I hadn't forgotten about this blog. I was staying away from it because I just wasn't ready to write anymore. Not this way. I still wrote in my journal. Not daily, but at least a few times a month. Especially on days when I simply couldn't keep a handle on my emotions. But blogging is something different. Putting my feelings, my life, out in a place that isn't just my own, that I can't slide underneath my side of the bed and know that no one would read; I just wasn't able to do it. But if I am going to come back, to really commit to this blog and be honest about our lives, I can't just put our friends' antics into print. I have to put myself out here as well. So here goes. These are the words that I have never been ever to write, not even in my journal. Words that haven't gotten easier to say in the past four months.
I had a miscarriage.
It may not seem like anything to you, the person reading this, it may be common occurance, but for me...
I hope that this helps me, and if not me, maybe someone else, some random Googler who is going through the same thing, to heal. To know that it is not easy,that your feelings are valid, that something isn't wrong with you and it isn't your fault that this happened.
It happened on a Friday afternoon. I was with my mentee/little sister and I just didn't feel right, so I took her home, called my brother and at his suggestion, stopped at the Exxon to use the restroom. I remember pink streaks on the tissue, not blood, and despite all of the books saying that this was normal, I knew something just wasn't right. So, I drove myself straight to the Brookwood emergency room, frantically trying to reach Theo on his cell. I remember every second of that night. My former stylist Anita being in the emergency room with her daughter, trying to get me to calm down and requesting immediate assistance. Theo and Marlon rushing in. Screaming in the hospital restroom. Kandis, Frenchie and Jessi holding my hand. Theo's face. Drinking lots of water so that they could do an ultrasound. Pain on the right side of my body. My parents and G driving in from Florence in record-time. Theo's face. Waiting for a doctor to tell me something I already knew. Theo holding my hand, telling me no matter what happened, everything would be ok, that we would be ok.
She said it so matter of factly, the doctor. I just remember Theo's face. My husband, struggling to keep it together. It is so hard for me to write this, tears streaming down my face even now. I keep flashing back to the first part of that day, that beautiful Friday after that awful storm had ravaged our city. You know how calm it gets after a storm? And how it seems so...wrong for the sun to shine so brightly and the wind to blow and flowers to still bloom? Just a few days earlier than that Friday, tornadoes had come through and completely destroyed entire neighborhoods. But that day, that Friday, my world had started out beautifully.
My friend David, who is also our realtor, Allison and I had gone house-hunting and found, what we had thought, was THE one. It was beautiful and big and had absolutely everything Theo and I had been looking for. I remember dancing in the foyer, picking out which room would be the baby's, talking about painting the kitchen with Allison, my very own drill sergeant/Martha Stewart, and deciding that the backyard would definitely be big enough for a swingset. We arranged for Theo and I to have another showing that Sunday, so he could see it, love it, then we could make an official offer.
That was just 3 hours earlier.
I hated having to look at Theo, my family and our friends. But, I loved them so much for being there. When we walked out of the ER doors, the waiting room was filled with people. Filled. But instead of the seats being occupied by sick and/or hurt people, they were reserved for our friends and family. People who had left work, ended their date nights early, driven from afar, done whatever it took to be there with us, with me, when I couldn't be there for myself. I felt like a failure. I didn't care what anyone said, doctors, friends, websites, whatever. I didn't care. I felt as if body couldn't do what it was supposed to do, when it was supposed to do it. I know now that it DID, but it still doesn't hurt any less.
People say, "Oh, it just wasn't the right time," and "Something must have been wrong," and "God knows best," like it is just supposed to be better because they say these things. Like you should just say, "Okay, you're right, let's go home!" and all is right in your world. Guess what? It's not.
Despite people's best efforts to make me feel better, I had never felt more alone. Damaged. I learned that others have a inate need for a person to seem 'better' as quickly as possible. I had only been pregnant for a short time, after all. Wasn't it better that I find out now instead of later, when I had gotten attached? People didn't seem to realize that I was attached. I know 6 weeks isn't 6 months, but it is long enough to get excited about something. To look forward to something. To really have joy. I remember that being pregnant made me look at myself differently. I remember feeling different. Beautiful. Strong. I loved that feeling. I loved the excitement on my husband's face. I loved the pride in my mother's voice. I remember being so afraid that I would somehow mess it all up. Terrified that something would go wrong. And then, it did. I felt guilty. I felt like a failure. I felt like I had nothing to look forward to anymore. And no one could understand. I was just supposed to be 'better'.
The doctor prescribed painkillers that I really wasn't too interested in taking. I wasn't a very good patient. Instead of taking the meds as prescribed, I would wait and take the pills once the pain became unbearable. And then, like a child, I would fight the sleep that would attempt to come as a side-effect. I think I still have 1/2 a bottle of them left in our medicine cabinet. I just wasn't that interested in being doped up as a means of coping. The pain in my abdomen was minimal compared to the pain I suffered emotionally. I took the meds for about 2 days.
Those days, that week after the miscarriage, I learned so much about myself, about others, about life. I looked to my husband, who surprised me in how well he handled himself and the situation, and how he wanted so badly, needed me to be myself again. He did things without my asking, without my knowledge, things I never would have thought of, but was so glad that he had. When my pregnancy was confirmed, I had gone to the library and checked out as many books on the subject as possible. I had magazines and brochures from the Dr. Roberts, pregnancy cookbooks strewn all over our apartment. On Saturday afternoon, when I finally woke, I realized that our home was spotless and completely void of anything having to do with pregnancy. Theo had taken all of the books back to the library, and later I found all of the magazines and brochures packed away in a box, deep inside of our walk-in closet. The pregnancy test that he had squealed over, then the second that he had needed me to take "just to be sure", that he had labeled with the date, were sealed away in a plastic bag, in the box as well. Finding those things, over a month later, my heart ached for this man, my husband, who had hidden his hurt so well so that I could rely on his strength. I love him.
I also learned that on that Saturday, while I slept, he had my Jeep fitted with all new tires and brakes, things that I had barely noticed I needed, but he knew all along. Breakfast was waiting for me, though it was aleady past noon, all of the things I loved, exactly how I liked them, from the IHOP down the street. And though he wasn't home when I got out of bed that day, he had only recently left, and shortly thereafter there was a light knock on the door, then a key in the lock, and a friend he had called (and given a key to), came in to give me a warm hug. We watched The Joneses and The Joy Luck Club, Krystle and I. Not talking about anything, deliberately avoiding a subject I just wasn't ready to talk about. I loved her for just being there, my friend.
By Sunday, Theo desperately needed me to smile. He wanted me to just get past it, to get on with our lives. "I want my wife back," he said as we stood on our porch, leaning over the stair railings. Didn't he realize I wanted the same thing? But, I simply couldn't imagine that things could ever be the same. That I could smile again instead of wanting to cry. How would he expect me to be back to the way I was, so soon? Could I ever be? I wanted to be happy again, to be the old me. The me that smiled and laughed and maked lame jokes. I was so afraid that 'she' was lost to me forever. Kandis came over that day. I remember her call came while I was at the grocery store. I had needed to get out of the house, so I tried to do something that was 'normal' to me. The gym was out. Work was out. So, to the store I went. I cried in Publix that day. All I could remember thinking was, "I lost my baby." Except nobody thought it was a baby, it seemed, but me. Kandis called right before I completely lost it, standing in front of the aisle with all the baby things. It was if, she knew that very second that I needed her. She asked if I wanted some company. A part of me almost said no, because I didn't want to have to pretend to be 'better'. But the other part of me realized how selfless it was for someone to offer to be with you when you are at your lowest. Kandis is like that. Selfless. Kind. She made cookies that day. I think we ate the entire pan. And she painted my toenails. And she hugged me something fierce when I broke down. She told me all the things I had heard from nurses and the doctor, but when she said it, I really wanted to believe her. That it wasn't my fault. That it was because my body knew something was wrong. That God knows what is best and was looking out for us. That is was better that it happened then instead of much later. I wanted so badly to believe her. More than anyone and anything else, I clung to what she said. And even though I didn't believe her then, I wanted to try.
I had a doctor's appointment the next day. I had been scheduled to come that day anyway. Cruel fate. Initially, that had been the date of my check-up and blood work. My parents came back to Birmingham so that my mother could be with me when my doctor confirmed what another had already told me. The nurse, my favorite nurse, LaLa, cried with me and my mother.And Dr. Roberts assured me that everything looked ok, that just because this happened doesn't mean anything, and that there is nothing that can be done to ensure that it doesn't happen again, so stop worrying about that I cannot control. Theo urged me to go back to Florence with my parents for the week since he was going to have to leave for Columbus that night. And so, I allowed my parents the chance to take care of me. And I saw my mother experience the same helplessness I felt, in that she ached for me not to have to go through what I was going through, but there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.
I realized that no one really knows what to do in life. All of us are just going through, our first time and last time here on Earth, living life the way we hope God wants us to. We just handle things the best that we can when the time comes. My parents, my husband, our friends, they wanted so badly to right the wrong, but they didn't know how. None of us do. We just have to be there for each other, and pray that time will help in the healing.
It was really hard for me to see pregnant women and babies. It still is, actually. It is a visual reminder of what I once had, but lost. I remember sitting in a meeting at work, then having to rush out in tears after sitting across from a pregnant woman for 2 hours. I couldn't bear it. I get a pang every time I log onto Facebook and see yet another status update announcing a pregnancy or photo uploads of pregnancy progress. I get so conflicted, because though I am happy for them, I cannot help but feel sad for us. I still feel, at times, that I failed. Irrational it may be, these are my feelings and I own them.
Frenchie, one of my very best friends, and I were due on the same day in December. After my miscarriage, I was so afraid that I would scare her, or that I would feel differently towards her. I don't. If anything, I am more protective of her. I hope she does not look at me differently. I hope she is not afraid. I am so sorry that our loss will mar her pregnancy in that she will always know that we had begun our journey together. I am sorry that I am not carrying a twin-friend for her little girl. I am so thankful that despite my miscarriage, we still have something and someone to be excited about. I was so, so scared that I wouldn't be able to even look at Frenchie. That our friendship would change somehow. But I realized that I love her so much, and Marlon, and Brooklyn, that I could not help but have joy in my heart for them. I am so happy that "we" are having a baby. And when I look at my beautiful friend, I see her and what a wonderful gift it is to have her in my life, not the pain of my loss. When we are together, these days, I hardly even connect the two. I know now that it just wasn't our time.
I feared, and at times still fear, that something will happen to us again. But I can't live my life consumed by that fear. I have faith that whatever happens in our future, is meant to be. Theo and I will have our family, one day, when the time is right. God does know what is best for us. It has taken me a long time to get to this point, but now that I am here, I am a firm believer. I am so, so very blessed. And I trust God.
I hope people read this and take something away from it. Every week, without fail, someone comes to me and asks when I am going to have a baby, when my husband and I plan on starting a family. People do that to women of a certain age. Like, if you make it to 29 without a kid, you are a dried up hag. People do this to single women who are in long-term relationships, "when ya'll gonna get married?" I cannot believe that people think these are questins that are okay to ask another. The question is almost an attack on the recipient, like something is wrong with them since they don't have a child or a husband. Seriously, the question isn't appropriate, and isn't one that is always easy to answer. And now, it sucks even more because when people ask me why, after 3.5 years of marriage, my husband and I are childless, it is heartbreaking on my end to have to tell them, obviously a stranger because if they were a friend of mine, they would already know. Not that it is any of their business, but my answer to "when are you going to get pregnant" is now, "well, I was pregnant, but then I miscarried," and I say it with an implied, "See, now we are both uncomfortable because of your rude and intrusive question, thanks, you jackhole." But instead of getting the point, people like to go on and on about, "Well, when you try again, it will happen soooo fast," and "oh, that happened to so and so and they got pregant two months later,"or "now, you will have twins," and my personal favorite "well, you need to go ahead and try again before it is too late." Nice. People really do suck sometimes.
So what is the point of all of this? Honestly, I don't know. Basically, just putting it out there. This is supposed to be about our lives, and so here it is. Listen, my story isn't anything extraordinary. A lot of women miscarry. The ER doctor said that 1 in 5 pregnancies end in miscarriage. It's funny, until it happens to you, you never really notice how much something happens. How common something may be. Well, it wasn't 'common' to me, no matter how many people it may happen to, every day. It wasn't anything that I could have prevented. I know that, and it is scary because of the fact that there really was nothing I could do. But, I count my blessings every day, especially when things get tough and I find myself feeling a little down. God is awesome and has a plan for all of us. Still, I wish things like this didn't happen to anyone. That miscarriages didn't occur. But they do. I know. It happened to us.
