I often find it easier to write about trials than to speak about them. It's not for loss of opportunity, I have plenty of people around me with open ears and hearts, but there's something cathartic about seeing what makes me sorrowful, or fearful, or simply emotional in black and white. I guess it creates the illusion of finality. That there is no grey areas left in my mind concerning the matter left unexplored. Only black text on white paper. I feel the need for that closure.
"One in seven pregnancies end in miscarriage" that's what the doctor in the ER told me. My OB said the same and added "Well, at least you know you
can get pregnant." This was a consolation for my husband. It was not for me. Their statements were innocent enough but there was something offensive about it. It was as if they essentially took an extremely painful, personal experience, and disqualified it because of how frequently it occurs. Instead of being a woman in distress, I became one in seven. A statistical odd.
I will say that I'm grateful that things played out the way they did. I did not know I was pregnant. My period had been extremely irregular, and though we were trying, I assumed the presence of blood meant I could not be pregnant. I was wrong. After spending weeks of strange, spotty bleeding, and severe cramping that culminated in two hours crouched in the fetal position, moaning, I went to the ER. I only had pain on my right side. I was sure it was an appendicitis.
Six hours later I was informed that I was pregnant. An hour after that I was informed that I was having a miscarriage.
I was put on bed rest for three days. Left to ruminate about my physical pain and what I lost. I found myself irrationally emotional. Even watching SpongeBob SquarePants made me cry!
After three days, I returned to my OB. Though I spoke with a nurse in detail about my situation days before and she promised to make notes so that they could request my paperwork from the ER and schedule a second ultra-sound, the receptionist greeted me that day and asked if I was there for a prenatal visit. "No" I said, "I'm having a miscarriage". I could tell she was thrown off guard by my blunt response, but her silence on the issue bothered me.
Then I made my way to the nurses station, "So you're pregnant?" she asked me in happy tones. "Yes" I responded, "but I'm having a miscarriage." She became silent, finished taking my blood pressure, and left me in the small room.
Then came the doctor. "So you're here for some vaginal bleeding?" He asked. "No. I'm here because I'm having a miscarriage." He then became irritated, I assume because of the incompetence of his staff, but it made the visit even more difficult.
I can't tell you how many times in the weeks preceding this experience that I nearly took a pregnancy test. Thank-goodness I didn't. I can't imagined what it would be like to get excited about a baby, only to lose it. I'm even more grateful that I didn't have to carry the baby, like some women, for several months, if not full term, just to lose it. I'm grateful that after weeks of heart stopping cramps, and eight days of constant and intense pain, the pregnancy tissue has finally passed and all I'm left with is a soar abdomen and heavy bleeding. I'm grateful that this doesn't mean I can't get pregnant in the future. I'm grateful that my body will heal in a matter of three months.
Nonetheless, I keep thinking about a line from a Dickinson poem, "A Loss of Something Ever Felt I-". I've lost something. I know it could have been worst, I know it happens to a lot of people, but I still feel the loss.
My baby was eight weeks along. He or she was only the size of a grape, but had a heart, a discernible nose, eyes, and mouth.
