Tomorrow I will have a D&C
To clinically remove my baby,
Who, unbeknownst to me, died sometime last week, while the rest of the world went on around us.
Apparently, my body can’t even miscarry on its own.
The fact that I would have a missed miscarriage shouldn’t shock me. I’ve spent the better part of my life reproductively challenged, infertile. Hell, it took surgery and thousands of dollars in drugs to get me pregnant the first time. And, believe me, I knew a gift from God when I got it—
Two perfect, perfect, perfect babies whom I love more than my life, who have given me my life’s purpose, who have made every tear I have every cried worth it, who completed me in ways I never thought possible, who make me a better person every day.
As much as I joked and secretly daydreamed of a third, I was okay. We were okay. Better than okay, perfect.
Then right before Christmas, I dreamed I was pregnant. Two days later, wide awake, we received what we believed was our Christmas miracle: a clearly positive pregnancy test without the help of any doctors.
Surely, this was our meant-to-be baby.
We excitedly and nervously told our close family and friends—the same people I thought I’d tell in the unlikely event that the unspeakable happened (because we naively thought at the time that they would be able to console us if I ever found myself sitting where I am right now. Stupid me. Nobody’s words can console me).
Instead, I just need somebody, anybody, everybody to hear my pain…
to tell me it’s okay to be mad at God- the same loving God who gave me Emily and Drew.
For four and a half weeks now, I have been pregnant with the idea of another baby—a brother or sister for Emily and Drew (although in my dreams there was no doubt it was a boy--another sweet blonde baby boy).
I thought of all the things that a newly pregnant woman thinks of—
How will we afford daycare for 3?
Will we need a bigger car?
Will I be able to have a VBAC?
Will the baby look like Emily or Andrew?
Wonder if it’s okay if I have this cup of half-caf?
Will I finally get to breastfeed?
Why did I give away all of my baby stuff?
What if there are two?
What if I miscarry?
You’d think that pondering that last question would have prepared me for today(It didn’t). You see, as someone who has fought anxiety and chronic worry her entire life, I have developed a pretty strong coping mechanism—playing the "what-if" game and working through worst case scenarios. And, if you peek far enough into the dark recesses of my mind, you’d see that I somehow thought worrying could keep the bad stuff away.
Well, God, you proved your point—my worrying doesn’t do shit.
Now the what-ifs have changed.
What if my miscarriage was the result of something else (despite the doctor’s assurances that "it was nothing we did”…blah, blah, blah)?
Did I drink too much coffee?
Did I walk too fast that day in the pouring rain?
Did I jinx myself by telling a few people? By accepting those maternity clothes yesterday? By contemplating names? By allowing myself to be happy?
Did my advanced maternal age contribute to the likely “chromosomal abnormalities”?
Did I not pray enough?
Did I get too greedy thinking that I was really meant to have another miracle?
Maybe time will give me other emotion but right now I am…
Sad. Of course.
Damn right. I am angry.
And, this emotion surprises me most.
Angry that the switch has been flipped.
You see, before we saw those two lines over a month ago, I was content with what I had.
But once I knew there was a baby growing inside me, I wanted that baby with a fierceness that I hadn’t known since I found out I was pregnant with Emily and Drew.
As the shock faded, Marty and I both talked excitedly about the new baby.
And that excitement, that desire, that fierceness of love hasn’t died, even if the doctor says our baby has. (Oh, what it the doctor was wrong? Confusion. Delusion.)
And, tomorrow, when my womb is again empty, that love and wanting will remain.
And that angers me.
One of the cruelest parts of infertility is hearing people say it will happen when you quit trying.
Even the doctor said today something along the lines of healing, just going with life like we did before and we’d probably get pregnant again. Or something like that. Blah. Blah. Blah.
But, the switch has been flipped. There is no going on with life as before.
Whereas the light was once off on the real idea of a third baby, now there’s a spotlight on the prospect.
Telling someone who wants a baby to not try is like telling someone who wants to live not to breathe.
I wanted this baby.
And the fear of the want consuming me makes me
Because I don’t want to get on the conception train again.
Waiting for period. Ovulation tests. Temping. Timed “intercourse.” Two week waits. Wasted pregnancy tests with only one line. Months ticking along. Disappointment. Fertility doctors. Vitamins. Acupuncture. Shots. Ultrasounds. Waiting. Fear. Hope. Disappointment. Failure. Anger. Repeat.
Because I was okay not being pregnant.
Because now I fear I won’t be able to give up the dream of a third.
Because I have more than I ever deserved in Emily and Andrew but I can’t help but want more…
Because a baby was dangled in front of me and then snatched away...
Because wanting more when I have been blessed already makes me feel dirty with guilt.
Because I can’t make sense of the pain.
Because I can’t understand why.
Because I can’t sleep, drink, or wish this nightmare away.
So excuse me while I go for my fourth cup of fully-caffeinated coffee since learning my current caffeine intake doesn’t fucking matter. Excuse me while I alternate between screaming, crying, silence, writing,and spreading my personal tragedy out for the world to see in a pathetic attempt to make sense of the loss—the anger.
While I needed to get this out, get the pain in words, feel the collective support of those around me, I also need to disappear for a while.
Excuse me while I take some time away from the blog, Facebook, work, and my phone.
I am turning it all off (literally and figuratively) to surround myself with the only medication I need: my family in front me, the babies I do have.
I don’t need anything right now other than your love, your prayers, and your understanding.
While I cry out to God in anger, I also find myself begging him for healing, peace, strength, clarity, and acceptance.
Because, really, what else is there to do?