Pining
I started bleeding on a Saturday. I spent the long weekend crying and praying, hoping and fearing to hope. Monday morning had me in the lab for blood work. The wait to 4:45 on Monday afternoon was such a long one that by the time I finally went in, I didn't have much hope left.
My hormone levels and the ultrasound confirmed what I already knew... and feared. No life there.
My doctor's remarks were kind and consoling. She called it a loss. She told me that it happens often, more than we'd like to think. She told me that this combination of cells, for whatever reason, was just not genetically viable. That my body had done what it was supposed to do, when it realized that these genes did not hold viable life.
I hesitate to write about this since I, in no way, mean for this to be prescriptive--for the spilling of my feelings to make others think their emotions are being belittled. I know that other people could experience a miscarriage in an entirely different way from me. And that is okay. And it wouldn't be wrong. What comforts me may pain them. And vice versa. I also hesitate because this issue doesn't really resolve. And I can't package it nicely at the end with a cliche and a lesson... Such is life, I suppose.
The doctor's explanation that this life was not viable was the ultimate comfort to me. It meant that I was mourning the loss of my expectations of a child moreso than a child itself. Yes there had been life within me, yes it wasn't there anymore. But the thought that it could never have been was extremely helpful to me in the midst of the processing. The hypotheticals are quick to take root in a pregnant woman, and grieving all of them would be impossible. If my child could never have been a girl or a boy, reserved or outgoing, easy or difficult, blue-eyed or green-eyed, then there was less to mourn. I mourn my expectations that I was going to have another child. It's like I thought I was pregnant, but I wasn't. (Only I actually was pregnant and then I wasn't.)
I know that some people have certain feelings about the sex of their baby and will name it. I thought of this, but my baby didn't have a gender. And it never would have. I know this will be controversial. But this is how I cope. This is what I go back to. This baby wouldn't have lived. And so it didn't.
The trouble with this is the feelings of loss that I still have. A loss that I can't write down easily or talk about. You can say that I've lost a child or that my pain will be restored with another pregnancy--healthy this time, and full term. And maybe so. I don't know.
A couple of wise friends have asked me if I've felt like I've had time to grieve this loss. I'm not sure of the answer. I initially want to say, "YES! There have been many, many tears." But it is a complicated loss in my heart and mind. A lot of my pain comes from the fear of not being in control. Right after the miscarriage I went on a spree of exercise and activities, projects and energy. It could not sustain itself. It was a feeble attempt at controlling my surrounding. I wanted my body to accomplish something I could be proud of, not produce more pain. I wanted to run races, I had emotional breakdowns when I injured my leg and couldn't run. I felt extreme failure, felt like I was disappointing everyone around me. I wanted to become a hermit.
I don't feel like the miscarriage was my fault. But when I have to tell people that I'm not pregnant anymore, one of the most prevalent emotions is embarrassment. Why on earth?? It feels like I was overconfident--Why did I think I could have a healthy pregnancy? So presumptuous of me! It's an odd feeling to work out.
My doctor asked if I'd had depression after the boys' births. I said a little. Not for long. She told me to expect it to be worse this time. She said that with a miscarriage, there's no placenta leaving your body in one push, so the cells stick around longer, messing up your hormones. I'm so grateful she told me this. It is worse this time.
My counselor calls it postpartum depression. My doctor--anxiety brought on by a luteal phase disorder. Any way you slice it, this is the bare bones: my hormones are imbalanced. It feels good to put a name to it, to know that it is temporary, and to have other people join me in working it out. Next week I'll start my progesterone cream and see if it helps. But I've been through lots of hormones in my life, and the good (and bad) thing is that they are always fluctuating. This too shall pass. I normally do not appreciate this platitude, but in this case I can finally start to believe it. Huh. I did manage a cliche at the end, after all. :)
Come All Ye Pining
My hormone levels and the ultrasound confirmed what I already knew... and feared. No life there.
My doctor's remarks were kind and consoling. She called it a loss. She told me that it happens often, more than we'd like to think. She told me that this combination of cells, for whatever reason, was just not genetically viable. That my body had done what it was supposed to do, when it realized that these genes did not hold viable life.
I hesitate to write about this since I, in no way, mean for this to be prescriptive--for the spilling of my feelings to make others think their emotions are being belittled. I know that other people could experience a miscarriage in an entirely different way from me. And that is okay. And it wouldn't be wrong. What comforts me may pain them. And vice versa. I also hesitate because this issue doesn't really resolve. And I can't package it nicely at the end with a cliche and a lesson... Such is life, I suppose.
The doctor's explanation that this life was not viable was the ultimate comfort to me. It meant that I was mourning the loss of my expectations of a child moreso than a child itself. Yes there had been life within me, yes it wasn't there anymore. But the thought that it could never have been was extremely helpful to me in the midst of the processing. The hypotheticals are quick to take root in a pregnant woman, and grieving all of them would be impossible. If my child could never have been a girl or a boy, reserved or outgoing, easy or difficult, blue-eyed or green-eyed, then there was less to mourn. I mourn my expectations that I was going to have another child. It's like I thought I was pregnant, but I wasn't. (Only I actually was pregnant and then I wasn't.)
I know that some people have certain feelings about the sex of their baby and will name it. I thought of this, but my baby didn't have a gender. And it never would have. I know this will be controversial. But this is how I cope. This is what I go back to. This baby wouldn't have lived. And so it didn't.
The trouble with this is the feelings of loss that I still have. A loss that I can't write down easily or talk about. You can say that I've lost a child or that my pain will be restored with another pregnancy--healthy this time, and full term. And maybe so. I don't know.
A couple of wise friends have asked me if I've felt like I've had time to grieve this loss. I'm not sure of the answer. I initially want to say, "YES! There have been many, many tears." But it is a complicated loss in my heart and mind. A lot of my pain comes from the fear of not being in control. Right after the miscarriage I went on a spree of exercise and activities, projects and energy. It could not sustain itself. It was a feeble attempt at controlling my surrounding. I wanted my body to accomplish something I could be proud of, not produce more pain. I wanted to run races, I had emotional breakdowns when I injured my leg and couldn't run. I felt extreme failure, felt like I was disappointing everyone around me. I wanted to become a hermit.
I don't feel like the miscarriage was my fault. But when I have to tell people that I'm not pregnant anymore, one of the most prevalent emotions is embarrassment. Why on earth?? It feels like I was overconfident--Why did I think I could have a healthy pregnancy? So presumptuous of me! It's an odd feeling to work out.
My doctor asked if I'd had depression after the boys' births. I said a little. Not for long. She told me to expect it to be worse this time. She said that with a miscarriage, there's no placenta leaving your body in one push, so the cells stick around longer, messing up your hormones. I'm so grateful she told me this. It is worse this time.
My counselor calls it postpartum depression. My doctor--anxiety brought on by a luteal phase disorder. Any way you slice it, this is the bare bones: my hormones are imbalanced. It feels good to put a name to it, to know that it is temporary, and to have other people join me in working it out. Next week I'll start my progesterone cream and see if it helps. But I've been through lots of hormones in my life, and the good (and bad) thing is that they are always fluctuating. This too shall pass. I normally do not appreciate this platitude, but in this case I can finally start to believe it. Huh. I did manage a cliche at the end, after all. :)
Come All Ye Pining
I'm with you, friend.
ReplyDeleteI've never had a miscarriage, but the complicated feelings of loss are similar to what I've felt with infertility. We're both learning how to make space for grief. I've often thought about the 'curse' of hormones, but also the blessing - they make you face what it would be much easier to ignore.