Of Clean Slates and Second Chances; or, Answers

I periodically wondered in the last three years since our first miscarriage if it would be better to know or not know why it happened. Not "Why it Happened" in a religious or fatalistic or moral sense or anything like that, but just literally, physically, why this happened. What was wrong? Why didn't this baby make it?

I never found out last time. We waited and waited for the results to come back, but when they did we didn't learn anything. It wasn't even clear whose tissue was tested.

I expected something similar this time around. I was prepared to once again accept not knowing forever.

Triploidy. Three full sets of chromosomes instead of two. Invariably fatal with almost no chance of live birth.

I think it's better to know. The doctors always say "It's not your fault," and we tell each other that on blogs and message boards. And we say we believe it. And we kind of do.

Maybe it's just me, but there's a part that always wondered nevertheless if it didn't have to be like that. If there was a chance for those nuggets after all, if they'd belonged to someone else. I couldn't help feeling a little bad about that thought, either.

We have a meeting with a genetic counselor at my OB's office next week, so I'll know more after that point. From what I've read, though, this--triploidy--really is the freak accident people always ascribe miscarriage to. Ironic that after cycle after cycle of sperm refusing to meet eggs, two apparently got there at the same time. Probably. Possibly.

For whatever reason, I feel comfort in the fact that this was never meant to be--this little one could never have become our baby. Any further gestation would have simply prolonged the inevitable, so I even feel gratitude that it happened when and how it did. I take some reassurance from the fact that there really isn't any increased likelihood of this specific chromosomal abnormality occurring for us again, though I can't rule out the possibility that it will.

I've thought a lot about the differences between this miscarriage and the last, and obviously the biggest difference is made by Smudgie, who makes all the difference in the world. This is another-- to have a reason or a diagnosis or a cause allows for a sort of closure. But beyond all that, I think there's a difference in me, too. I'm three years older now. Those three years were filled with horribly low lows and wonderfully high highs and all those lows and highs and the ways that I dealt with them, whether well or badly, changed me.

I worry a lot about what comes next. I think about the possibly rough road ahead. The months of trying, the difficulty of treatment, vividly come back to me as I anticipate the next year or so of our lives.

And then I stop myself and say: I have a son, and he's everything. If he is all I ever have, he will be enough. And I did this before, and it turned out fine--better than fine. It was wonderful. Which doesn't mean it will be again. But it also doesn't mean it won't be. So have faith. And be calm.

The years of trying and losing-- they take a toll. I know full well how ugly it can look, the business of surviving until the next day. I don't blame myself for those uglier emotions, the anger and bitterness and selfishness that came along with all the pain. But I also don't celebrate them, and I realize that not everyone who goes through this becomes as warped as I did during the experience.

So with all the questions that I have about what comes next, perhaps the most central (today, anyway) is just to wonder: who will I be at the end of whatever lies ahead? Whoever that person is, I hope she can reflect on these yet-to-come months or years and feel, not just understanding and forgiveness, but pride that this time struggle inspired her best.

The News I Thought I Was Going to Share and What Became of It; or, November, Again, Always

I've read some special posts in the last few months. Women who'd been through hell to get their long-awaited miracles and then, unexpectedly, found luck and joy when they weren't even looking for it. Women who kept these secrets close to their hearts until 12 weeks or 16 weeks, some point when the crazy dream started to feel real, and then revealed on their blogs that they weren't "cured" but somehow they were, and blogged about the tremendous awe and gratitude they felt.

This was supposed to be one of those posts.

But you've probably figured out right about now that it's not.

***

On Halloween, I got the surprise of my life. Okay, truth be told, I wasn't actually that surprised. My period was almost a week late. The surprise came in the fact that I was doing what I was doing at all--going into the bathroom, peeing in a cup, taking out the very last dollar store pregnancy test left in the drawer, left over from before Smudgie's conception, so old I had no idea if it would even work.

We weren't trying. We weren't tracking. The basal body thermometer stayed in the drawer. I never once thought of pulling out the $200 fertility monitor sitting next to the pregnancy test in the bathroom. Two periods since night weaning. That was it. One normal (for me) 35-day cycle. And the next one we maybe had sex twice.

In all honesty, I didn't even really want to be pregnant right then. I was so happy with my little family the way it was. I felt no urgency or compulsion to make it larger just yet. I had plenty to occupy myself-- a growing, amazing 13-month-old little boy just learning to walk and talk, a wonderful husband to finally reconnect with now that we were getting a little more sleep, a dissertation to write, a conference to prepare for, races to run, a life to live. The thought of returning to try to conceive was unbearable. So I didn't think about it. I just lived my life.

Waiting to go back into the bathroom and check the test, I imagined seeing that it was negative, and my heart sank into my gut. So that told me something.

It was positive.

***
Over the next few weeks, it continued to feel like a strange dream. I'd forget about being pregnant for long stretches of time-- having an active baby to follow around and care for will do that--but even when I remembered, even when I talked about names with LG or pictured in my head how we would rearrange Smudgie's room to accommodate a toddler bed and more clothes or tried to wrap my mind around how we were going to handle childcare for two kids in less than a year-- it all felt exceedingly academic. An exercise for my brain, not for my heart. And really, not even for my body.

I was tired. I peed more. I was occasionally crampy. That was it. My boobs didn't even hurt (probably because I was still nursing until told to stop by my doctor a few weeks ago) which was why I waited so long to take the test. But it didn't really worry me-- I'd had no nausea until 8 weeks with Smudgie, after all, and tons of nausea with the m&m, the first pregnancy. Symptoms don't mean anything.

And I knew I was pregnant, because I kept getting confirmation from my gynecologist. A 5 week appointment with a sack and yolk sac. A 7 week appointment with a right-sized pole and a heartbeat--133 bpm, perfectly on track. I'd had to take Smudgie to the appointment with me, because LG was at work, and the nurse held him up to listen while my doctor filled the room with the sound of a beating heart. "That might be your little brother or sister!" the nurse said to my son. "We'll see you in 15 months," my doctor told me with a big hug as she waved me out the door. "With two kids!"

***
I knew how lucky we were of course. After trying for so hard and so long the first time, enduring so much, doing so much damage to our hearts and lives together and even, though not irreparable, a bit to our love for each other, how could we not look at this as the unexpected and astoundingly precious gift that it was?

I was also nervous. This really wasn't part of the plan. Would I be able to finish my degree with two kids less than two years apart? Would we be able to stay in this apartment the length of time I felt we needed to for the security of our investment? And if we stayed, how would we all fit? How would all the stuff fit? How was I going to be able to carry two kids up and down the two flights of stairs to our walk-up every day and also maintain my sanity? How the hell was I going to be able to do this? Was I ready for the midnight wakeups again? The return to nursing bras and spraying milk and hours-long feeding sessions? Didn't I just finish with all of that?

There were deeper concerns. I felt detached, unemotional. The intense agony and fear that accompanied every waking moment of my first trimester with Smudgie had been replaced by a calm acceptance of the will of God or fate or whatever you want to call it. "What will be will be," I thought. "Let's see how this pans out." I listened to that heartbeat in the doctor's office without a tear, without even any real excitement. "Okay. One step down. Let's see what happens when we reach the next one."

I worried about this detachment. I worried that I was already loving this baby less than I loved my Smudgie. I worried that I could never love it as much as him. That the utter joy Smudgie brought into this world for so many people just by existing could not be replicated in this strange gift of a child. I know many parents of second children who have said they had similar fears before their younger kids were born, and that in the moment of their birth you realize how wrong you were to fear. I knew that when this baby came, I would love him or her unconditionally. As a result I didn't even feel guilty about my passing thoughts.

But still, they persisted. Is that how I would always think of my children? The baby I dreamed of, fought for, cried for, suffered for, and finally welcomed with the greatest rejoicing. And the one that just showed up on its own.

***
On Tuesday I had my first appointment at my OBs (my gynecologist does not deliver, but she will handle early first trimester monitoring). I had to attend alone, as LG needed to get Smudgie to his nanny share. It felt like no time had passed at all. Give the urine sample, get on the scale, talk to the doctor, pants off and on the table.

I think the doctor was bemused by my strangely calm reaction. "This wasn't planned," I said, as we finished our pre-exam conversation. "Do you have some reservations about this pregnancy?" she asked with concern. "No. But given our history, I don't want to get too invested before I know how it's going to turn out."

Almost immediately after she put the wand in, I realized something was wrong. The nurse asked if the doctor wanted the lights turned out. She didn't respond, just continued looking intently at the screen.

I lay my head back on the table. "It's happening again," I thought. "I can't believe this is happening again."

"I'm sorry, [Sloper]. I can't find a heartbeat."

She brought in another doctor to confirm-- the OB who delivered Smudgie, in fact. Yup. An 8 week embryo with no heartbeat. No one's fault. Nothing you did. Probably something wrong from the beginning.

I felt strangely calm and very afraid at the same time. "This is the second one. What does that mean?"

No one can really tell me.

***

I called Lawyer Guy while I pulled my jeans back on. He didn't answer. I didn't leave a message. I called again. Same thing. He knew it was bad news when he finally reached me. "If it was good, you would have just texted me." He felt terrible that he wasn't with me. Honestly, though, I realized it wouldn't have made a difference. I least I didn't have to worry about being strong for anyone else.

I sat in a coffee shop for two hours staring at a grapefruit and cup of tea, crying a little, thinking and not thinking, killing time until the volunteer session I had to run with a group of geriatric patients at the hospital around the corner. Then I spent an hour making Christmas cards with my volunteer committee and our elderly members. If I looked like hell, no one mentioned it.

I picked up Smudgie from his nanny share with a smile on my face. I chatted with his sitter as we walked down the street, my nerves strung tight, just waiting until she peeled off and left us so I could finally let that cheery demeanor drop.

I played with Smudgie on the floor of our apartment for an hour and every so often I grabbed him close and smelled his sweet neck and stroked his sweet hair. My precious boy.

It took me 24 hours to schedule it, but I finally opted for the d&c at the hospital with anesthesia. I felt paralyzed by indecision until I did. Like I was being asked to order from an a la carte menu designed by Satan's catering hall. D&C or natural miscarriage? And would you like your dead offspring with an extra order of genetic testing? If you choose the natural option, you'll have to provide your own tupperware.

Why can't the answer be e) None of the above?

***
Smudgie's OB did the d&c yesterday morning. I don't know if he did something differently than the first doctor or if having a vaginal delivery in between made the difference, but it was nothing like the previous time, when I woke up with searing pain and tons of blood and copious vomiting. They gave me zofran in my IV, so I had no reaction to the anesthetic. I have had essentially no pain at all since I woke. The bleeding has been minimal. I finally understand how people can return to work the next day without problems, which was unthinkable to me before given my previous experience.

We haven't told very many people. Our parents, my sisters, two of our close friends. That's it. What's there to say, really? Whoever we tell will feel uncomfortable, will say the things people say to people who have this sort of stuff happen to them and then we'll have to say the things back that we're supposed to say in response. Plus, if people don't know, we can't be disappointed in their reactions. It's not shame that makes us hide it. It's exhaustion.

***
So what comes next?

We wait for the testing. We hear the results. If it's normal or inconclusive, that's that. If it's abnormal, same thing. I've had all the repeat loss testing already, back with Dr. Wonderful, our RE. It all came back negative (with the exception of the single MTHFR mutation). And if it's abnormal, there are really only two options: either we've just had some unusually shitty luck. Or we've got some unusually shitty eggs or sperm.

Not much to be done in either case, is there?

We're not ready for more testing. We're not ready for more procedures. We're not ready to put our lives back on the treatment clock. We will eventually send these results to Dr. Wonderful at our clinic, but not until we're ready to do something about them. That time is not now.

For now, we're willing to wait. To try to return to something like the peace and contentment we felt before, to take a few months to heal and love each other, all three of us, without fear of the future or sadness for what isn't going to be. I hope we can.

***
I read something a long time ago, maybe on one of your blogs or in a newspaper, about the way they consider miscarriage in Japan. They have memorial sites set aside for lost babies where people visit and leave little trinkets and toys. They call them "water babies," babies who lost their way trying to go from the insubstantial to the solid. And sometimes they think that the spirits of those babies come back to their parents, keep making the attempt to be born, until one day, we hope, they succeed.

I like that thought. I like it better than the thought of a collection of angels on a shelf up in Heaven, getting dusty as they wait in eternally frozen arrested development for a family they will never have.

As I changed into my gown and slippers and hairnet before the surgery, I put my hands on my belly for the first time and spoke to the baby that weirdly, finally felt real.

"I'm sorry it didn't work out for us, baby July.  But we both did our best, so there's nothing to regret. I won't be mad at you if you won't be mad at me."

"It just wasn't your time yet. You tried to get here too early. But do come back again, and next time we'll be ready for you."

"I know we'll meet again."

Lighting Candles; or, October 15th

Last night, when I told Lawyer Guy that today is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, he sort of wearily sighed and said, "Isn't that every day?"

Point taken.

But his saying so helped me realize that, no, it isn't any more for me. I actually have days--or long stretches of time within a day, at least--when I don't think about the m&m and losing him or her. I never have a day without thinking about our struggle and our desire to get pregnant, but I do sometimes cease to think about the pregnancy we lost.

This sort of feels right. I grieved so hard for that baby for so long and it felt like the weight of my sadness would crush me sometimes. Now the moments when I feel overwhelmed by the sadness of the miscarriage are less frequent than the times I think of it with acceptance and peace.

This isn't to say I'm "over" what happened. I'm frequently taken aback by how much remembering that baby still can hurt: recounting our story to Dr. Man and Dr. Wonderful at our initial consultations, for instance, and in each meeting feeling myself fight back tears I hadn't realized I needed to shed. And maybe part of my acceptance and peace comes from the fact that we've just started down this new path to having a baby and I'm optimistic about success. After several months of disappointment and stasis, I may have a very different outlook. The only thing certain in this process is that the situations we encounter and our emotional responses to them will never be predictable.

I'm going to light a candle tonight in memory of the baby I was just beginning to suspect I carried at this time last year. This time--late October, as the world drifts into autumn slowly like a turning leaf--will always belong to that baby, so I'm glad that October 15th falls within the anniversary of his or her short life.

I do love you, m&m. Not the way I thought or hoped or dreamed I would, but the only way I can.

Returning; or, Confronting Anniversaries

Last night I cried myself to sleep. I can't remember the last time that happened--maybe the spring. I was remembering the d&c and reliving moments I had forgotten over the past 10 months: remembering how it felt to lie on the table as they hooked up the IV, tears running hot down my face into my ears and leaving cold tracks behind. I remembered sensing the doctor moving around the room and shouting (or so it seemed, it probably wasn't loud at all) "Don't do anything, I'm still awake!" And the nurses trying to focus my attention on other things and then finally losing consciousness. I remember waking up hunched in a ball with awful, searing cramps and a relentless need to vomit.

I remember moments of the pregnancy or the miscarriage frequently, and usually the memories lack the terrible charge they had during those first few weeks and months. They've regained much of that power recently, though. The weather's changing and I wore my grey wool tights and grey wool skirt to teach in yesterday. I remember standing in front of my classes in that outfit last October and November and thinking, "I'm pregnant and no one knows" and wondering how it was possible that something so amazing could be happening inside me without anyone sensing it.

I guess it's true that anniversaries are hard. Will you believe me if I say that I didn't think this one would be? I did okay when the potential due date came--I didn't dread it overmuch, didn't mourn incessantly, indulged in a few tears that night but was otherwise fine. But this is utterly different. It isn't just that I never thought I would still be in this terrible place a year later. It's more like my heart is involuntarily returning to that time over and over and over and that the grief is coming back with an edge it had lacked for a very long time. And I haven't even hit any of the dates of the pregnancy, I just feel them coming.

I'm tired of being sad. I want to be happy again. I'm tired of being a person who feels burdened by the past and who dreads the future. I want joy and lightheartedness, but I don't see the place for them in my life right now when everything is so heavy and dour.

L'Shana Tova; or, Happy New Year

I'm not Jewish, but Lawyer Guy and his family are, so we spent the eve of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year, at family dinners in the suburbs. In keeping with my generally crappy attitude of the past several weeks, there were a lot of moments in which I felt pretty sorry for myself:

- Driving with Lawyer Guy in almost two hours of traffic (in the car that I side-swiped into a wall in our parking garage yesterday afternoon).
- Watching my in-laws gush and coo and hover over my almost three-year-old niece.
- Watching the fat little baby my 5-month-old niece has turned into.
- Thinking how my baby would have been three months younger than Niece #2 (having a living yardstick by which to measure your never-born child rocks).
- Remembering last year's Rosh Hashanah dinner, when BIL and SIL showed the 12-week ultrasound of Niece #2 and I fought so hard to be friendly and interested and engaged in the conversations about the new baby and to smother the jealousy that even then started to surge.
- Realizing I have neither the desire nor the will to try to control my jealousy any longer.
- Remembering how I told myself last September that "this time next year" things would be different.
- Remembering that last year's Rosh Hashanah was the beginning of the cycle that led to my pregnancy.

And the big one, which always seems to be at the back of my mind these days:
- Realizing it's actually the autumn again, that October is a breath away and November right after, and that I'll soon be remembering the anniversary of the only pregnancy I may ever have.

Shit, it's really enough to break my heart sometimes.

Lawyer Guy came home with some pessimistic work news earlier in the week, and I told him that one of these days our luck has to change. Eventually, things have to start coming right again. I don't know if I actually believe that, but I needed to be supportive of him, and in the moments I said the words they did feel true. Nothing lasts forever, not even runs of crappy luck that are edging ever closer to the multi-year mark. Not even them.

It's a new post-miscarriage year. It's a new academic year. For my Jewish family, it's a new calendar year. And one week from today, we'll meet some REs and finally start a new phase in this process.

I'm not going to wave flags or toot noisemakers or drink champagne. I've gotten to the point in this process where I've realized that new years can look remarkably like old ones and that the simple passage of time is no magical palliative for all life's troubles.

But still. New is good.

To All My Weirdos; or, Resolutions, New Year's Unneeded

To all my wonderful internet weirdos: Thank you so much for your supportive posts. As much as I tell myself that my mom doesn't understand, it's really hard not to internalize the things she says and start beating myself up for being a self-indulgent mope, a whiny brat, or a defeatist loser. Having you say that I'm okay, you're okay helps immeasurably.

I've been thinking the past few days. I was serving on the jury of that case I told you about, so I had some time to think. Some late mornings at home to cry, hoping my eyelids would de-puff before I made it to the courthouse (but honestly not really caring if they did). I came to a possibly upsetting realization:

I wish I weren't trying to conceive right now.

Ladies, I'm tired. I am so, so tired. This is draining my soul. And the grief over losing my m&m-- a singular, precious individual who will never again appear in this world--is all tied up in anxiety over long cycles and short cycles and irregular cycles and luteal phases and strong temp shifts and weak temp shifts and no temp shifts. I wish I could have had six months to just be sad and not worry about the rest of this shit that's clogging up my life.

But (and there's always a but, right?) I want a baby. I don't want to push off the arrival of that baby any longer than fate and biology have already done for me. I want to give us our best shot at conceiving as quickly as possible, and I know that means pee sticks and temp checks and timed sex.

And truthfully, there were outside factors motivating jumping back into TTC right away. My doctor told me not to wait, for starters (she seemed to think we'd be more fertile post-miscarriage). I thought TTC would help me move on and heal. And then there were the less admirable reasons for trying: I wanted to be pregnant when my SIL gave birth (didn't happen). I wanted to be pregnant by my 30th birthday (12 days away, not happening). I wanted to be pregnant by my EDD (June 26th, unlikely to happen).

I think if we don't get pregnant this month--and based on 9 High readings with no ovulation, I'm feeling rather pessimistic about our chances--I want to take a month off. Still continue with unprotected, regular sex, but take a break from the monitoring and the temping.

Past breaks didn't work. They didn't actually relax me. They also didn't get me pregnant, as I hoped deep down they would. Only the monitor did. But the thought of a little breather from worrying about my ovulation makes me feel happy, so it's probably the right choice.

And then maybe I can stop having so many freaking downer posts on here. Jeez, what happened to me?

Mama Told Me There Shouldn't Be Days Like This Anymore; or, When's It Too Much?

Last night, my mother and I had another one of our unproductive conversations about the miscarriage. They happen like clockwork, once a month, and it's always the same scenario-- her offering well-meant advice that completely invalidates the feelings I've experienced in the last 5 months, and me responding with (I admit) rather hysterical distress.

This one started off because I mentioned that I'm definitely NOT going to spend Mother's Day at my in-laws with the new nieces this year, and followed that up by saying that I really don't want to go out to brunch or do much of anything and I'd rather not spend time thinking about it.

My mom got her panties in a wad over that and told me I should be grateful to have a mother and should think about people other than myself. Which I could have expected. She's always offended when we don't make a huge deal out of Mother's Day, even as she tries to act like she's above it and doesn't care (and for the record, I have taken my mom out to brunch in the city the last three years, alone, because I was the only sister living close to home. Now two of my younger sisters live in the area). But I honestly don't think it's asking so much to be spared thinking about a holiday that makes me so sad!

The Mother's Day issue aside, we launched into a variation on the same conversation we've had multiple times in the past, except my mom was more explicit than ever about telling me she thinks I'm dealing with things the wrong way. She said I'm turning this into a "negative" experience instead of trying to see the "positive" sides of it; she told me I seem to have a "chip on my shoulder" about other people's pregnancies/babies and she doesn't like to see it; she said I never seem "cheerful" any more; I don't seem like myself; I should feel grateful for all the good things in my life; and she thinks I have something chemically wrong with my brain as a result of the miscarriage hormones and I should talk to my gynecologist about it, rather than my therapist. She also thinks I need to find a support group (in real life, the internet doesn't count because there are so many "weirdos" on it) of women who are dealing with this "productively" instead of ranting about their bad luck like "a bunch of NOW feminists who blame men for all their problems" (yeah, I don't know where that last bit came from, either).

She also brought a bunch of people she knows who had a miscarriage (her new friend from her bible group; our close family friend; my cousin) and claimed that none of them have the depressed, despairing attitude about their miscarriages that I have. My mom loves to bring up comparative examples, so she's done this already many times before. And my objections are always the same: a) all of those people have gone on to have other children (sometimes as many as three or four!) so their situations are rather different from mine; b) some of those miscarriages were 25 years ago; c) my mom has no idea how those people actually felt or handled this when it happened to them. All she knows are the stories they tell years after the fact.

She fundamentally doesn't understand what this is like. And I know she's worried about me, I know she loves me, and I know it hurts her to see me upset. But is this something else I have to feel bad about fucking up? I can't get pregnant, I can't stay pregnant, and now I apparently I can't even deal with no longer being pregnant the way I should.

The other really frustrating this is that I'm trying to do all the things she says I'm not! I'm trying to feel grateful. I'm trying to believe that good will come of this experience. I'm trying to be a more compassionate, kind person as a result of this. I'm trying to use this time to strengthen my marriage. I'm trying to redevote myself to my schoolwork. I'm trying to not be jealous or envious or angry.

I'm also really fucking sad a lot of the time.

We "made up" and it was fine. But this is just further confirmation of the fact that people in my life are tired of hearing about it. My friends (with few and rare exceptions) don't ask me how I'm doing any more. My mom and mother-in-law do, but it's because they're not-so-secretly hoping I'm going to say "Great! Life's never been better! I'm walkin' on sunshine, whoa-hoah!" (which I know by the way they are SO FREAKING DELIGHTED when I do anything that denotes "moving on").

Even I'm tired of being depressed. I never wanted to be Oh Woe Is Me Miscarriage Girl. That wasn't on my bucket list. But this isn't the SATs and I can't make myself get over grief by pulling a few all-nighters. What more can I actually do?

It's all confirmation of the brilliant post at Knocked Up, Knocked Down on "When to 'Get Over' Your Baby Loss." Yup, two months sounds about right.

15 Weeks Later; or, Normal

15 weeks after my D&C, 8 weeks after I began weekly phone calls to two separate doctors' offices, 5 weeks after I first cried on the phone, 4 weeks after I learned I was never given the release form I needed to sign, 3 weeks after I faxed the release form in, 1 week after screaming at my doctor's receptionist over the phone...

I finally got the lab results from the genetic testing on the m&m.

Normal.

My doctor said this is good news, that we don't need to worry about karyotyping and that future pregnancies are highly likely to be healthy.

But now I don't know why this baby didn't make it. It's much, much harder to accept this miscarriage as "not meant to be" when the baby likely would have been healthy and normal and fine if he or she had progressed.

Yes, he or she. We asked to not be told the sex.

My dad says this will just be one of life's mysteries for me. Holding a healthy, living, cuddly baby of my own, I think I'll be able to accept the mysteries of life better than I do right now.

Conversations; or, Confessions

I've been talking a lot about the m&m recently. Immediately after the miscarriage, I felt like this wall of silence was put between me and the people around me--I was grieving harder than I'd ever grieved in my life but I felt like I couldn't tell the people I interacted with on a daily basis--not my students, not my classmates, not my teachers, not my Junior League committee members.

That was probably smart. I found it hard to even think about the baby without sobbing--talking about him or her was probably beyond my ability at that point.

Now, however, I've been telling people about the miscarriage frequently (though I hope not indiscriminately and not in detail--merely the fact that it happened). And with each person I tell, it's like a little weight is lifted off my chest. I hate the burden of secrecy. I hated not only feeling loss and sadness but having to hide the source of those feelings.

I know why others choose to keep their emotions private and conceal their pain. But I've learned how healing it is for me to share my experience, and so I refuse to feel guilty for talking about this. I'm also lucky that none of the colleagues and friends I've told have given me the crappy, standard post-miscarriage responses. They've all responded with compassion and understanding.

I've learned that my former Junior League chair had a miscarriage two years before her toddler daughter was born. I've had a fellow grad student, the mommy to two little girls, tell me that the mommy part of my life has started now, even though I don't have a baby yet. I've had lots of hugs. And even when all I hear is, "I'm so sorry," it feels nice to be open and honest, nice to acknowledge that there was a baby, a baby who is gone now, a baby who left a sadness behind that will always endure.

So for my gals out there starting that long walk back to recovery after a miscarriage, I don't suggest you do things my way. But sometimes it's good to give people the opportunity to surprise you with their kindness and sympathy.

The Miscarriage by Amit Majmudar

I found this poem last night. I liked so much about it-- the author conveys very well the obsession with fecundity that follows the heartbreaking experience of its lack. And the bottlecap reading "Sorry - Try Again" seems like the kind of knife to the gut detail that must come from lived experience. I like that kind of metaphor of the mundane. I also appreciated the male view point on this subject--something I still don't quite understand even after living with it for almost three months.

The Miscarriage

Some species can crack pavement with their shoots

to get their share of sun some species lay

a purple froth of eggs and leave it there

to sprinkle tidepools with tadpole confetti

some species though you stomp them in the carpet

have already stashed away the families

that will inherit every floor at midnight

But others don’t go forth and multiply

as boldly male and female peeling the bamboo

their keepers watching in despair or those

endangered species numbered individually

and mapped from perch to oblivious perch

For weeks the world it seemed was plagued

with babies forests dwindling into cradles

rows of women hissing for an obstetrician

babies no one could feed babies received

by accident like misdirected mail

from God so many babies people hired

women to hold them babies babies everywhere

but not a one to name When we got home

the local news showed us a mother with

quintuplets she was suckling them in shifts

a mountain of sheets universally admired

a goddess of fertility her smile

could persuade the skies to rain Her litter

slept ointment-eyed in pink wool caps while Dad

ran his hand through his hair thinking maybe

of money as he stood surveying his

crowded living room his wealth of heartbeats

Pizza and pop that night and there unasked inside

the bottlecap was Sorry—Try Again

you set it down and did not speak of it

the moon flanked by her brood of stars that night

a chaste distracted kiss goodnight that night

your body quiet having spilled its secret

your palms flat on your belly holding holding

Forgive me if I had no words that night

but I was wondering in the silence still

begetting silence whether to console you

if I consoled you it would make the loss

your loss and so we laid beside ourselves

a while because I had no words until

our bodies folded shut our bodies closed

around hope like a book preserving petals

a book we did not open till the morning when

we found hope dry and brittle but intact

- Amit Majmudar (published in the October 2005 issue of Poetry.)

Back to Zero; or, Crumbling

I'm having a really bad day. Woke up early from upsetting dreams. Lay in bed restlessly reliving the experience of the d&c. Thought about my baby and where I'd be right now if we hadn't lost him or her.

I haven't cried like this in weeks. Everything feels too difficult, too empty. I can't stop thinking about what I've lost and how much I want it back. I can't see a happy future behind the blackness of this moment.

I thought I was doing better. I actually felt proud of myself for getting over that hump of grief and facing the future with optimism. I told myself I was really strong. Better at dealing with this than most people.

But I'm not. I'm weak and pathetic. And sad.

And tired.

Edited to add: Thank you. Your words help so much.

And I just noticed the date. The 11th. 2 months. Fuck.

Ring Out the Old; or, 2009: The Year of Suck

I just got home from my niece's second birthday party (husband's brother's child). She's very sweet and I enjoy spending time with her. It was mostly family, and I think I handled it fine. I put on my game face, and whenever anyone asked me "How are you?" with that furrowed brow of concern and oh-so-significant stress on the are, I just gritted my teeth and smiled and said, "Doing okay, glad the semester's over."

It's not that I don't appreciate people's concern, because I do. And it's not that I think I need to hide how I feel about my loss, because if anything I'm too indiscriminate in telling people and unloading my sorrow onto them. But this day was about my niece, it was about celebrating a living baby, and it was a gathering full of my SIL's cousins and aunts and uncles and whatnot--people I could barely pick out in a line up and people who do not need to know exactly how shattered I am. If I let my guard down, it would all come rushing out, the tears and the anger and the horrible self-pity. And I was just not going there today.

All of which is preamble to the fact that I'm tired, I have a headache, I cried on the way home, and I want to bitch a little. So here you go, 2009: The Year of Suck.

- I spent 7 months agonizing over not knowing whether I could (or would ever) get pregnant, turning what should be a happy time into something stressful and depressing.

- My dad spent two weeks in the hospital with a near-fatal case of double pneumonia in June.

- My dad has suffered from cardiac issues all year long (which didn't help the pneumonia situation)

- I have heard 10 pregnancy announcements from friends and family since we started trying to conceive in March.

- My husband didn't make partner at his law firm and was brutally disappointed.

- I felt beaten to a pulp by my teaching/course schedule all autumn--and this was before I got pregnant and started falling asleep at 8:30 every night.

- One of my closest friends lost her mother to cancer; another friend's father was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig's disease.

- I lost my baby, experienced the joys of dilation and curettage, missed two weeks of teaching which I had to make up at the end of the semester, and basically zombie walked through the last month of school.

- Yeah, I think I can repeat it one more time: I lost my baby. The baby I dreamed of for 7 months of TTC and for the two years prior that my academic schedule forced us to wait to start trying even though I desperately longed for a child. The baby I sang to in the shower and whispered to at night. I lost my baby.

I know that in the grander scheme of human sorrow and tragedy, this list is a blip. I know I have SO much more to be grateful for than to resent in my life, and I truly try to express that gratitude every day. I feel rather guilty even voicing my frustration with this admittedly petty list of disappointments.

But I felt those disappointments. I feel them. 2009 had a bitter sting that all my attempts at Pollyanna perspective can't quite remove.

So I write them down and send them into the world. Goodbye, 2009. Goodbye anger and sadness and dismay. Goodbye disappointment and depression.

Hello--something new. Maybe better, maybe not. But something new.

Letter to My Baby

Dear m&m:

Today was supposed to be a very happy day. Today is your daddy's birthday. Today you would have been 12 weeks. Today we planned to have dinner with our closest friends and tell them all about you and how excited we were to meet you.

Today it is one month since we found out you were gone. November 11 is Remembrance Day, and when we scheduled your ultrasound for that day, a little voice in the back of my head said it wasn't a good idea. But you were already gone when we showed up at the doctor's office that morning. You had already left us. 11/11 is just a series of perfectly symmetrical numbers that don't point to anything, in the end.

I still cry every day, because I wish you were here with me so badly. I wish you were snuggled inside me, growing strong and healthy and getting ready to meet all the wonderful people out here who would love you so much, your daddy and me most of all.

I still talk to you every day, too. Sometimes outloud and sometimes in the quiet space inside my head. I don't know if it's you I talk to when I tell you how sad or how angry I am that you were taken from us. It could be you, the spark or soul within that heart that beat with life--that did beat with life, no matter how briefly. It could be God, or myself, or some dream vision of the future baby I hope I have, that I sometimes think you will become. It could be no one at all.

I miss you. I love you.

Always,
Your mother

What We Think; or, What We Can't Say

Before I started trying to conceive, I spent a few months visiting IF and loss blogs. I'm not sure why--intuition? fear? happenstance? I found one blog through The Nest (as it was pre-Bump), became entranced in the writer's story, cheered when she got her BFP after two long years, rejoiced when she brought her daughter home. And from there, I discovered dozens of other blogs that made me laugh, cry, and--eventually--gave me comfort of my own.

In my early blog reading, I encountered an essay, or a prose poem. I can't remember all the lines, but I know it began with something like "There are mothers who have everything come easy to them, and I know they are good mothers, but I will be better."

I didn't agree with this, in those pre-TTC days. In fact, I was a little offended. "There are fantastic mothers who get pregnant at the drop of a hat," I thought (assuming, of course, that I would soon be one of them). "And there can be abusive mothers who struggled with IF, loss, and adoption." And of course, the opposite can be true, too. How one becomes a mother does not dictate the kind of mother (or person) that one is.

But now...how to confess what I now feel? What I tell myself to make this pain more bearable?

I tell myself that I will be happier when I hold my first child in my arms. I tell myself that the joy nearly every parent feels on that incredible day will be just a little better, a little sweeter, with the memory of my sadness to heighten it.

I tell myself that my family and friends will cry with me and laugh with me and celebrate with me in a way that they couldn't or wouldn't if we hadn't been through this. Just as I celebrate with my whole heart when a woman who has faced conception struggles (whether a blogger or real life friend) finally welcomes her child.

I don't tell myself I'll be a "better" mother. But when I talk to my pregnant and recent-mom friends--even my dearest and most beloved--in the back of my mind is a little thought. "One day I will be happier than you can even imagine."

I don't know if it's true. I doubt that it's fair. And maybe it's not healthy. But for those few moments I have that thought, I feel like I can suck it up and muddle through.

So that's what I tell myself.

Quick & Dirty; or, Open for Business

My crotch is ready to rock. My cooch is on the loose. My vagina is going to China.

That last one's probably not happening, actually. And please forgive these awful odes to my reproductive organs. But I am officially no longer at risk for infection and can now put things where the sun don't shine. Things like tampons. And my husband.

(Can you tell it's been a while since we had sex?)

The wait for my appointment took forever, as it frequently does with my doctor. But she is so caring and compassionate, I can always overlook it. The exam was quick. She said everything's looking fine and healthy, that I shouldn't be surprised if I spot this entire "cycle," and that I can expect my first post-pregnancy period in 2-4 weeks. In the meantime, we have to break out that box of condoms that's been sitting in a drawer since last winter.

Birth control. Huh. That's something I haven't thought about in a while.

In non-Crotch Watch 2009 news, I've been up-and-down with my emotions these last few days. I'll feel fine and relatively content for several hours. But then whenever I tell someone about the miscarriage (i.e., the professor I met with yesterday after missing out on 2 weeks of classes) I just can't control my tears, and I'm usually pretty weepy and low in spirits afterward. Sometimes I'll hear a song--the final trio from Der Rosenkavalier, or one of the songs I sang to the m&m when I was pregnant, or something else that just makes me think of pregnancy and babies--and that can start the crying off, too.

But overall, I'm doing better than I was three weeks ago. My eyelids no longer resemble two slabs of raw liver and I can actually form coherent sentences. I'm setting the bar for improvement pretty low.

A Tale of Two Thanksgivings; or, When Feelings Become Farts

#1

The date: Thanksgiving Day, 2009
The place: 'Round the dinner table at the Sloper's familial home
The event: The annual recitation of "What are we thankful for this year," in order from youngest to oldest.

I knew I would cry. I did cry. My sisters cried. My mom cried. My husband stroked my back. My sister's fiance told me how sorry he was. I mentioned my gratitude for health insurance. We all laughed and cried at the same time, wiped our tears with our napkins, and ate some good food.

Conclusion: Crying's not so bad.

#2

The date: Day after Thanksgiving, 2009
The place: 'Round the table at Mr. Lawyer's father's familial home.
The event: People just eatin' some lasagna in a traditional product-of-divorce, making-the-best-of-a-split-holiday kind of way.

I knew I would cry. I felt like crying every time I saw my sister-in-law's tiny baby bump (though no one mentioned the pregnancy at all that night, thank God). I was close to tears all evening. And then Mr. Lawyer made some innocuous comment about, "Yeah, it's a real trial taking care of her" (it was a joke and in the context of a conversation). And then I thought about all he's had to see me go through the last two weeks, and all the support he's given even while hurting himself. And I burst into tears.

Silence. Complete, utter silence from every person at the table. Even the 22-month-old niece was silent. It could not have been more silent if I had just let loose the loudest, smelliest fart ever heard or smelled. I got myself under control and took off for the bathroom for about five minutes of nose blowing and pep talking.

Conclusion: Crying sucks major balls.

Back to School; or, Back to Life

I'm up at 6:45 am because I'm going back to teaching for the first time in two weeks. I keep thinking about the fact that at the last class I taught, I thought I was still carrying a healthy pregnancy. I was puking between my courses. I scarfed down two slices of pizza at a staff meeting. I drove home and puked some more.

And then the next morning everything changed.

I really don't want to go back. I want to curl up in a ball in my bed and drink tea and hold my hot water bottle and watch bad tv. But my students have missed out on a week-and-a-half of their course. And while they wouldn't mind never coming back in again, I'm sure, I can't let them down like that.

Only three weeks left. I can make it.

I guess that's what being a grown-up is about.

Tennyson; or, Break, Break, Break

I like to read poetry when I'm sad. I like it when I'm happy too (there's a Christina Rossetti poem I was memorizing for the occasion of the m&m's never-to-be birth), but I especially like it when I'm sad. Tennyson is one of my favorite poets.

Break, break, break
On thy cold grey stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

- Alfred Lord Tennyson

Odds and Ends; or, Collecting Thoughts

I forgot to relate a little event that happened at the d&c. Before anything began, I had a stack of medical and other forms to fill out. Slipped in among them, they had accidentally put the consent form for termination of pregnancy.

I'm Catholic and have huge moral problems with abortion. (Which, I want to clarify, doesn't mean that I think people who have had them are evil or bad or immoral. One of my closest sources of support during this process has been my friend who aborted a first trimester pregnancy with a d&c two years ago, and I understand her reasons for making her choice. (The political aspects of the issue are a whole other kettle of fish. I'll just say that I tend to vote Democrat)).

Anyway, seeing this legal consent form intended for a woman voluntarily ending her pregnancy just made me flip out. I started sobbing. And weirdly, the first thing that popped into my head was that if I ever decided to run for political office people would think I had an abortion if I signed these forms.

I didn't sign them, and they cleared up the mistake and gave me the right ones. But my husband found my reaction a little bizarre--simply because he knows running for political office sounds like hell to me!

* * *
Today we're going down to my parents' house for an engagement brunch in honor of my sister directly below me in age. We're going to meet her fiance's parents, sister, and brother-in-law. I've been really looking forward to this. But I woke up this morning at 4:30 crying. Emotionally this doesn't feel like a stable day. I'm going to have to get past that for my sister's sake.

* * *
Rapidly fading/fluctuating pregnancy hormones don't just mess with your emotions. They also fuck with your skin. The clear, smooth, slightly dry skin of my pregnancy is gone. I've got zits now in places I didn't know they could grow.

* * *
Finally, we're going on a cruise in January! I've never been on one before and usually like more personalized vacations. I pour over travel guides, search online for deals and tips, try to cram in as many sights (and sites) as I can in a short vacation time. But right now, paying someone to take me around to sunny islands while providing me with booze and unlimited food (and a gym) sounds pretty great. My husband is delighted I've come around to his planning-free mode of vacationing.

Anyone been on a cruise before and have any recommendations? We're planning to depart from NYC just to cut down on bother and expense, and the only cruises leaving from their in our time frame are the Queen Mary 2 (ha!), Norwegian, and Royal Caribbean.

Two Steps Back; or, Toddlerhood

I thought I was doing better the last two days. I felt so calm after the d&c, so capable. I can do this, I thought. I can get through this. I'm going to be fine. At least it's behind me.

Today I feel like crap. I woke up at 6 am and promptly started crying. I cried on my husband's shoulder after he woke up. I cried on the walk to breakfast with my mom, and I cried as she drove away to go back home. I'm lying here, completely exhausted. My eyes hurt. My chest hurts. Every part of me feels raw and alive with pain.

It's not fair! It's not fair! I'm like a three year old who wants to shout at her parents. It's not fair that my first pregnancy was a screwed-up one. It's not fair that all my friends have had such easy times conceiving and carrying their children. I want to stand on my roof deck and just scream that this isn't fair.

I know the answers to that: Life isn't fair. Everyone has his or her own challenges. Don't judge my struggles by what I can see of others'.

If the good days are just a phase, then so are the bad ones. But God, do they ever suck while you're riding them out.