In Memory of a Miscarriage 🍼

 In a recent post I made mention of a miscarriage I had. I'd actually intended to write about it prior to that other post. I don't know why I am all of a sudden dragging this out of the depths of my memory. It happened 16 years ago, after I thankfully had my oldest baby. As painful as it was, I imagine it would have been much harder had I not had a child yet. When a woman wants a baby, it's an all consuming, frenzied focus and desire. She wants it NOW.       

My first baby was so wonderful and easy. She was only a year, but why not add another one to the mix? Figuring I had motherhood under control, I could certainly handle two. How foolish and arrogant, assuming this would be no big deal. I was 22 years old, and all I wanted was to be a mother. I yearned to push that massive double stroller all over NYC, while balancing babies, boobs, and bottles. Getting that positive pregnancy test when you want it is better than a billion dollar winning lottery ticket.

My first pregnancy with my daughter was nine months of crippling round the clock nausea, so I figured this next one was a boy because I barely threw up. I also kind of grew a beard, which caused me to think I had increased levels of testosterone simmering in my body. What an ignoramus I was, though I believed I was the expert on parenting and adulthood. Which is impossible at any age, particularly the age when your peers are partying all night and waking up the next day with lampshades on their heads.

Parenthood catapults you into adulthood. At 22 I felt older than I do now at 40. I wanted to play house and be a mother, so I immersed myself in an insanely grown up role. I love being a young mother, but there is something to be said for respecting your developmental capacities at certain stages in life. As I said, my daughter was a dream, and we couldn't wait to give her a sibling. When I went for my routine eight week checkup, the frozen, sad look on the technician's face said it all. We had brought the baby to the sonogram so she could have her first "big sister" moment. So stupid; she was 1 year old.

It never occurred to me EVER that something would go wrong. The panicked demand to know what was going on, the technician's sympathetic face, the ominous instructions of "let's wait for the doctor to come in". All while lying vulnerable on a table, my body housing whatever was going on that I had yet to understand. The doctor came in, and in a rather cold demeanor announced that there was no heart beat. I exploded into a tidal wave of tears. I didn't want my baby to see her mother sobbing so uncontrollably, so she was taken out of the room. What was meant to be this wonderful moment, turned to devastation and grief in a matter of minutes.

A miscarriage is unquestionably a death. What was once alive is no longer. It's a massive loss. Since mine didn't bleed itself out on its own, I had to schedule a DNC to have it "scraped out". I had to wait about a week for that appointment, and all I could think was,"I'm carrying death around in my body." It was an excruciating time, and looking at other pregnant women bursting with life was a dagger in my heart. Pregnant women are everywhere in NYC, and I didn't leave my apartment for weeks. What was the worst part about it was this: I was instructed not to discuss it with anyone. What was meant to "protect our privacy" became a twisting, silent, agonizing secret. It was wrong and unfair to expect me to carry the weight of such a loss alone. Women need to talk about their bodies. We are emotionally designed to seek and need support. I was so young, and I thought there was something wrong with me and my reproductive system. I was terrified I wouldn't have another baby.

I recall how hard it was to uphold this unreasonable vow of silence. I so wanted to tell my best friend at the time. I was with her every day, how could I not say something? I almost exploded, but held back out of fear of upsetting my very private ex. It never once occurred to me to challenge him on that, and advocate for my female point of view. I was the one carrying a dead baby, it's shocking to me that I overlooked that. Did I really believe I wasn't entitled to a voice about this?? How utterly sad...

When I finally did blurt it out, my friend said,"big deal! So did this one and that one and this one and that one." I couldn't believe I wasn't alone! I didn't think people my age had them. It was like learning about a support group I didn't know existed, but that I needed. It was so comforting to know that this was way more normal than I thought. Had I only spoken to my friend earlier, I'd have spared myself that extreme level of pain and isolation. The point to all this is that no one ever has the right to order you to not discuss something so personal, especially if it's tragic. The need to shut down and bottle up is unhealthy. The need to reach out to others to release, emote, and be supported is healthy. For another person to block that healthy need of ours is wrong. If life is holding you under water, you have every right to grab onto a lifeboat and swim the hell out. Men and women are biologically built to react differently to things. That's a fact. Areas about baby making are particularly murky and painful. Women need each other for most things, this tenfold. The desire to keep this quiet didn't stem from a bad place, but that's irrelevant. It was insensitive and unfair to assume I was okay with that while dealing with what was occurring in my own body. Would you ever tell your daughter to lock up her pain and throw away the key? Of course not. Mothers need that same consideration. We are human before we are mothers. It dishonors the normal range of human sadness by burying it so swiftly and deeply. I am clearly a person who finds comfort in sharing, which I'm glad for. I wish I'd have done what was right for me. I can't go back in time, but even years later I can learn from that. We owe it to ourselves to let pain and vulnerability not be a source of shame. We need the uncomfortable feelings just as much as the happy ones.
   

As soon as I got pregnant again, I saw that miscarriage as a blessing. Had that other baby lived, I wouldn't have had my second daughter. Tragedy often leads to unforeseen wonder. Until that wonder reveals itself, honor your need to be open. A closed heart doesn't help fix or heal. Never apologize for being open hearted. It's not weak to need the support of others. It's strength to admit you do. Feelings are strength. Tears are courageous. Warriors cry too, though they keep going. Warrior 2: arms straight like an arrow, foundation strong and ready, gaze over the front middle finger, looking ahead. Unwavering. About to change shape over and over, while never losing the integrity of the pose...

🏹. Blessings, LB