Friday, February 6, 2015

I Cried at Target

   Today I am determined to be productive, to at least do something beyond getting by. My goal is to get some thank-you notes and long overdue packages in the mail. I tried on Wednesday. I went out on a quick errand to Target, feeling fantastic. Then we walked past the baby department, and I was immediately punched in the gut with the fact that last time we were there we were making mental notes while pricing out car seats and Rock 'n' Plays. I lost it. Nobody tells you this will happen.
   Yesterday I tried. I got up early after a night of caring for sick kids, and got my tush out the door
for MOPS. I expected lots of hugs, which I received, as well as gifts and cards of love and support. Then they asked, as they do near the end of every meeting, if anyone had a birthday, a new baby, or a pregnancy to announce. There was one new pregnancy. She was sitting right behind me. And her due date was August 7th. My mind immediately cheered, "Yaaay! That's my due da-..." then crumpled. Wait, no. It's not. Not anymore. I held my breath and forced myself to hold it together lest I look like the great big jerk robbing some one else's joy, but inside I was weeping, and the rest of the day I was in a funk I just could not shake. Nobody tells you this will happen.
   There are so many taboos surrounding all this infant loss, pregnancy loss, miscarriage- whatever you want to call it. It sucks and nobody really openly talks about it. I hate even using the word miscarriage. It holds so much garbage. To some it may feel like an adequate term. For my early loss at 4 weeks in 2013, it feels adequate. For this? No. This sucks. This is not the M-word. That just seems like a sad word we throw around that everyone hears and gets out their eggshell-walking shoes. I lost my baby. A baby I had been bonding with for 13 weeks. A baby I imagined in my mind, I made plans for, I purchased blankets and clothes for, envisioning his squishy little face, his dark hair like all my other babies, his red newborn skin, his rubbery fresh-from-the-womb smell. I lost every single bit of that. It's gone. Not just a plastic stick with two lines and some nausea. I lost a child. Nobody tells you you'll feel this way. Nobody talks about it at all.
   So now I'm sifting through things- through physical trauma from surgery, through emotional trauma
from loss, through guilt for the flashes of day I feel great and forget how much I hurt inside, and through the gut-punching scenarios that fly my pain in my face out of nowhere just when I thought I was doing well. Maybe they're part of the healing process. But Nobody tells you that. And there's so much physical garbage happening post-surgery that people don't mention because it's such a delicate situation that you're suddenly five days post-op, doubled over in pain out of no where and spend hours glued to the toilet, panicking and wondering if you're bleeding to death on top of the emotional mountain you're already climbing. Oh no, Dr. Google says this is normal, but you had no idea because nobody tells you about that. Today I should be nice and round, taking my 15-week belly picture. Instead I'm left feeling like leftover gutted fish.
   So can we talk about this? All this? Can we open the dialogue and let people feel? Let people talk? Let us share so we don't feel so alone? I've received SO. MANY. EMAILS. since this process started, from friends and family who endured what I'm now dealing with, and they largely suffered in silence. Because of taboos. Because of fear. Because of societal pressure to move on because it was "a pregnancy," not necessarily a baby, and doesn't count as much. Because most people around you don't feel your pain so they think you should be over it by now. Because it's called a D&C, D&E, or "medical completion," not the birth of your baby, and calling it that makes people around you very, very uncomfortable. Because society says it's a first or second trimester "pregnancy loss" or miscarriage, and somehow it does not matter as much as a stillbirth. I'm telling you it does. I'm not diminishing anyone's pain or in any way quantifying experiences, I'm just saying it matters. It hurts. And it's okay to talk about it. We shouldn't have to suffer and try to heal in silence because of societal pressure and taboo. They are babies and we are the mothers with empty wombs and empty arms. But nobody talks about it. 

1 comment:

  1. I am praying for you. I wish I could take on some of your pain for you.someday Jesus will wipe away all of your tears.

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