tissue criss-crossing over my body at odd angles, with no distinguishable pattern. Everywhere. Nowhere on my body is safe.

Yet here I sit, physically unmarked. Outwardly unchanged. Maybe I don’t smile quite so easily, but I’m not sure. Otherwise, it’s almost as if Pip never existed.

That terrifies me.

#65: Feeling like you have to bring up your miscarriage in order for people to realize that you lost something

#66: That old feeling of “Fuck you” when the people you just told about your miscarriage then act in an insensitive way

#67: The feeling that some people will just assume life goes on a little bit more now that it’s over

#68: The feeling that you’re scarred all over in a way that no one can see, but you can nonetheless feel

[thisshittyclub]

Playing Catch Up

It took a few days, but my body finally figured it out. I woke up one week after the incident to the discovery that my period was starting. My miscarriage was starting.

(This is your captain speaking. Please return to your seats and fasten seatbelts, as we expect some major turbulence.)

I was working the morning shift. That means I have to be at work at 6 a.m. Luckily, morning shift means no required professionalism, and sweatpants are a smart clothing option. It didn’t really feel any different from a normal period. Some light cramping treated with a heat pack, and my day was pretty standard. I had sympathy from my students, as working around so many girls means that cycles get pulled together, and I think that particular week I was sending out major PMS hormones. (Don’t look at me, don’t talk to me, just leave me alone.)

I left around 1 p.m. because my cramps were starting to get worse, and came home to snuggle up on the couch. Luckily, my husband was home that week, so I knew worst case scenario he’d be around later that night. By around 4, my stomach started making its presence known, and I defaulted to my “comfortable” position--leaning with my torso on the couch with my legs on the floor. I can’t lay completely on my stomach due to back issues, so this is about as close as I get. A friend had given me a reusable heat pack, and I was making good use of it. In this way, I passed my afternoon with minimal issues. (Sophie Kinsella, your novel saved me.)

I’m not usually one to take drugs, but I’d taken Advil earlier in the day to help with the cramping. My doctor had actually prescribed me Tramadol, but I’d forgotten about it and never gotten the prescription filled. (You will regret this later. This is a mistake.)

Still not remembering the Tramadol, by 6 p.m. a friend called to check on me, and it was while talking to her that I remembered the prescription. I am by this point in excruciating pain, and am pacing back and forth while I talk to her in hopes of relieving any of the pain. (Fuck it, I need drugs. I need lots of drugs. Give me drugs or get out of my way.)

I finally drove to CVS, only to be told there was a 2 hour wait on prescriptions. The nearby Walgreens had better luck. Twenty minute wait. By this point in my evening, however, I am basically wanting to be curled in a little ball of misery, and actually had to take a knee while at the counter. (Yes, I’m aware you’re staring, and you know what? I don’t give a shit.)

I’m also a little bit concerned that because Tramadol is an opiate and I’m clearly not looking well, they might question my extreme desire for drugs and report me or refuse me drugs on the grounds that I’m possibly a drug addict or something. At this point, I was legit willing to shout “I’m having a miscarriage in your pharmacy, give me my goddamn drugs.” (I will stay here and make everyone REALLY uncomfortable talking about my miscarriage until you give me my drugs.)

Oddly enough, none of this happened. This wasn’t even an issue. There was an issue though (because nothing can be simple when I’m bordering on punching a hole in a pharmacy wall). The issue was insurance. (Fuck you, you capitalist pigs that are keeping me from my drugs.)

Because my life isn’t generally complicated enough, when I got married I was unable to use the name configuration I wanted (darn you, social security administration!) and I ended up having two last names: my maiden name and my married name with a space in between. (Hyphens are the enemy.)

So here’s the holdup: When my doctor wrote out my prescription, she filled it under my married name, with my maiden name nowhere to be found. As a result, my insurance company kicked it back, refusing to pay. The pharmacist, sensing my obvious desire to not be there, offered to send it back again. Instead, I asked how much the prescription would be, dreading the answer. (Please don’t let this miscarriage take even more from me than absolutely necessary.)

Grand total: $30

Thank you, fucking god, I’ll pay cash. Just give me the drugs. Give them to me now. I swear to god I don’t care, you could charge me $50 and I probably wouldn’t notice and if you try to give me a consultation I might end you. Give me the drugs. Give me the drugs now. (Somewhere in the world, Regan from the Exorcist is ducking for cover.)

Taking drugs while I get home, I am now half laying on my bed writhing in misery and text my husband “Come home come home come home come home”, to which he responded “stuck in traffic stuck in traffic stuck in traffic”. (Excuse me sir, we’ve entered the no-humor zone. Please put away your sense of humor until the captain turns off the sign or the air marshal will shoot you in the face with a taser.)

Every few minutes after this, I would be wracked with what I later learned were full on contractions while I writhed and swore face-down into the mattress. L recommended actually sitting on the toilet, as for some unknown reason the position was the most comfortable. I decided to take her advice. I banished my husband and his sense of humor downstairs and spent about an hour having contractions in a ridiculously embarrassing position. This is where I discovered the pain I was in was in fact, contractions. (All this work with no baby. Wonder what actual labor will be like?)

And while my doctor warned me, when I had stuff physically come out of me, I had a moment. She’d warned me there might be something “vaguely baby shaped” come out of me, and I had to decide: did I want to look? That was my little baby, my Pip. I had two options: don’t look, and run the risk of feeling like a coward for the rest of my life because I couldn’t face my baby; or look, and forever have that mental image. I eventually decided that it wasn’t cowardice if I didn’t look, and looking wouldn’t necessarily make things any better. If I felt better not looking, then that’s how I was going to stay. (I tried to think of it how people with cancer don’t want to be remembered as these frail bald people instead of the vibrant lives that existed before. It helped.)

After about two full hours on/near the toilet, it was more or less over. And while the Tramadol didn’t fully take away the pain, it did what an opiod is supposed to do, which is make me fairly indifferent to the fact that I was in pain. I personally didn’t notice anything wrong, but my husband said it made me a little high and giggly. There are worse ways to spend the night of your miscarriage. 

(The captain has turned off the fasten seatbelt sign. We’d like to be the first to welcome you to the other side of your miscarriage. We hope you have a pleasant stay.)

#61: Owwwwww

#62: The feeling that you need drugs just to make it through, but at the same time you want to feel the pain

#63: Having your significant other (if there is one) standing on the other side of the door wanting to help and knowing there’s nothing they can do

#64: Being glad that it’s actually over, and that maybe you can start to feel better about the situation

[thisshittyclub]

I saw this post on Facebook today. A friend of mine had a miscarriage about a month before I did, and she has been much more public and open about it than I have. For the most part, all of my talk about my pregnancy was over the phone/in person with close family and friends. People were under strict orders not to post on social media, as I didn’t want a big hullabaloo in case something like this happened.

I’m having mixed feelings about this. On one hand, yes, I totally get the wanting to talk about it, because to many people (my husband included), the baby doesn’t necessarily seem real. Only to me, the person going through this, feeling what I’m feeling about pregnancy and losing the baby, does it “feel” real.

Certain things are kind of angering me about this post. For example, who the fuck just turns away when I woman says she’s had a miscarriage?! I understand people are sometimes bad in awkward situations (hence one of my students saying it was god’s way of giving me more time for a life before I lost all my freedom), but at the same time, even the people who have said horrible things to me in the guise of being helpful were legitimately trying to be helpful.

But I totally get it. I am at this stage now where I almost want to tell certain people that I’m pregnant. I want someone to know that I’m going through something horrible, and I want them to understand if I start acting weird or wearing sweatpants to work once a week, it’s not because I’m lazy (which, in all honesty, I am) but because I’m having a bad day and cried for three hours before I went to bed.

But fuck you, I will not apologize for you being uncomfortable. I refuse to apologize because I said something you’re not emotionally equipped to handle. Just because you have the emotional range of a teaspoon does not mean the rest of us do. 

This shit hurts. And to anyone who gets that awful What do I say now because she’s said something really awkward I don’t know how to handle this oh god she’s looking at me what am I supposed to say do something say something say anything thing going on in their brain? Yeah, you know what’s worse? Physically having to have a miscarriage. The feeling of contractions cleaning out your uterus. It’s awful. And I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

So fuck you if you can’t handle this. I don’t say this shit to make you uncomfortable. I share this shit because it helps me. It validates that what I’m going through is real, and will continue to be real for a long time.

My friend L told me that even when she was pregnant with her now daughter, she constantly worried about a miscarriage, as she’d had at least two. And that it to a certain extent ruined some of the joy of pregnancy, a joy that she will never get back. Joy that carrying your first child is supposed to bring you, because this horrible, shitty, shitty thing happened first. It’s bad enough that you’re forced to deal with this, but then you have to carry this baggage with you the next time you decide to get fat and hormonal. Fabulous.

#55: Stupid platitudes from the internet

#56: Philosophical debates with yourself as a result of stupid internet platitudes

#57: People sending you stupid internet platitudes because they think they might help (this includes inspirational quotes), even though they just irk/annoy/funk you

#58: Knowing that I’m going to try and get pregnant again, and knowing that this could happen again, and being terrified

#59: Knowing that this has forever altered who I am on a molecular level, and that even though people can’t see it, I’m not the same person anymore

#60: Hating that this has changed you this much, but knowing you wouldn’t change it

[thisshittyclub]

Play that funky music...oops! Wrong funk

Funks happen. Everyone has one from time to time, whether they last ten minutes or three months. They’re awful, in my honest opinion. I can’t function, I don’t respond well under pressure, and I’m way more likely to just get mad instead of having normal healthy reactions to things.

Unfortunately, funks have been a staple in my life recently. They manifest in different ways.

The Classic: I’m slow to wake up, slow to respond, just basically slow in general.

The Fog: Slightly differentiated by the Classic because everything takes me longer, and productivity takes a massive dive

The Grumpy Cat: Everything annoys me. People cheery? Boo. People not getting their work done? No. People in any way needing anything from me? Nope. Go away.

The Backstage: Something lurks in the back of my mind, and I just can’t shake it. Yesterday was tears. It was as if a physical presence sat behind my eyes the entire day, warning me that sometime in the near future a crying session was going to happen. It was inevitable. But it wouldn’t respond to normal things. Nope, this was a sneak attack.

As a result of my backstage funk, I spent all of yesterday morning listening to a nice mix of emo-pop-punk. It was a lot of All Time Low, Fall Out Boy, Something Corporate, +44, and others. They’ve become the background music to my life lately, and I find myself singing the lyrics out loud at random times. This leads to some random looks when I start singing “Take off your shirt, your shoes, those skinny jeans I bought for you” in front of my students...

Either way, my funks eventually pass. Whatever these little annoying ghosts haunting me want, eventually they get satisfaction. Yesterday’s backstage fog led to today’s hyperventilating on the bed at the prospect of selling my car.

And while the funks serve a very real purpose, I’m relieved when they no longer render me incapable of normal daily function. And they give me an excuse to avoid responsibility. I do thank them for that.

#50: Funks that hover around your daily life

#51: Having zero warning of when a funk is going to strike

#52: Not knowing how long a funk is going to last, and knowing you just have to ride the wave and tell people you’re “having a bad day”

#53: Doing something really odd that has nothing to do with your daily life (like listening to pop-punk from 10 years ago) because it takes the edge off

#54: People seeming to get tired of you, and your shit, and your funks, because they weren’t able to see the physicality of your pregnancy, so they can’t see the emotional hell you’re still going through

[thisshittyclub]

Let’s talk about --- baby, because we sure as hell won’t be doing it.

This post might be a little awkward. For one thing, my husband knows I write this blog (although to be honest I don’t know if he knows the address and could find it if he wanted, so he may eventually stumble upon it and I’ll get a “that’s too personal for the internet!” lecture. Oh well.

When talking to my doctor immediately afterwards, and she’d given me the options and I’d made decisions, I immediately went into what I call “Handle It” mode. This means that I think about the most logical things possible in terms of how best to deal with a situation, whether or not that makes me look like a raging freak.

Luckily, my doctor is a consummate professional and was totally cool dealing with my questions of “When can we start trying again?”

It was only when I was home that I realized that “later on” might actually be “much, much, MUCH later on”. That is to say: sex, the act of love, physical expression of emotional feelings, fucking, whatever, sounded about as appealing as diving headfirst into a pit of raw sewage.

Nuh-uh, nope, no way, not gonna happen. I wanted my husband home. I wanted him to hold me while I ugly cried and told me how much he was excited for our baby and how much he loved me and that everything was going to be okay. But physically, I wanted him to be a Ken doll.

At this, my weakest, lowest moment, the thought of putting myself through this intense agony and emotional and physical pain voluntarily for a second time was absolutely horrifying. I wanted nothing to do with sex. I felt about as sexual as a piece of toast, puffy, hormonal, and wrecked in ways that cannot be described. I wasn’t going anywhere near that minefield again.

But then something very interesting happened.

I’m not sure what day it was, but I know it couldn’t have been more than two days after my husband came back from his business trip. Either way, we were driving along, and I suddenly got an urge. A feeling. A desire. I wanted to have sex. I needed it. Not in the “let’s make a baby” way, but in the “we’ve just experienced a horrible trauma and I need reassurance of our love” type of way. I was not expecting it at all. I was fully prepared to stay in my mental state of “anatomically Barbie” for quite some time.

I took this as a good sign. I don’t actually know if it was or not, but I read it as such. It meant that mentally, there was some part of me that liked the idea of being held in a romantic and physical way. That I wanted to be loved and needed it, even at my lowest point. I didn’t want to feel alone anymore.

So while the sex was still a long ways off, knowing that it would eventually be there gave me a small sense of comfort. A hint of sunrise in my darkness, to be overly poetical about it. And I’m pretty sure most would agree that sex inspires a lot of poetry, even if mine sucks.

#42: That nauseating thought of never wanting to have sex ever again, even if it’s with someone you love

#43: The guilt and worry that follows that nausea because what if you never want sex again and your relationship will crumble because you’re changing the terms of the arrangement and will they want to stay with you now that you’re all broken and damaged?

#44: The terrifying thought of wanting to feel an emotional connection after going through this, and the guilt of maybe you’re moving on too quickly or making a bad emotional decision

#45: Having to acknowledge that you’re emotionally compromised about this

#46: Possibly having to explain to a partner that you both have become the anatomical equivalent of Ken and Barbie (or whatever your gender/partner preference) for the foreseeable future

#47: Wanting to have sex again and worrying it’s too soon

#48: Possibly crying during sex because you’re sad (which there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it if you do, because you’re definitely allowed to both be sad at the prospect of having sex while still wanting it)

#49: Being completely turned off by anything that reminds you of babies being a logical outcome of heterosexual intercourse

[thisshittyclub]

Flashbacks and Sneak Attacks

This is not an easy process. For one thing, nothing in my life has ever hurt this badly. For another, I’m unreliable at best when it comes to the follow-through of projects. I’ve started no less than 5 different blogs and journals, and each one has gone the same way. I get a number of posts in, varying from 4 to 30, and then I lose interest.

So voluntarily forcing myself to expose the most raw and sensitive parts of me and attempt to make them sound like more than painful gibberish is not what one might call “simple.” And yet here I trudge.

It’s been almost two weeks.

That seems rather mind-boggling to me because I’d swear the last 12 days have lasted 3 months at least. Staring off into space, hoping things would get better, that this intense desire for everything to just stop for one minute so that I can think, all of it.

And yet, here we are. Twelve days later and I don’t know how I’ll ever survive it.

I keep thinking of this one quote from Stephenie Meyer (yes, that Stephenie Meyer.) While I’ll be the first to admit that I both owned the Twilight books and read them multiple times, there’s always been one line. One single, solitary line that has stuck with me. It may be the only good thing she’s ever written:

“Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me.”

You don’t even realize it’s passed until it’s gone, and you’ve moved on to another moment of being a zombie, acting normally, feeling normal, or sobbing uncontrollably. There doesn’t seem to be any in between. At least, there isn’t in my house.

And while most of the time I’m somewhere in the first three categories, occasionally number 4 hits with a vengeance.

Four days post incident, I was waiting for my friend (and coworker’s wife) to come downstairs so we could go hang out. I was sitting on the couch talking to my friend, when his young daughter ran up to us. Now, she’s three, which means she has fully formed thoughts and thoughts that make no sense, and it’s kind of a toss-up which one you’re going to get.

That day, she decided her thoughts would be “Daddy, I want K to go back to the doctor that way she can take me to school (daycare) again.”

Thanks, kid, I love being fetal and crying on other people’s couch.

Later that night, my husband walked into the bedroom to see me crying in bed. He was then treated me to doing complete full-body sobs, something he’s never seen before.

Last week, I had to sit down and concentrate on breathing because I had the idea that we would end up like Carl and Ellie from UP!, not having kids and spending our life savings fixing the roof over and over again.

Tonight, a round of crying has been brought on by the thought of what my parents would be called if they were grandparents.

I’m trying to decide what’s worse: remembering or forgetting.

#37: Remembering

#38: Forgetting

#39: Remembering after a period of blissful ignorance

#40: Those random moments that hit you hard once in the gut, once in the heart, and once in the head

#41: Knowing the far end of that chasm is still a long ways off

[thisshittyclub]

Silence is Golden...

If there’s one thing I’ve tried to accomplish over the last few days, it’s that I wanted to be distracted.

Not “bury the pain completely” distracted, but more “I’m going to be doing something else so that when I look at this giant gaping chasm that is my pain I’ll skirt the edge rather than dive straight in”.

As a result, I spent the whole next evening after the incident attempting to clean my house while my husband was gone. During this, I put on some music for background noise.

As a musical person, this was like giving the universe permission to repeatedly punch me in the stomach. So many songs hurt. I’ve started compiling a list, just for reference. You find meaning in the most inane lyrics.

“You’re gonna miss me by my hair, you’re gonna miss me everywhere....”

“No way to make the pain play fair, it doesn’t disappear just because you say it isn’t there”

“And I’ve finally found that life goes on without you, and the world still turns when you’re not around”

“Well I’m willing to break myself to shake this hell from everything I’ve done, I’m willing to bleed for days, my reds and grays”

“You’re the leaky sink of sentiment, you’re the failed attempts I never could forget, you’re all the metaphors I can’t create to comprehend this curse that I call love.”

“And if I went and lost myself, would you know how to find me?”

And those are just the ones I can think of off the top of my head.

The truth is, you’ll be hit with emotions so powerful they’ll knock the breath from you, make you gasp in pain, curl up into a tiny ball, and sob. Loudly.

Then, as soon as it seemed to hit, you’re fine. You’re back, wondering “How on earth do people cope with this???”

I’m not going to lie, I was a zombie the first few days. I had trouble thinking, trouble working, trouble doing basically sitting there thinking about how my baby left me so suddenly.

I think in the grand scheme of my life though, that helped. It’s what allowed me to go about my day with only a minimum of incidents being caught sobbing in my office with the lights out.

And the music did help. Even with the gut-pounding sobfest moments that made me want to die. It helped. Now I can even listen to those songs with a minimum of tears, if any. I listened to songs that were tried and true songs about love lost, and I came out the other side. Puffier eyes, redder nose, and tired beyond belief, but here I am.

I used to say “Silence is Golden, but Sound is Sane”, and to me that phrase still holds true.

#32: Feeling the gut punch you’re not expecting when you suddenly relate songs that have nothing to do with you to your situation

#33: That line being a key part of a song so it’s constantly repeated

#34: Listening to music because everything else hurts too

#35: Feeling like these songs are now “ruined” or “tainted” by this horrible memory

#36: Knowing that all of this is still better than staring straight into that chasm of despair and not being able to see the far side

[thisshittyclub]

You sing it, Carrie

In addition to the standard “It’s not your fault” that the doctor loads you down with, they also usually tell you some version of “Eat comfort food tonight to make yourself feel better.”

With my husband out of town, I didn’t have a bunch of comfort food available. he’s the cook in the family, because if left to my own devices, I’d eat nothing but Pasta Roni and Kraft Mac and Cheese for a week straight. This wonderful man, knowing this, will often times prep meals for the week so he’ll know I’m eating ok.

This meant that my house was filled not with cookies, mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, or other things that I would find comforting, but with green beans and broiled chicken. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love green beans and broiled chicken, but comfort food it is not.

So on my way home from work, I picked up a pint of ice cream (a local brand everyone raves about but I personally find less than thrilling), and settled in for a night of ice cream, tears, and alcohol.

Here’s where things get tricky.

Breaking the news to multiple friends and family members, I mentioned this was my plan. Of course, the first reaction I get (almost universally) is “Drinking isn’t a coping mechanism. It means you’re not handling it well. Don’t drink. It’s bad for you,” or something along those lines. Again, to all of you, I say Fuck you.

It’s not that I don’t love you, it’s not that I think you don’t care, but sometimes in life, you just need a drink.

Now I’m not a big drinker by nature. I’m a lightweight at best, a cheap date at worst. Three drinks on a good night and I’m drunk. This is because I’m A- cheap, and B- alcohol puts me to sleep.

So I never really have the desire to get, as one might say, blotto.

I used to, in college, but never managed to hold more than 5 drinks in a night. And this is something I actually kind of like about myself. I know exactly how many drinks are required to achieve that perfect blend of fun but coherent (2).

And while I say that some days you just need a drink, I didn’t want to drink to forget. Drinking, to me, at that exact moment, meant no baby. And coming from someone who one week later is still carrying around her “non-viable” pregnancy, I needed to drink, and do other things I was not supposed to do during pregnancy, to help myself realize that the baby was gone. 

I wasn’t drinking to forget, I was drinking to remember.

So I poured myself about 1-1 1/2 cups of gin into a glass (the good stuff), and over the course of the next four days drank that mother down. It was delicious. The first night it was accompanied by a dinner of cookies and cream ice cream and blue cheese (another pregnancy no-no), and I sat on the couch and cried for two hours straight. I think I had maybe 2 shots worth that first night. And that’s being generous.

And while many, many people said that I shouldn’t be drinking, that I wasn’t coping well, that it wasn’t right, few drinks in my life have tasted as delicious and disgusting as that glass of gin. It was one of the better decisions I made last week.

#25: Wanting a drink

#26: People telling you you shouldn’t be drinking for a myriad of reasons

#27: Having to justify drinking as a fully functional adult who isn’t pregnant and can make her own damn decisions

#28: Feeling slightly guilty while you drink because you know people are worried about you and mean well

#29: Getting angry at yourself for feeling guilty as a fully functional adult who can make her own damn decisions drinking

#30: That moment when you drink, eat blue cheese, or do anything else as a pregnancy no-no because you need to make your brain, body, and heart accept that you’re no longer pregnant and this is one of the easiest ways

#31: Loving that damn glass of gin for doing what almost nothing else can do--help you accept your loss

[thisshittyclub]

The End is Extremely Fucking Nigh

I’m angry. About so many things. It seeps out of me, pours out of me, explodes like I’m strapped to an explosive vest of hate. Everything makes it worse.

“I’m so sorry.” Fuck you.

“What can I do to help?”  Fuck you.

“I’m praying for you.”  Fuck you.

“I love you.”  Fuck you.

“At least it happened early.”  Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.

“It’s God’s will.” Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. God has nothing to do with this.

My husband has no idea what to do with this rage. I try extremely hard not to direct it at him. He does what I ask, holding me, calling and informing family, bringing me tissues, dealing with me being extraordinarily clingy, rubbing my back softly while full-body sobs rock me. But he can’t handle the rage.

I get it. It’s not something he’s used to. Over the last few months in general, he’s noticed an upswing in my anger at things. Stress at work and home (not in any way related to him) have combined to make me slightly more tense, more prone to yelling and swearing, and generally thinning the veneer of the carefree woman he fell in love with and married.

But he doesn’t quite get it. I don’t judge him for being wary. Wanting to make sure I don’t say or do things that could affect my personal or work life permanently. But it’s not on him. It’s on me. 

I’m the one dealing with this for the most part. He was excited, he was thrilled, he was nervous and scared, and he was proud. We’d made a baby. But I’m the one that lost it.

And because of that, he can’t fully relate. I love him, and I wouldn’t want to do anything to make him upset, but at the same time, I just don’t care about him right now. He gets to go to work and deal with it quietly. I’m the one still dealing with the mood swings and emotional upheaval of not only a body that still thinks it’s pregnant, but the emotional trauma of losing the reason for it.

So while I love him, and I love his concern for me, when he told me he was worried that I might not be reacting well to losing the pregnancy, my reaction was Fuck you. 

How am I supposed to be reacting?! Am I supposed to cry inconsolably? I’m doing that. Am I supposed to hide all the things that remind me of the baby? I did that. Am I supposed to act normally? I can’t do that, and how dare you even suggest it.

Here’s what he doesn’t understand: I am flooded with hormones, going through the stages of grief, having to work (my job is specialized enough there’s no substitute available and my taking time off would cause my coworker to work multiple 12-hour days), showing up at work, being mildly productive, not murdering the children I work with for insensitive comments caused by ignorance, and fighting through a never-ending stream of zombiism to function.

I am not drinking heavily (I poured myself about 1 cup of gin and finished it 4 days later), forgetting to eat, forgetting to feed the cat, saying “fuck work I’m not going in”, or in any other way ignoring my current life. But I’m angry. So fucking what?

#20: The feeling of rage

#21: Not knowing how to properly express your feelings of rage

#22: Improperly expressing your feelings of rage

#23: Wanting to respond to everything with Fuck you and being unable to because you know they’re just trying to help and they love you

#24: That horrible feeling of knowing your friends and family are way out of their depth when they deal with this and want to do something but sit there like frozen, awkward zombies instead

[thisshittyclub]

Virus

It’s like an infection. Spreading slowly. Affecting everyone that sees me, whether they realize it or not. 

My timing was terrible. Thinking this was going to be a routine appointment, I scheduled it right before work. I work at a high school in a non-teaching role that allows for slightly more flexibility to my schedule, especially since I work with one of my best friends from college.

On this particular day, his babysitter for his two children was unable to watch them, and he had the morning shift. Since I wasn’t busy until my appointment, him and his wife asked if I’d be willing to watch them before my appointment, drop them off at daycare, and then pick them up and take them to work with me so he could take them home. I agreed.

My morning passed easily enough. Living down the street from them, I went over to their house just before the adults left for work and snuggled the 5 month old baby while his older sister slept. When it was time to go, I gathered up the littles, packed them into my friend’s car (for ease of carseat use) and dropped them off at daycare.

Then I went and had a nuclear bomb dropped on my head.

I must have stayed at the doctor’s office for an additional 5-10 minutes simply because the thought of going to pick up my friends’ adorable, healthy children (conceived and carried with zero difficulties) was horrifying.

Luckily, both children were being good (one was asleep and the other was excited to see her dad), but it was difficult to carry on conversations with the chattering toddler while trying to cope with this. My coworker met me in the parking lot and helped me get them, only stopping to get a hug from me (I don’t know what was worse, bringing his children or two people who never hug hugging).

That night my coworker, his wife, and I were running an errand (children safely ensconced with her brother and his wife) and my coworker (with me forgiving him for being a clueless jackass) asked if I would watch their kids for part of Thursday as well. Their babysitter still was unable to watch them. Looking directly at his wife, I said “I love you guys. NO.” Instead I worked at 12 hour shift. Because I would much rather spend 12 hours surrounded by constant neediness of high schoolers than 3 hours with children.

But this concept has been lost on a toddler. She doesn’t understand why she can’t see one of her favorite aunts even though we live just down the street. And while I love my friends and their children, having to spend time with the kids is just too hard. As it is, I’ve abandoned Facebook. Not because I’m mad or jealous of people talking about the exciting lives of them and their pregnancies, newborns, and toddlers, but because seeing what I lost hurts too badly.

#16: Cutting yourself off from friends and family who mean well but can’t help having children

#17: People you don’t hug wanting hugs to make you feel better, which really only makes it worse

#18: The phrase “Aw, honey, give me a hug.”

#19: Feeling like you’re infecting everyone with your depressing shit but not being able to do squat one about it

[thisshittyclub]

The Scarlet Letter

If you had to have a shame worn for all the world to see, what would your letter be? I think mine right now would be M, for Miscarriage. Or maybe F, for Failure. 

Of course, the first thing the doctor tells you after she comes in to the room and explains that you’ve lost your baby is a repeat of “It’s not your fault.”

But just because someone says it doesn’t mean you don’t feel that way. If one of my students does something infuriating and then says to me “Don’t be mad”, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m fucking pissed. So her saying “It’s not your fault” multiple times doesn’t prevent that little nagging voice in the back of my mind (who I’m convinced only exists to make me feel like shit) from whispering into the currently empty corridors of my brain “Yes it is.”

It ripples across my consciousness, those three little words. Soaking into every thought, every gesture, every impulse. “Yes it is.” And then that little voice adds to it, saying things like “You had ONE job. Keep the baby alive. Keep him safe. Protect him. And you couldn’t even do that.” 

So now, here I am, muttering under my breath in public “It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault,” as if by saying it a million times or more will make it feel true. Great, I look like a crazy person who’s been crying.

Logically, the parts of my brain that work properly are telling me that of course it’s not my fault. Only somewhere around 30-40% of pregnancies result in an actual baby. But again, these aren’t some vague, far-off notions of people going and making babies. This is MY baby. And that makes all the difference.

That weight has changed the way that I walk. The way that I carry myself. The way that I interact with others. My level of caring about anything. This morning (2 days post incident, as I now call it), I noticed that I was walking differently. My posture is slumped, my head is down, I walk slower, my eyes burn from all the crying, I don’t want to make eye contact or talk to anyone. My body has already become so defeated by the prospect of life that my back is starting to hurt from the postural changes. 

And yet in spite of all of this, few people have noticed or commented. The most frequent comment I’ve gotten so far is that I look like I’ve been crying/am tired/look awful/have puffy eyes and any other manner of saying “You look like shit.”  It’s not hard to tell I’ve been crying. I’m of Irish, German, and English descent. I burn in the shade and turn bright red walking up stairs. And when you cry that much when you look like me, eventually the rims of your eyelids turn almost permanently red and puffy, scraping across your eyes with every blink.

Maybe my letter should be C, for Constantly Crying. 

#9: Crying. All. The. Time.

#10: The feeling of failure that you have no matter how much you or anyone else tells you otherwise

#11: People see that you’re upset and want to help

#12: People either don’t notice or don’t comment.

#13 You want everyone to know without you having to tell them

#14 The dry scraping feeling of your eyelids against your eyeballs every time

#15: The feeling of defeat that weighs like a bag on your shoulders

[thisshittyclub]

Cue the Jeopardy Theme Song

So there it is: the one-two gut punch that is finding out you had a miscarriage. The most horrible thing has happened. What next?

Next comes decisions. Because what’s grief and pain and horrible experiences without having to make massive decisions immediately while you’re still trying to breathe and sniffling into tissues? Where do we go from here?

My doctor gave me three options, the second two completely dependent on the first:

Option A: Do I want to take care of this right now, while I’m still in shock? Or do I knowingly carry for another two weeks what I now know is a “non-viable” baby in the hopes that my body will “take care of it”?

(Which, for the record, calling it “non-viable” in such clinical terms does in no way change the fact that it’s still the little human I spent the last 6 weeks talking to, singing too, dancing with, baking for, and catering to)

In addition to this question, I have the myriad of other questions running through my head. Will my husband be able to say goodbye to the baby if it’s not inside me? Is it weird and gross if I decide wait and have to tell people that I still have a dead baby inside of me while I walk around? Do I have time to take care of this now? Am I in the right mental state to do so?

Option B: I can take “a pill”.

Let’s be honest. This is an abortion pill that speeds along the process and signals to my body that it needs to reject the pregnancy. Although apparently it double-dips as a miscarriage pill as well.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m very much pro-choice. I believe that you as a woman deserve the ability to decide what you do or do not want your body to go through. And that just because someone chooses not to have a pregnancy at a certain stage in their life doesn’t mean they aren’t entitled to one later if they choose. I also feel that if you’re not capable of caring for a child it’s unfair to subject the child to a difficult life potentially full of hurt and pain.

But this isn’t “someone’s baby”; this is “MY baby”. My little Pip. The result of the love that my husband and I have for each other and wanted to share with the world. And having just learned that I won’t be able to give Pip to the world, I now have the option of expelling him. He’s the tenant who hasn’t paid rent in three weeks in my uterus and should I just kick him out in the hopes that later I’ll find another renter?

Side note: my doctor did warn me that if I did take the pill, there’s a chance that once I start my period, I’ll see tissue that looks vaguely baby-like, “and that can be hard for some people to deal with emotionally.” Hey, at least she’s honest.

Option C: I can do a D&C

This is an outpatient surgery where they go in and remove everything for me. They knock me out (my friend L went under crying), remove Pip for me, I wake up (L woke up crying) and then I go home to deal with the emotional aftermath (L, understandably, was crying). Alone. Because my husband is half a country away and he’s basically useless at this point.

As Chris Rock so eloquently stated in one of his stand-up specials with regards to pregnancy, the only thing a person can ask without getting smacked is:

“So whatcha gonna do?”

One of the last two options is going to occur. But like she said, the decision is mine.

And I know I seem to be making a lot of this sound really clinical, and yes, certain parts were. But my doctor and the ultrasound tech were both very understanding and calming. They had the soothing presence of someone you’d like to unburden yourself to, because they’ve obviously seen everything and you can trust them with your secrets and stupid fears without judgement.

I decided to go for option A. Because while it may be weird and a little gross to straight up be carrying my now “non-viable” pregnancy around with me, I need to say goodbye. And I can’t do that while under the gun and hearing the Jeopardy theme song playing in my head, warning me that time is running out to decide.

Plus, I had the unfortunate luck to make my appointment for just before work, and unfortunately, I had no substitute to relieve me. No calling in miscarriaged for this girl!

#6: DECISIONS

#7: The timing sucks

#8: Your brain reacts in horrifying ways, like imagining telling people you’re carrying around what is essentially a dead baby inside of you

#9: You run the risk of getting the Jeopardy theme song stuck in your head