I’ve already talked about how it happened, already discussed my reasons for being open, and how I’m doing and what we learned. It’s kind of all been said already.

All I want to say today is that I’ll never forget. And that there will always be a place in my heart for what we lost.

3.8.10

Then other years blow through at gale force, changing the directions of the street signs, rivers veering off into uncharted territory. Everything is changed. Not just your physical world, but you, yourself, down to your very core. This past year has been one those years for me.

I look back at where I was a year ago today. Tearing my hair out at the height of wedding planning, a week and a half from the big day. Trying to nail down the Purchase and Sale agreement on our house. Not yet a wife, not yet a homeowner.

We hadn’t yet flown in a helicopter over Kauai or leapt from a rope swing into one of her rivers.

I hadn’t left my job to go on a personal odyssey.

We hadn’t spent our first round of holidays together as a married couple.

I hadn’t found my other true love in baking.

I didn’t know what it was to decorate my own house.

We hadn’t loved and lost. We hadn’t hit the bottom. That was the big one. Seeing our first pregnancy fade away before our eyes. Hours spent huddled together on hospital chairs. Everything else was easy. Everything else was nothing, compared to this.

This blew me wide open, left me exposed. I tried to draw back into myself, into the part of my world that felt safe. But I still feel raw from it. Easily hurt, brush the surface and I’ll bleed. Yet I’m harder too, more wary. Gone is that last bit of childish confidence that everything will be alright, which I kept up until the very last moment. Now I know that sometimes? It’s not all right.

I’ve always measured my years in two ways. One turning over in January, the traditional calendar year, the other in September, the school year. And now with our wedding anniversary in September, I’m sure that will continue. Except, instead of the school year, we’ll have the marriage year.

For us, this first year of marriage is drawing to a close. It hasn’t been the easiest, no, but that’s not to say it hasn’t been wonderful at times. One year ago, I wrote about how marriage forces you to grow up. Little did I know then how true that statement would turn out to be, what I’d signed up for. Yet through it all we’ve grown closer still. World spinning around us, we grabbed hold of each others hands and dug our toes in. Together. We hung in there.

Just like we said we would.

The reason that this blog has been seriously and sorely lacking my attention and tender, loving care solely boils down to the fact that I had nothing of interest to say.

I try not to blog when I don’t have anything interesting to say.

What I’m saying right now is not particularly interesting, but I’m saying it anyways because I missed you guys.

I have been feeling quite uninspired of late. Blogger’s block, if you will.

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I am alive.

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For the summer, my already part-time schedule will get even more part-time. And I have been struggling with ways to fill up the new, extra time in ways that also nourish my wallet.

The more time I have, the more I worrythink about the future.

Worrythink is a new word I made up just now. This is why blogging is important. Even when you have nothing of interest to say.

My uncle told me  to stop thinking so much about whether I am using my time in the best way. I agreed with him mostly.

But I cannot stop myself from the worrythink. I am compelled by my compulsions.

Sometimes I think the only thing standing between me and enjoying life is me. Not that I’m not enjoying life. Or maybe I’m not so much right now. Can I say that? Is that allowed?

Saying I’m unhappy makes me feel ungrateful and I am afraid being ungrateful leads to losing the things you should be grateful for.

I am grateful.

I am also confused about my life.

I just rewrote the above sentence. I had something about “swimming in a sea of confusion.” It was too hyperbolic for my taste right now.

Hyperbole about the root of your stress is only funny sometimes.

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This cat makes me smile on the regular:

I discovered these blogs lately that I like, including this one tonight that I proceeded to read straight through.

-Bad Words
-Hyperbole and a Half
-i am baker
-THXTHXTHX
-the city sage

I really like reading blogs.

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I am not over the miscarriage. Some people might say you can never get over something like that. I think you can. You will never forget it, but you can move on and feel okay about it inside when you think about it. I still feel a fresh batch of sadness when I think about it.

I think I pretended I was okay for a long time. I pretended so well I believed me.

Father’s Day and Mother’s Day sucked for us this year.

This picture makes me ache. It’s from when I was pregnant and I was so tired all the time.

I’m scared that if I blog too much about the miscarriage you’ll all stop reading. Because it’s too sad.  Because people don’t talk about these things. Because it happens to so many people and… do they just get over it? No one really talks about it so I don’t know.

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I’ve shared a lot here and yet, I haven’t?

Sometimes I think I have to be bright and shiny when I show up to blog. Even though I know that’s not real. Even though I hate it when people aren’t real. Even though I know that it’s the realness that attracts most people to particular blogs. And even though it’s other people sharing their real – their happy, their sad – that endears me to them most.

I need to blog more. I will try.

We know now that loss finds you in unexpected ways.

We know now what  D&C stands for. And what it’s like.

We know now that there’s nothing pretty or insignificant about miscarriage.

We know now that we don’t like dealing with doctors and hospitals and test results.

We know now that we’re not going that route in the future if we don’t have to.

We know now that healthcare is expensive. And we’re damn fortunate to have health insurance.

We know now that we actually were ready to be parents.

We know now to be grateful for the things that scare us.

We know now that our bodies tell us everything we need to know, as long as we listen.

We know now that we can survive shared pain.

We know a little bit more about ourselves now than we knew before.

We know there’s an ounce of good for every ten pounds of bad.

And we know now what we have to do.

And did I feel happy! Let me tell you, the whole dream was a happy dream. I didn’t worry about the details of how it was possible, I was just happy it was happening. For some reason too, it was very suddenly almost time to have the baby. I knew it was way too soon. But again, dreams, details, you don’t worry about these things.

Anyways, that’s most of what I remember. And then I woke up and realized the whole thing was a dream and felt sad. You know, I’m okay with the fact that it happened. I get that it happens to so many people. A childhood friend of mine’s mother recently told me that the joy of  having even one child is worth whatever you endure to become a mother. I find great comfort in the thought that this loss is all part of my journey toward becoming a mother.

But. I liked being pregnant. It’s so weird to say that, to think that I was pregnant and have nothing to show for it. Everything is back to normal now, I am feeling more and more like old me again. It’s easy to forget that we even started down that path. That we had a first maternity appointment scheduled and we had ultrasounds and we gave a fleeting thought to baby names. Everything is as it was now except for this one thing that happened a few weeks ago.

Sometimes I want to forget. Forget the shock and joy and somehow, relief, of seeing a positive result on the home pregnancy test. I feel like even just that one small moment was something I had waited for for my whole life. And I know that the next time it comes around, and I have faith that it will, it will never be like that first time. It will be tainted. My eyes will view that + sign with a mix of happiness and dread. Dread of what if it happens again. It’s not going to stop us but … what if.

But I know too that it will be a deeper, richer experience, because of what we’ve been through now. We never took it for granted, never assumed everything was going to work out, but I know we’ll be more thankful next time. Being pregnant was like this little secret I carried around with me. When I was stressed, I remembered that I was pregnant and then, nothing else mattered. It was so much bigger than everything and I want it back. I want to go back there. I’m terrified, but I know it’s worth it.

And I know this experience has opened me. Before I thought maybe, but I was scared. Now I know for sure that I’m ready. Ready to be a mother.

Hardly am I looking to become a voice on being open about miscarriage. Open felt right for me. Open is not right for everyone.

I’m writing about my miscarriage because writing is what I do. Writing has always come naturally to me and it is often the best way for me to process my emotions. When I was younger and felt sad or angry, I would write letters to the person I was feeling that towards. Those letters were rarely delivered though. The act of writing them was all I needed.

I’ve heard from several friends and read too how miscarriage can be so isolating. I haven’t found that. We’re fortunate to have a support network that comfortably drew in around us upon hearing this news. And in fact, it’s been when we’ve talked about it, that we’ve found others who could relate to our experience. In that way, it has drawn us closer to many in a way no one ever wanted but that exists nonetheless.

For the past couple months, I’ve been in a place of thinking I was pregnant but not feeling ready to blog about it (for fear of this very situation). I’m still glad I didn’t, but I did find that when I can’t talk about what’s really on my mind and in my heart, I have a very hard time blogging AT ALL. It’s like, if I can’t say what I want to say, then I can’t say anything at all. And I tried, believe me. I have a whole group of half-written posts sitting in my drafts box about benign, random topics. But then again, everything seems benign and random when it’s not the one thing you really want to say.

And now! Now I feel a sense of freedom. I feel like the floodgates have been opened! Finally, I can talk about what I’m really feeling. Even if it’s sad, even if it’s unpleasant, it’s liberating to just be able to say it. Get it all out there. I’ve never been one for harboring.

So that’s why I’m writing about it. Because I can’t not write about it. And because I’ve always tried to make this blog an authentic reflection of my life. It won’t always be pretty but at least it’s real.

Which is, well, much, much easier said than done.

And now that I’m going through another universal experience (this one on the other end of the happiness spectrum), I’m finding myself facing the same problem. They say miscarriage is losing a child. Well, technically, it is. But I don’t feel like I’ve lost a child and I’m not mourning the loss of a child. I don’t feel like my baby was suctioned out of me on Monday. I feel like I’ve lost the idea of a child, the promise of a child. The potential of a life. That’s what I feel like we lost Monday. And that is a whole different type of mourning.

Because my miscarriage happened so early in my pregnancy, there was no fetus. That fact helps me, I’m thankful for it. What was inside of me, what was removed, was blood and tissue and membranes that had the potential to become a child, if all the stars fell into just the right line.

And they didn’t. And that’s just… that.

To tie up the loose ends I left dangling yesterday, first of all, Andreas is fine. His CT scan came back clear and we were given the green light to be discharged about 6 hours after we arrived at the hospital. You know, we spent so much of that day cooped up in our little ER room, waiting and waiting and waiting for the scan, and in many ways I felt like it was a blessing in disguise. Not only did it give me a very real distraction from the pain of the news we had just received, but it allowed us to be together and to process everything together. In a way I’m almost thankful for it.

As for me, we chose to go ahead and have the D&C (I’ll spare you the delightful details of the procedure but it’s there if you’re interested). The midwife seemed to think it was the best option for me and I didn’t want the torture of waiting for it to happen naturally. Or for it to not happen correctly. I felt like I wouldn’t be able to move on from this experience until the physical aspect had passed. And so it was a very long wait over the weekend for Monday to come.

I approached the surgery in part very scared, in part looking forward to getting it all over with. Actually, that was the first thought that came to mind when I came to in the recovery room, “It’s over.” Being a surgery patient was far more serious and unpleasant than I imagined it would be.  There was a myriad of questions, and endless slew of doctors and nurses and anesthesiologists stopping by. There was the IV in my hand that hurt the whole time and made my arm run cold. And then there was the hunger, dear god, the hunger. (They don’t let you eat starting at midnight the night before your surgery, and I didn’t get taken back into the OR until 2 pm on Monday.)

I tried to imagine I was in Grey’s Anatomy, which was kind of fun. My nurse anesthetist was, I kid you not, named Christina Kang. Christina Kang, Christina Yang? I mean, come on. That’s cool. Actually, everyone at Beverly Hospital that we came in contact with, even last week in the ER, was incredibly professional and kind. They put us at ease in a situation that isn’t at all comfortable. And, they’re pretty high tech. They even have patient tracking boards in the waiting room for the families to know when their person is being prepped for surgery, when the surgery is in progress, when they’re in recovery, etc. We were impressed.

And now I’m home. Resting. So far, everything is going fine. Physically, I feel okay. Emotionally, I kind of do too. Which then I worry, is that weird? Should I be crying all the time? That’s not to say I don’t feel sad. That’s not to say I haven’t shed tears. The breakdown moment came for me on Friday night last week, after we went to see Precious.  It is such a difficult movie to watch and for some reason it just hit an emotional nerve for me that somehow, I know, was connected to this. For at least an hour afterwards I could not. stop. crying.

We both feel sad. As Andreas was filling out some paperwork for me at the hospital, he came to a part of the form that asks if you are pregnant or suspect you could be pregnant. We looked at each other and frowned. We were looking forward to it. We hadn’t picked out names or anything like that, but we had thought about what kind of birth we might like to have. We had started making space for it in our minds and in our lives. Andreas thinks it was in fact the realization that all of this wasn’t happening that caused him to pass out (not the medical talk, as most suspected).

Either way, it’s all pretty heavy, unpleasant stuff. And it will always be a part of my life, something that happened. We will always remember the promise of a life that was officially taken from us on Monday. Some days it will hit me harder than others. But I know that I feel ready to move on. And I don’t know how that stacks up against the universal experience. I don’t know if I’m doing it wrong or too fast, or anything like that.

All I know is that I have to embrace it.

I’ll hit the bottom
Hit the bottom and escape
Escape

-Radiohead, Weird Fishes/Arpeggi

There isn’t really much to say. I’m sure you’ll find too that your tongue is tied.

Three weeks ago, we found out I was pregnant. We experienced that whole range of emotions that one normally experiences. Some fear, mainly joy. Even though things were never quite right, the longer it went on, the more we started to really believe it. We knew things might go wrong, but we couldn’t help but hope.

We struggled, as all couples do, with whom to tell and when. We started with just our immediate families, until we knew with some added certainty that things were okay. Until we had heard a heartbeat.

I read somewhere that you should tell anyone that you would tell if you did have a miscarriage. Now that I’m having one, I’m glad we only told those five people we did tell. Even though I’m sharing the news of the miscarriage now with my close friends, it feels so much easier to lead with the bad. Instead of knowing that they, like we, are falling from a much higher place of joy and expectation.

And then there’s that word, miscarriage. God. I never wanted to be associated with that word. I never thought I would. I know, I know. It’s so common. It happens to so many women and couples. But I never thought it could be me, us. That we’d join that club of those who have loved and lost.

Our story is such: I was six weeks along. I had been spotting for the past three weeks, pretty consistently. But we’d had bloodwork done, we’d had a previous ultrasound, and all signs pointed to everything being okay, despite the spotting. Then yesterday we went in for another ultrasound. At the last ultrasound, there was no fetal pole, which essentially means: no baby. But the OB’s office assured me that was because it was too early. So they asked me to come back in a week.

Andreas and I went in together. At the last ultrasound, he was on a business trip. I was glad he was getting to come to this one. We thought we’d hear a heartbeat. I charged my camera. I wanted to take a video for my parents.

The ultrasound technician this time though was a different person from last time. A much less likable person. Not that you’re really going to love the person who gives you that kind of news, but her first words to me were, “so have you actually had the miscarriage yet or…?”

Um, what? No. What the hell, lady. Last we heard, everything was fine. I still wonder if they were somehow stringing me along last week. If they knew then that I was on my way to this terrible place. But no, why wouldn’t they tell me? The nurse specifically said, “if it is a miscarriage the [gestational] sac would look misshapen or abnormal. Yours looks fine.”

We watched on the monitor as everything came into view. It looked just the same as last week. My eyes and heart searched for a tiny fetus. But it looked just the same. Just a black circle. The room got very quiet. Still I didn’t realize. I thought she hadn’t done the magic zoom-in feature yet. It didn’t dawn on me that I was looking at nothing. That that was what we had here. Nothing.

Finally, she broke her silence. “I’m sorry, I’m just not seeing any development here. I’m really, really sorry.” “Are you sure?” (How sad. I knew how small I sounded when I said that but I had to. I had to.) “I wish I wasn’t but unfortunately, I am.”

Then, she wouldn’t shut up. She started talking about how common it is, how if we had waited until three months “like they used to do in the old days,” it would have passed like a regular period and we wouldn’t have known any better. How all these new “home tests” are letting people know they’re pregnant the moment they conceive. How modern technology might actually be hurting us.

We didn’t want to hear any of that. Not from her. I know it sounds petty, I know it sounds like we’re projecting, but we can’t help hating that woman. Even though I know she was just trying to cope with this hardest of moments.

After that I was crying. Andreas was helping me get dressed. We were hugging. They moved us in to another room to wait to talk to a midwife. We needed to discuss our options. We waited in that room together. Hugging and crying and looking out the window. Feeling that loss together and that disappointment.

Eventually, a midwife came in and talked about where we go from here. She explained how it could happen naturally, how we could help it along, or how we could go in there and get it over with. We had never thought about any of this before. We didn’t know what would be the best option. As we were talking and asking questions, Andreas suddenly says, “I’m not feeling so well.”

The midwife was going for the chair as he went down. A head-first faceplant onto the doctor’s office floor from a standing position, landing on his face with a dull thud. His arms were by his side, he had nothing to break his fall. It was the singlemost terrifying moment of my life that I can remember. It didn’t take long to wake him, even shorter for a pretty sizable egg to develop on his forehead. We ended up going to the ER, just to make sure everything was okay, and spent the day there, waiting around for a CT scan, calling family, calling work. Coping.

It was a startlingly hard fall.

Right after he fell, he told me that he remembered hearing Radiohead’s “Weird Fishes” while he was out. As he was coming to, he remembered thinking, “Why are we listening to Radiohead? And what am I doing on the floor?” Later we went home and looked up the lyrics and they’re eerily dead on for the moment.

And now, the healing begins.

In the deepest ocean
The bottom of the sea
Your eyes
They turn me
Why should I stay here?
Why should I stay?

I’d be crazy not to follow
Follow where you lead
Your eyes
They turn me

Turn me on to phantoms
I follow to the edge of the earth
And fall off
Everybody leaves
If they get the chance

And this is my chance.

I get eaten by the worms
Weird fishes
Picked over by the worms
Weird fishes
Weird fishes
Weird fishes

I’ll hit the bottom
Hit the bottom and escape
Escape

I’ll hit the bottom
Hit the bottom and escape
Escape

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Written March 5th, 2010.