I Lost my Baby in Washington, D.C.
It's true. And not in any kind of metaphorical, allegorical sense. I had a miscarriage in Washington, D.C.
I'm not entirely sure how to move forward from here, except that I just am. We just are. I have a plan in my brain, a way forward. But every now and then, walking around a mall or driving or taking a shower or watching television, I'll feel a twinge and I'll think that had it not been for Wednesday ... we would be having an entirely different holiday celebration.
I had planned ways of telling family members. I had a very pithy facebook post planned for early February. I was thinking about names and clothes and nurseries. I was caught up in the excitement of a new person, a new addition. I was pleasantly pleased that we had acheived a pregnancy without medical aid.
And then Wednesday happened.
These things happen. Early pregnancy is full of pitfalls, pratfalls and concern. We had not told anyone. We were worried. We were cautious. It was almost like ... we knew.
And I should have known. I should have done the blood work before we started trying. I should have made certain that all was okay, before. But we didn't think it would happen on our own, not really. I told the doc we'd try for three months, just to see, and then come in for the blood work. I see now that was a mistake. This could be a viability issue, there are many things that can go wrong when cells combine. But with my history ... 58% of pregnancies end in miscarriage with my condition. On medication, that percent goes down to 8%. This is because of hormonal abnormalities that make it impossible for a pregnancy to progress.
I am moving on. I am okay. But I am not really the same. I'm writing this here because ... well it's not a secret. It did happen to me. So if you see me and I'm not myself, or clinging to my lovely thriving son just a bit more ... you'll know why and you won't have to ask. And if you know me in real life, and know that we're trying to have a baby, you'll know not to ask how that's going. I promise I will tell you when there is something to tell.
I'm also writing it because that phrase keeps repeating in my head ... I lost my baby in Washington, D.C. Over and over and over. And yesterday I kept asking Lewis .... "maybe he's still there? maybe it's not over?" And he kindly has to shake his head and say "No, babe. She's gone." The lengths to which hope goes to survive ... "Maybe it was twins, and only one didn't make it?" ... "No babe, she's gone."
We didn't know the gender. It was really early. I thought he would be a boy. Lewis thought she would be a girl. Hope had sprung, and now it's run out.
I really am okay. Playing with my son and planning for the holidays and taking showers and making dinner and watching holiday movies. But a little of the magic is gone for me. A little bit of hope has just died.
Very literally. Okay I have to go cry again. Please pray for us.
I'm not entirely sure how to move forward from here, except that I just am. We just are. I have a plan in my brain, a way forward. But every now and then, walking around a mall or driving or taking a shower or watching television, I'll feel a twinge and I'll think that had it not been for Wednesday ... we would be having an entirely different holiday celebration.
I had planned ways of telling family members. I had a very pithy facebook post planned for early February. I was thinking about names and clothes and nurseries. I was caught up in the excitement of a new person, a new addition. I was pleasantly pleased that we had acheived a pregnancy without medical aid.
And then Wednesday happened.
These things happen. Early pregnancy is full of pitfalls, pratfalls and concern. We had not told anyone. We were worried. We were cautious. It was almost like ... we knew.
And I should have known. I should have done the blood work before we started trying. I should have made certain that all was okay, before. But we didn't think it would happen on our own, not really. I told the doc we'd try for three months, just to see, and then come in for the blood work. I see now that was a mistake. This could be a viability issue, there are many things that can go wrong when cells combine. But with my history ... 58% of pregnancies end in miscarriage with my condition. On medication, that percent goes down to 8%. This is because of hormonal abnormalities that make it impossible for a pregnancy to progress.
I am moving on. I am okay. But I am not really the same. I'm writing this here because ... well it's not a secret. It did happen to me. So if you see me and I'm not myself, or clinging to my lovely thriving son just a bit more ... you'll know why and you won't have to ask. And if you know me in real life, and know that we're trying to have a baby, you'll know not to ask how that's going. I promise I will tell you when there is something to tell.
I'm also writing it because that phrase keeps repeating in my head ... I lost my baby in Washington, D.C. Over and over and over. And yesterday I kept asking Lewis .... "maybe he's still there? maybe it's not over?" And he kindly has to shake his head and say "No, babe. She's gone." The lengths to which hope goes to survive ... "Maybe it was twins, and only one didn't make it?" ... "No babe, she's gone."
We didn't know the gender. It was really early. I thought he would be a boy. Lewis thought she would be a girl. Hope had sprung, and now it's run out.
I really am okay. Playing with my son and planning for the holidays and taking showers and making dinner and watching holiday movies. But a little of the magic is gone for me. A little bit of hope has just died.
Very literally. Okay I have to go cry again. Please pray for us.
Comments
I've just read this articlehttp://www.forbes.com/sites/susannahbreslin/2011/12/07/breast-cancer-body-image/.
It is about the author's experience with breast cancer. She wrote this which I think I would find comforting:
"And all of us here, myself included, also send you all the Love you may ever need to fill in any blanks or cracks that might appear on any of the darkness days."
One of the things that I do regret is that I have not recognized my friends/acquaintances grief. I should have just sent a card or said a word. I have gotten better, because I do know that those words/cards are helpful. They really do help the person suffering know that they are not alone and that other people do care for them.
In this article she also talks about dealing with the grief in your life. Does the grief overcome you and your life or do you deal with the sadness with grace. I hope I would be able to be graceful in my grief. I do think that there is some grief that the state of grace
would be very hard to attain. I think in this post you are trying for a state of grace. You talk about moving on first and getting back to normal, I think that is grace.
I don't know. Empathy is hard for a lot of people. I like to think I'm dealing well. But the other part of the reason I wrote it down ... it did happen. There was a pregnancy. And then it ended. But I didn't make it up. And it was over so quickly, before anything was said to anyone, and I guess I just want it remembered?
And people don't recognize cries for help / support. And most of the time, all that people need in response is a note that says they are thought of, and that everything will be okay. So I think you are right about that.