In an earlier post I mentioned that my husband and I had made peace with being childless only to find out we were expecting our daughter a few weeks later. In another more recent post, I mentioned how my husband and I had recently made peace with only having one child. Well, as they say, history repeats itself and once we made peace with have our one, beautiful baby, we found out we were pregnant! And today, 10 weeks later, I’m miscarrying. For the third fucking time. Last time plunged me into a depression I never knew existed. I can’t do that again. Also, I waited a long time to tell social media and in doing so, relived the pain twice. I won’t do that again.
January 16th was the day I cried upset tears. My New Year’s resolutions had included deleting my period tracker app and giving up booze and going skydiving. I was done trying for a baby. I was truly done. Instead, I wanted to go rock climbing and to Tofino and be in the best shape of my life; that shape wasn’t curvy and round with swollen cankles. Besides, we had FINALLY found peace in our family dynamic. That took me over three years to find. Like searching for the end of the rainbow, it took a lot of travelling and searching before I discovered the peace everyone had been urging me to find. Peace is a beautiful feeling and I liked the feel of that over the hope and anguish that riddled my past years but I had to find it on my own, in my own way. Needless to say, to know we were pregnant was upsetting, shocking and deep underneath, exciting.
I had my third ultrasound in four weeks this morning. I should be eight weeks (but ten based on my last menstrual period) and I’m measuring six weeks/one day. That’s a two day growth from the last ultrasound two weeks ago. There was no heartbeat. There should have been a heartbeat. The music of life had died inside me, never having the chance to sing her song to us.
I wish the word sad could really sum up what I’m feeling. It would be so simple to just say, “I’m sad” and hope that would encapsulate the depth of my grief and somehow everyone would completely understand what’s happening in my soul. What if I said I was bereaved, despondent, hapless? Does that convey it? What if I explained how my eyelids can’t seem to handle the amount of tears pouring from my eyes right now, leaving them burning, red and sore. What if I said I sat in the ultrasound change room crying while I listening to the people on the other side of the curtain whispering, “that poor girl” and wanting to throw myself on the floor trying to scream out the despair wedged in my heart? Or that I sat in a hot bath, sobbing into the echo of the empty room, begging the Universe to give me a sign as to what the lesson was here? Crying out, “What am I suppose to take from this? Why? Why? Why me? AGAIN?” over and over. If I told you my shallow breath feels like a bucket of cold water has been dumped over my head leaving me breathless, would that make my grief more palatable? More understandable? Would sharing the conversation I had with God/Source/The Universe screaming through the tears dripping into my mouth hit home what is happening when a woman finds out the life inside her has died? That the child she loved but never held has left this world without reason? That the life she’s been desperately waiting for is now gone and there is ZERO explanation to give you peace or understanding?
So surprise! I was pregnant! The girl with the two back-to-back miscarriages who just went on live radio and told Canadians how to handle the struggle of infertility and pregnancy loss who can’t, in this moment, take one iota of her own advice. While I am trying to take care of myself physically, mentally I’m berating myself again, just like last time. Those unanswerable questions are running through my mind like the news ticker tape on the bottom of the t.v. screen. But my friends and family have been wonderful. I asked them to pray and light candles and send love and food and they’ve all rallied and are standing by to help me in whatever capacity possible. One of my best friends in Ontario cried with me on the phone. Another is taking my daughter for the day tomorrow. Another is bringing dinner tonight and another friend is coming tomorrow with dinner. I’m numb. I can’t make decisions right now so I’m grateful for the initiative they are taking. That’s all it takes though. To just ask for what you need. Because together, we double our joys and halve our sorrows. We’re in it together and knowing I’m not alone this time is monumental.
I’m now the woman who had three back-to-back miscarriages. The woman who is healthy and strong, happy and a good, no, wait, a great fucking mother. I deserved the life that grew within my womb. I don’t deserve to hear how I “can get pregnant so cheer up” or that “it’ll happen again” as said by the many apparent psychics surrounding me, both today and before. I am reliving two horrible past events, except this time, this time I’m ready for you Grief. I have my soldiers behind me to catch me as I fall. I have my husband to hold my hand. And I have my words. By putting grief onto paper/computer I will do one of three things: connect to those who understand, weird you out or finally illustrate what happens when a woman miscarries so that you may now have true empathy for your sister, your friend, your spouse. Regardless of what comes from this, Grief doesn’t feel as scary when I’ve expressed it to the world. By putting it out there, I’ve taken some of the sting away and it feels slightly more manageable. I’ll continue to grieve but I won’t grieve alone.
I leave you with a text I got from a beautiful earth angel. It is comforting and tragically heartbreaking all at once:
The baby and the other two only felt the warmth and love of your womb. They only knew the sound of your beautiful heart beat. These beautiful babies never felt cold or alone or the harshness of our world. They only knew your love. What a way to live. Only knowing warmth and love.