You can tell I’m on my period when I talk about “the indicent.”

Or when I tell you in detail about how I have PMS or, you know, just flat out announce that I’m on my period.  That’s also a good way to tell.

But you can rely on me to talk about the miscarriage around this time of the month, too, I’ve come to realize.  Because, really, it’s actually more painful to me than the date on which the miscarriage happened, this bleeding that says there is no life within these fleshy walls we call “my uterus.” 

The bleeding that says, “AH-HAHAHA, YOU ARE ALONE IN THIS SHELL OF MEAT.”

I don’t think my depression about the matter is excessive.  It’s not worse than it was in the beginning, but it’s not really getting better either.  How about that, y’all?  I guess it takes more time.  Or magic dust.  Or what-the-hell-ever.

Most “normal” days I am “fine.”  Whatever that is.  Sometimes stupid things make me cry.  Sometimes un-stupid things make me cry.  Sometimes people say asshole things, and that makes me cry.  But mostly, on “normal” days, I am fine.  And I think, “Oh, I am getting better, and next time I have my period, it will probably not bother me so much like last time.”

But I am wrong.

I have not gotten past the part where I want that very baby back.  Somehow I feel like I should have been able to let that go by now and want a different one, but it’s just not happening for me.  I have times when I can clearly acknowledge the fact that I still want to have another child someday and that I cannot have THAT child someday, and so I would have to have a DIFFERENT child someday.

But I don’t want to.

And then I think about it some more and I wonder if I really DO want to have another child someday.  Maybe I just still think I kind of sorta like the idea of having another one someday, but that it’s not really true that I actually want to have one.

And I really don’t need to hear any more about how often it happens, or why it probably happened.  I especially don’t want to hear about how it was probably ”for the best” because of why it probably happened.  Thanks, but telling me that my “embryo” [my baby, asshole] was probably some kind of fackin’ chromosomally mutated freak isn’t going to make me want it back less.  If Braden had some type of disease, I would also still want him, I’d just WANT HIM TO BE HEALTHY.

Also, Braden has been extra challenging for me lately.  He is pretty much always up my ass so far I’m choking.  Quite often, he is screaming/whining/throwing a tantrum/crying.  I don’t quite know what to do when, for example, I’ve been playing with him all day and then I’m just trying to have a conversation on the phone with my husband who is NOT HERE and whom I MISS and Braden comes over and shoves a toy in my face.  I tell him to wait, but then he cries, screams, or just gets another toy and hits me in the face with it instead.  I get frustrated and raise my voice at him telling him to, “Just let me talk to Daddy for a few minutes!” but that just makes John mad at me. 

It’s all just triggering a level of insanity in me that I am not mentally coping with very well.  Icanhasdrugz?  Maybe that’s what I need.

I’m reaching the end of my rope and finding it’s just a frayed knob and when I look down, there’s a pit of glass shards waiting below.

What with my inability to let go of the desire to have my dead baby back, and Braden having been really, extra difficult lately, I kind of really am starting to sort of think I maybe don’t want to have another one, not even someday, not even one day.  Not ever.

And it’s making it really hard to make love to my husband.  Because THAT’S HOW YOU MAKE A BABY AND I’M SCARED.

(Ooops, I just said that to The Internet, didn’t I?  Oh well.)

 

That ends this installment of Pity Theatre.  Also known as, “Oh, Poor Me!” 

Not likely to be seen on Broadway anytime soon.

 

 

It’s a damn good thing I don’t wear mascara.

I have no grand idea for what to post today.  This is going to be one of those posts where I just sat down and said, “You know what?  I’m in a #@%* mood, and I’m going to write about what I’m feeling right now.”

So, um.  Sorry, in advance.

Because it’s been one of those days.

Not one of those days when things go wrong for you over and over and over again, or anything.  Just one of those days when the biggest thing that’s gone wrong for you in a long time just won’t leave you alone.

(*ding* Yes. She is going to talk about that again.  The trolley has halted momentarily.  If you would like, you may get off. *ding,ding*)

Every period is a reminder.  And this Monday I started the second one since, well, you know.

Before I got pregnant, I was actually right about to buy one of these thingies.  You know, part of my “Going Greener” thing and all, plus I just like to do weird things with my vagina.  Well, not really, but that was kind of fun to type.

Then I was pregnant, and I was all, “HAHAHA!  Good thing I didn’t order that Diva Cup yet, since I won’t need it for a long, long time! *SNORT!*”

“HAHAHA.”

Yeah.

Today, when I looked into the box that held only 3 more tampons my heart felt heavy.  Because I knew I’d have to buy more of them.

It’s the stupid things like this that make it so it won’t leave you alone.  Things like how your hand runs into the $140 bottle of prescription prometrium (often used to sustain at-risk pregnancies during first several weeks) at the back of your vitamin cabinet sometimes.  The one you only took 2 of before you found out it was pointless and stopped.  But you can’t throw it away, because… well, you just can’t. 

And how you only finally realized that you were really hoping it would be a girl when you found out that’s what one of your friends was having and it caused you to cry uncontrollably at a point when you really thought you were okay.  Which was a shock to you in so many ways, considering you never even realized you cared what the gender was.  Or that you’d care now.  Or that you’ll always care. 

It’s that stuff.

Ah, there it goes again.  At least it wasn’t a children’s show this time.

 

Hi. Here I am, being depressing again.

Almost seven weeks
since it started; we’re still stuck.
Would now be twelve weeks.

We are still not sure
when we’ll want to try again.
Sooner or later?

Some days, I think, “NO.”
Other days, I think, “maybe?”
It is confusing.

Afraid to chance it.
What if it happens again?
So soon, I might break.

Then again, it seems
no matter the length between,
the pain won’t differ.

Also afraid to
wait too long… time rushes by,
thyroid gets worse. *sigh*

Mostly we still want
to wake up from the nightmare,
our baby still here.

So probably not
ready to try again yet.
But still, there’s longing.

Braden’s latest word
is “baaay-beeeee,” complete with sign.
God, please help me cope.

 

 

Me and my two selves… please forgive me for them.

Several nights ago I was sitting in the dark of Braden’s room; he was cradled in my arms, breathing quietly. As we slowly swayed back and forth in the rocking chair together, lullabyes playing peacefully on the CD player, my mind jumped back and forth. It climbed mountains torturously, then lept off of the summits and plummited into the valleys below. My face was slack, but my thoughts rumbled and tumbled below the surface while I felt the warm, soft life in my embrace cuddle deeper into sleep.

Suddenly, I burst out crying.  Crying for the tiny life that I wasn’t able to hold onto in this way.  I sobbed – quietly, so as not to disturb Braden – for a few long moments. Then I placed him in his crib and left the room. As suddenly as it had come upon me, the weeping was gone.

It’s been like that for weeks now. Since the miscarriage.

The extreme dichotomy of my feelings and thoughts lately has been a confusion at times, to me. At others, it has made no less than perfect sense. See what I mean?

I was pregnant one day. Then, suddenly, I wasn’t.

Riding the rollercoasters at this Carnival From Hell that no woman wants to go to, but that is packed full of people, nonetheless, has been strange.

Some days, hearing about how many others have gone through this, multiple times, even, is a great comfort. I am actually incredibly buoyed by the scores of other women who feel somewhat betrayed by their bodies, or maybe even by God. By women who have experienced this same thing and are floating alongside me in this sea of uncertainty.

It means that I am not really standing out in the middle of a barren wasteland, alone, while a relentless wind tears and rips at my exposure ravaged limbs, muffling my cries and carrying them silently away into the vast nothingness surrounding me, where they will mean nothing and no one will ever respond to them.

Instead, at every bend, there are arms ready to pull me close, hugging me and imparting comfort and understanding; a place to cry and grieve and heal.

But on those other days, the “bad” ones, if this has happened to you? I want to pretend like you don’t exist. I don’t want to hear about what you’ve gone through. I especially don’t want to know that it has happened to you 2, 4, or 7 times. I don’t want to think about how sad it is that this happens all the time, multiple times to some women. And I really don’t want to think about how this could so easily happen to me again.

Then, the very next day, I probably want to run to you and make you hold me again.

(Please, if you shared these things with me, don’t be offended, and please don’t stop sharing.  Please.  This is the nature of the beast - while I sometimes want to pretend you don’t exist – I still find I need you!  Just read the first part I wrote about it up there^!  I just have a need to be really honest with myself and others about the dichotomy of my feelings right now, and this is part of it.  If you have been through this, you will likely understand.)



The split, this back and forth, doesn’t end there, though.  Ohhh, no.  There is so much more.



Some days, I look forward to trying to have another child at some point.  I think about a sibling for my son, a tiny baby to love and coo over, another dimension to our family.  I think about the joy of being pregnant, meeting a new life, and discovering how another personality will fit into our home.

Other days, I am terrified at ever being pregnant again.  I shrink away from thoughts of what it will be like to have another positive pregnancy test.  Instead of bursting at the seams with Joy and Bliss like I did the past two times, I imagine that I will feel incredibly Anxious and Fearful. 

I mourn the death of the joy that should accompany that positive test, and I imagine the fear and sorrow that will replace it - as well as the paranoia.  I imagine it, and I feel a great sense of avoidance. 

I picture a future pregnant me waiting to see blood every.time.I.urinate.  And I can’t imagine being able to shoulder the endless stress that will inevitably invoke.



Some days, I feel strong and whole.  Some days I actually feel more alive than before.  I feel more passionate about living and doing and being.  I feel more grateful and in awe of the life that courses through my veins, and that resonates through the bodies of my son and my husband.

Other days, I feel more vulnerable and fragile than ever.  I feel more fearful and worried about the delicate nature of life – not just early life, either - any life.  I feel guarded and over-protective about my son on those days.  I feel anxious and worried about my husband.  I feel scared.  Terrified, even.



Some days, I take comfort in knowing that my baby is in Heaven.  God wanted one of ours next to Him.  I feel the complete peace that is, as a lovely friend of mine so eloquently said, knowing my baby will live for eternity never having to experience sadness.

But most days, I just want my baby back.  And I feel selfish.  (But it doesn’t stop me from wanting that.)

In fact, some days I want my baby back so bad that it really doesn’t matter to me one way or the other that I can probably have another child eventually.  Hearing that does not really comfort, on those days.  Because I don’t want another one.  As John can tell you, because I’ve said it to him multiple times already, I just want back the baby I already had.  I was feeling this so strongly one night that I just cried into my pillow, feeling guilty and selfish and immature. And whenever someone has said that to me… that I can have more… I have secretly been angry. Because you would never say that to me if Braden died. And this baby was no less my child than is he!

Then I read that I’m not the only one who feels this very way.

And it must have been a good day, because I felt a bit vindicated, and took comfort in that.



Proof that I need to hear all these things that you all have to say.



I’ve never wanted to get off a Carnival Ride so badly.  I’m just ready to fall asleep in the car on the way home, you know?






And more than anything, I hate knowing that while I’m riding, the damn contraption is going to keep stopping over and over again to let, no, force new passengers on.

All I can hope for is that I’ll have something to say that will comfort them.



On the not so bad days, of course.

…and then I whined some more. Yay!

Today, Braden is
Nineteen Months Old. This past month
has been quite crazy.

I am ashamed, but
Gastroenteritis kept
me from last update.

Then the joyous news
of a pregnancy and I
was so excited!

Not long after, there
was heartbreak and agony.
Update? No heart left.

And now I really
must write two. They will be up
Within this next week.

Last night I wanted
to break things into many
pieces, but instead

We ordered pizza.
And yes, being a fat pig
made me feel better.

The P-S-B-N
post will go up tomorrow.
Link in or I’ll cry!

Twenty-Four Hours.

Today, Saturday, marks the one week point.  It’s been one week since the bleeding of miscarriage began.  One week since I sat on the toilet, with Braden happily splashing in the tub to my left, looking down at the blood in disbelief.  Just one week since I began crying hysterically as more blood came.  One week since I fumbled the phone, almost dropping it into the toilet, to give my husband the worst news I have ever delivered to anyone.

One week since I laid my face on the floor next to the bathtub crying, begging out loud that this not be what I thought it was.  One week since I sobbed uncontrollably there, and Braden giggled in response because he thought I was laughing.

Last Friday night, I took this photo.

I was tired and emotional after watching a movie and thinking of an old hurt.

I attributed much of my emotional response then to pregnancy hormones.  You know how they are.

Almost exactly 24 hours after I took this photo, I started bleeding; miscarrying.

Twenty-four hours after that, I was waiting with high anxiety and nervous trepidation to visit my doctor the next morning for blood tests.

Twenty-four hours later yet, I was standing in my kitchen, having not received the test results yet, speaking to my (empty) uterus with fractured, clinging hope.

“Are you still in there?  Is it possible?  I love you.  Please fight; please hold on, little baby.”

That night, I fell asleep while I repeated the same thing over and over again in my head.

“God, please let my baby live.  God, please let my baby live.  God, please….”

The photo is sad irony. 

It is a perfect portrait of how I feel right now.

All I can hope for is for each new 24 hour passage to take me closer to whole again.

I’m scared.

Another Swan to fold.

As I write this post, it is Tuesday morning.

John and I have waited since Saturday night for news about our baby.

I started bleeding on Saturday night.

The experience continued through the weekend and into Monday.  I won’t describe it in detail.

I had blood tests on Monday.  The results we got this morning confirmed the worst.

It was a miscarriage.

The baby I had already begun to love is gone.

I feel rather empty, in more ways than one.

I need to go hold my son very tightly and be held very tightly by my husband.

I may not post for awhile – not sure.  I appreciate your patience and understanding while I carefully fold another Swan.