A Letter

Dear Baby,

 

I’ve been thinking about the future and in a non-morbid more-of-a-practical way I’ve been thinking about things like my immanent demise. Not like, (good gods I hope not), tomorrow or anything, but as I’ve learned ever so deeply this year, things don’t always happen how or when we think they will.

 

You haven’t even been conceived yet, but I’m thinking a lot about you. You see, your father and I want to meet you desperately. It took a long time after our great disappointment this past year to get excited about trying to meet you. It is scary and hard to trust that we might or might not get the chance.

 

You see, your older brother was supposed to be born next week.

 

I say brother because I am certain that is what he would have been. Of course, we will never know for certain. And I say supposed to because if everything had gone as planned, he would have been.

 

But as I’ve said, things don’t always go according to plan, or expectation, or hope.

 

But we’re finally managing to stay positive that you might someday arrive, and hopefully, that day will be soon.

 

As I said, I’ve been thinking about the other side of things a bit this week. Like, your daddy and I should each write a Last Will and Testament. I’ve never thought about needing one. But now that I have a husband, it seems so much more important. And if you come to stay with us it will be more important still. And then I started thinking just now, what if something happened to me after you arrived and you never really got to know me personally. You would have stories from your dad, and your grandparents, and your aunts and uncles. You would have stories from our friends. And hopefully you would feel like you had known me even just a little.

 

So I decided to write you this letter, baby girl. This letter is so that you know a few more things about me that you’d probably hear from your dad and some other important people, but I want you to hear it from me, too.

 

Because I assumed you would be reading this after I was gone, I had at first written it in past tenses, though perhaps it would be more comforting, though potentially more confusing, in the present tense. It might be a little muddled, but I hope it is ok.

 

Dear Baby,

Mommy was a dancer. She loved modern dance and ballet. Sometimes she even did belly dancing and ballroom dancing (which she learned with Daddy before they got married). She loved her pointe shoes, but they hurt her feet a lot. Hopefully some of them will survive so that you can see them. But don’t put them on your feet, because you might get injured if you do so before your teacher says you are ready. If you ask Nana, that is why Mommy’s ankles always hurt her so much. When she went to college, Mommy danced an awful lot and got very good at it. She even taught other kids to dance after she graduated. She doesn’t think she did a very good job at this, but she loved helping those kids enjoy dance as much as she did. There are a few photographs of Mommy dancing, and if you can find a VHS player you can even watch a video of her. Movement was very important as a mode of expression, as an art form, and as her voice, when words would not suffice. Mum hopes you will find that joy as well, whether in dance, or another artform.

 

Mommy loved to make costumes. She loved to sew and to knit. She loved playing make-believe and she loved fairy stories. But really she liked to be practical too. Sometimes these things worked very well together.

 

Mommy hoped that you would love Harry Potter like she did and that you will always be brave even when you are really very scared. Mommy hopes you will read To Kill a Mockingbird so you can understand about courage from the words of Harper Lee and Atticus Finch.

 

Mom liked to cook and to bake. Well, she Loved it, really. But it took her a long time to find the confidence to do it. She was often afraid she was messing everything up but was particularly giddy when something turned out just right, because that made it seem like it was really beyond perfect.

 

And Mommy loved you more than all of it.

 

So, now, little baby that hasn’t even been conceived, I hope you know a couple important things about your mother now. I hope you will never have to read these things to know them. I hope you will know them from me personally. Because I want you to help me to sew pretty clothes for you. And I want you to help me measure the flour for biscuits. And I want you to dance with me and your daddy, and laugh, and read fairy tales, and be brave warriors. I want us to do all these things together. But in case we can’t, now you have this little letter, from me to you.

 

Love, Mum.

A Curious Queary, or The Bloody Truth

I had a horrible headache today. So, like, a light migraine. Which sounds so tame compared to how it actually feels.

When asked about it by a male client, I informed him it was likely hormone related.

He asked if that meant good news….I asked for clarification, but of course he meant, “are you pregnant?”

I said, no, I have my period. To which he replied, “I didn’t need to know that.”

 

This makes my brain hurt, which isn’t helpful on top of the finally waning migraine. As my thoughts sort themselves out, this one comes to the forefront:

 

How is it your business if I’m making a human inside my womb, but too much information if I am not?

 

Get your priorities straight. You should not pry into my personal life and then get offended when I offer the truth freely. We have, in this culture, a messed up sense of ownership of personal information that relates to a much bigger issue of women’s health and the ownership our society feels in discussing, controlling, and silencing it.

Just as we need to open up the discussion on miscarriage and pregnancy and child loss, we need to find a better way to speak openly about all women’s health issues that face us on a daily basis, until we are at a place culturally where we as a people can take complete ownership of our own bodies without fear and without shame.

 

The Procreation Question

We probably all know someone who has asked it. We have probably, most of us, been the one asking. It is a seemingly polite question that holds in its core the potential for horribly painful reactions, whether or not the asker ever sees the result.

 

“You just got married! When are you having kids????”

 

This happened to us at Sam’s Club just this afternoon. A well meaning relative, who hasn’t been up to date on our situation, as he is from a section of the family we simply don’t see very often, congratulated us on our recent marriage and followed it up with, “So when are the babies due? How many months??”

 

I spent the next fifteen minutes balling in the car before I could breathe enough for us to get back on the road and go to Wegmans, my eyes red and puffy, and the ache rising in my head.

 

He didn’t know. He meant well. But that one simple question is like a knife right in the heart. Even when I think I am finally going to be okay. 

 

I want children. I want them very much. And I was going to have one. And then that opportunity vanished in the space of a breath.

 

And I cannot hear the question of “When are you going to have children?” without at the very least a spasm of misery. Because I was going to have a child. I was going to be his mother. I was going to love him unconditionally. For all the days of our lives and more.

 

All we can say when people ask us is, “Not right now. We have a lot going on. O yes, in the future. Yes, we want them.”

 

And I know each questioner is trying to be polite. Okay, some are just being unbearably nosy and selfish. But for the most part, it is a simple, common question, intended to be kind.

 

I am sure I have inquired. I am sorry if I offended or upset you. I had no idea what you might have been struggling with, or what you wanted or didn’t want. That’s probably why I asked.

 

I can’t tell you not to ever ask. Someday, maybe I’ll be ready to respond without choking on my words. Right now, though, it’s impossible. Either I’ll blurt out “Well, after I ‘get over’ the loss of my first pregnancy,” or more likely, I’ll politely say, “O, not right now,” and wish I had a better, more truthful answer, that won’t feel like an attack. 

 

Just, right now, I can not handle it.

Hollowed

It has been a while since I posted. But I have something really important to say, so I’m going to say it here, and hope that it reaches a lot of people, because it’s something we don’t talk about, and that makes us not want to talk about it, even when what we really need is to talk about it, so that it’s not so fucking scary and we maybe don’t feel so goddamned alone.

A friend just posted the following link on FB and I have to say, I think it’s really well said.

Why Miscarriage Matters When You Are Pro-Life

The entire post made me think a lot about pregnancy and the various outcomes. And I think I’m finally able to say my part.

Perhaps I ought not have to say this, but I also feel I should, so that you understand I am not in any way preaching, but rather sharing something that I experienced, in hopes that more people understand. The other author was able to present her viewpoint with grace and without judgement, and I hope I can do the same.

I am Non-Theistic.

I am Pro-Choice.

I believe that choice is each woman’s right. But I must be clear that this belief does not stop me from being extremely envious of those of you who had the choice to make. To those unfamiliar with what being Pro-Choice actually means, the following might seem less Pro when compared to how eloquently the other author explained the Pro-Life side of things. I assure you, just because I would have kept my baby does not mean that I think anyone should be forced to carry to term when they do not wish to.

The following gets a little rambly. But that’s how my brain is these days.

I had a miscarriage and it hurt and continues to hurt like Hell, physically, spiritually, mentally, emotionally.

My baby, our baby, never even had a chance.

We had a pregnancy condition known as Blighted Ovum. I say ‘known’ but the truth is that not very many people know this is even a possibility. We didn’t, and most people we have told haven’t heard of it either.

I am still shocked, stunned, and brokenhearted.

A blighted ovum occurs when the genetic material is somehow messed up. This seems to be the problem causing a huge number of miscarriages. Everyone we talked to simply stated that ‘it’s most likely a problem with the chromosomes’ but no one has ever explained what that means. No doctor, midwife, nurse, article, or blog entry has ever explained why, when the egg and sperm were able to create a pregnancy at all that they could be so . . . . dysfunctional. And that hurts, too. Not knowing hurts. Not understanding hurts.

So what happens when the chromosomes are all effed up? When the gestational sac forms, the fetus simply doesn’t. The material simply does not come together. It does not form. And you are left looking at an ultrasound of a black empty space in your womb where your baby should be.

And then you go home and you cry harder than you have ever cried. And you shake. And you nearly hyperventilate. And you scare the shit out of your dog, and probably all your neighbors. And you figure they probably think you are being murdered, because how can anyone still be alive after wailing so loud for so long and crying until there can’t possibly be anything left to cry out.

And you are left to shakily write an email to your far-flung family members telling them the news that you cannot possibly say out loud during a phone call which you will never ever get through because you’d have to speak with words that someone might be able to understand. Words that in your mind equate to, “Sorry, I’m a big fat liar.” or perhaps, “Just Kidding! LOL.” But in truth, they are words that crush your soul. And you have your husband hit the send button because you can’t bear to do so – to make it real.

And you have to put away the toys you and your husband stealthily bought at Christmastime, and the irreplaceable and probably handmade present sent from your sister wrapped up with a little note “For ???” (the place holder ‘name’ you had given your little Zygote when you first told everyone you were expecting with an adorable family portrait of the two of you pointing to your hidden belly with your dog in the background looking jealous), and the books on pregnancy, and the prenatal workout dvds, and the prenatal vitamins, and the nausea suckers, and the positive HPT, and your hopes and your dreams.

And you have to go on. And you have to find the strength to either tell everyone what you can’t bear to say aloud or suffer in silence pretending everything is all right because you cannot explain it again, you can’t say it out loud.

And you have to wait. You have to wait for that babyless mass in your uterus to decide it knows it no longer belongs there. You have to wait, knowing you are going to miscarry.

You can choose to abort. But then, the doctor could have been wrong. And even though all your symptoms of pregnancy have stopped, you still hold on to that fragment of hope, that tiny little mustard seed of faith, that you might just might have been less far along and maybe your baby will show up soon. Maybe it’s still going to happen.

But then one day you start to bleed, just a little at a time, and for a week you bleed, and you wonder when you’ll stop. Because the midwives and nurses told you that you would probably just experience a heavier than normal period.

[Boy were they fucking wrong.]

And then a week after you started bleeding you wake up at 2:45 in the morning with cramps that feel like a knife is stuck in your SI joint. And you go to the bathroom, and get back in bed, and climb right back out again because you can’t find a position that is comfortable, and then you spend the next 8 or 9 hours basically in labor, mostly sitting on the toilet because the waves of tissue extracting themselves from your uterus just keep on coming. And you crouch, sobbing on the floor between contractions. And you have to, in the middle of all this, call your clients to cancel their appointments for that day and they want to know when they can rebook and you want to say, “I DON’T FUCKING KNOW HOW ABOUT WHEN I AM NOT VOMITING MY LOWER INTESTINES OUT OF MY VAGINA,” but you calmly try to find your pocket calendar and reschedule on a day you hope that you will be able to stand upright again.

And then your pelvis hurts so much that you can barely walk, and your thighs hurt in a bruised sort of way like they’ve been beaten because of how long you sat on the toilet, and you give up your ideas of a perfect natural birth someday, and go to the pharmacy and pick up your narcotics to try to dull the pain of what just happened to you.

And then, slowly, you start to make a list of things you can do now that you are no longer pregnant. It’s a list to try and find some happiness. Ours includes travel, and weight loss (I was 20 lbs overweight when we conceived and I plan to be way healthier before we try again, for my own sake, if for no other reason), and drinking every bottle of my favourite wine that I can get my hands on.

And there is so much fear. Will it happen again? Statistically, probably not. Will something else go wrong? Possibly. There is no way of telling. I did everything right during this pregnancy. No alcohol. Balanced diet. Exercise.

It didn’t matter. There was nothing we could have done differently to prevent it. Nothing.

That doesn’t make it easier.

I have struggled with depression and anger and guilt. I do every day. Every day.

I’m not going to get over it. I am hoping I can get through it.

I hope you never have to experience this first hand. I hope to whatever power is out there that you never have to experience this first hand. It sucks. OK? It sucks. And I am not okay and I won’t suddenly be okay. So please don’t expect me to be.

Know that I am extremely grateful to my amazing husband who has been my stability, my shoulder, my co-mourner, my heart and my light through all of this.

There are a lot of articles on things you should never say to someone in my position and I recommend you look them up real quick before you respond to this or anyone else’s story.

FYI, I don’t take sympathy well. It makes me queasy, to be honest. And advice can go jump off a bridge. Seriously. So, just don’t.

But now you all know a fraction of what I’ve been experiencing for the past two months.

And why when I say I am pro-choice, I mean it with as much of my heart as I can muster.

And yes, it still makes me choke that I did not get that choice.

But everyone deserves your respect and your sympathy, whatever your views have been on abortion and miscarriages. Please just try to spare a little love for every single being, whether they ever made it or not, for whatever reason.

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