Dearest nurse, from the bottom of my heart, I’m so sorry if I was rude to you at the hospital. The fact of the matter is, I just did not feel like crying in front of you. Those tears are reserved for my husband.
A miscarriage has pushed me to see meaning in something that is utterly pointless (as it truly is to miscarry) and to pick myself up and move on, making dreams and far-fetched goals, a reality. It is my belief that souls get attached to people and that children choose their parents, not the other way around. So for every miscarriage, I did not loose the soul, it simply was not their time to be here with me, and they will stick around until eventually they, and I, are ready. So until that time arrives, I have work to do. I draw up a checklist of goals, and I slowly pull them apart so I can achieve them.
It might seem naive, but how on earth will it be possible to pick yourself up from losing a fetus and continuing on with life, let alone, trying again for another baby?
I hate the first 12 weeks of pregnancy. I feel sick, I have no energy, and I find myself counting the days. Please, I pray, just let me make it to week six without so much as a drop of blood in my pants. Please do not let me lose any symptoms of nausea as this means that I still have elevated hormone levels. Please just let the days pass so I can tick of another week, a step closer to minimizing the risk of losing the pregnancy.
I count the days. I go into hiding as my hormonal swollen belly is not yet a beautiful round pregnant baby holder. For now, it’s just a flabby messy one, and my puffy face just says it all. I need to take naps during the day. I have the sense of smell like 10 cats, and everything makes me nauseous. Please, do not bring any coffee near me and don’t even think about applying that aftershave.
Into hiding, I go, trying to excuse myself from not drinking that oh-so delicate glass of chardonnay and yawing through your party, wanting to tell the world but not ready to talk about the ins-and-outs of “what if?” and “when will you know?” And the “How do you feel?” Guess what—I am terrified yet so happy. I feel like crying all the time, but I am not sure if they are tears of happiness or terror.
My first miscarriage happened when my husband-to-be and I had been trying to get pregnant for a year. I was over the moon when the stick finally showed two lines. Later that day, I accidentally dipped my chicken finger into a bleu cheese sauce at a local cafe and ended up bawling my eyes out to the waitress and my friend as I thought I had just damaged the fetus. So before telling my parents, I had to tell my friend and the waitress that I had just found out I was pregnant. Fortunately, the cheese was pasteurized so I managed to sigh with relief.
We booked an early ultrasound, and there was a little beating heart. We instantly fell in love with the little one and started making plans. When it came time to go to the hospital for the official “the fetus now looks like a baby” sonogram, there had been no development for weeks and it had probably died a couple of days after the visit with my doctor. It was life-shattering, tears streaming down, so utterly pointless, and it hurt so much.
So you see, my dearest nurse, I am thankful for your compassion. I just cannot share my tears with you as I need to be able to carry on and believe that this, too, has meaning in the greater scheme of things and life.
After the third miscarriage, I find that my friends use words like “injustice” and “unfair.” And then there’s the dreaded “Will you try again?”
For now, I do not have the answer. I opened my notebook and started writing, drawing and making plans. I guess, when the time comes for another go, I will hopefully have finished my checklist.