Baby mind

Going into a pregnancy you get a lot of feedback. People want to help, they want to be a part of your journey. People offer a lot of knowledge and even more opinion. Despite this you may never feel entirely prepared for pregnancy, birth and certainly not for parenthood. Or so I assume.

Going into a miscarriage you are left with very little knowledge, and though you may find opinion eventually, there is a good chance that even that is not abundant at the moment. 

I was lucky. Our miscarriage was as lucky as they come. Which is a hard enough thing to admit.

We had our first appointment with our midwife, and opted to not have a ultrasound yet. It is not recommended at this time, not entirely necessary. The nurse took blood from me and we left with a sense of euphoria. 

A day later we received a message to call her back. My labs showed my HCG was low. They wanted us to come back for a re draw, we would come as soon as we could. We'd scheduled an appointment for a few days from then. 

My husband and I are nurses- it was then that we knew what was happening. 

We went to work the next night- a 12 hour night shift in critical care units. At 1:40 am I found blood in my underwear. Not a lot, but enough to just absolutely break me down. 

I ran down to my husbands unit, yelling behind me I was taking my lunch, grateful to have observant co-workers.

No words had to be said. The first words from his mouth were, "This is not your fault." That is my best friend- no pause, no thought, just honest comfort. We hugged for thirty minutes. I sobbed uncontrollably. People moved awkwardly around us in the break room- not sure if they should acknowledge my obvious breakdown or not.

Life got a bit fuzzy there. I remember someone prying when I went back to my unit that night... and I remember another nurse telling her to leave me alone and mind her business. 

I remember crying on the drive home, and barely swallowing a sandwich. 

I remember faking a smile while picking up the dog at the in-laws house.

Three hours of sleep before the midwife fit us in for an appointment.

When we told her about the blood she knew. Her eyes said, "there is no point in drawing this blood." 

Then she did the kindest thing she could have. She prepared me, us, for what was to come. She did not make me walk blindly into that darkness. 

She said it would hurt, that I should watch how much blood and when to call. She said it could last days, a week... come back if it starts to look infected.

We went home. 

My Joel- he went into best friend mode again. Pillows from the room, cushions from the couch, all the blankets in existence- they combined on the floor to make our fort. 

I mentioned before that he does this. When your heart is on the ground he makes that ground soft.

Hours past and the blood increased. Cramps became contractions and I went from sad, to panicked, to despondent and then finally, for a small period- I became present. 

I hit a wall. I couldn't handle the pain, or the reality of our loss. How was I supposed to mourn when all I could do was feel my physical pain? 

I went into the shower, I meditated and I cried. I immersed myself in my pain and I embraced it. 

It was 2 am September 20th 2014. That was when my sweet boy passed. 

Why am I writing this?
Because it is too often not spoken about. How are we as a society supposed to prepare, supposed to know how to handle this tragedy if no one ever talks about it? 

Why am I lucky? Not everyone has warning signs and small starts. I baby stepped my way through a miscarriage. Not everyone goes though the worst for only one night. And most importantly not everyone has a support system that would bring down Mid-Empire Rome just to make them smile.

I am lucky. And the truth is life goes on after you lose a big part of yourself and that kind of sucks. But eventually life moves on to a place where joy rebounds and pain dwindles and all that is left its the impression of love that a small life shared with you for a short time.

We are trying again and that is no easy feat when each time we dream of a baby there is a portion of that dream that still says- I had a baby.

I had a baby. And hopefully with any luck and enough glasses of wine I will again soon.
                       

Two weeks

Two weeks past.
Two weeks gone.

I am doing better, some days at least.
Today I'm ok. A little bitter.
Last night I cried and the husband put Josh's blanket over us and we cried together underneath it.

The world moves on. That might be the hardest part to understand. Some of the world never stopped, some yielded, some paused. Some of the world took a minute and others took a few but they all have to move on.

I am trying. I succeed sometimes now, for brief minutes, to not think about it.

Is it bad that it is still most of my mind.

It is a weight I have to carry, I drag it behind me, or throw it over my shoulder, on my head or in my arms. Never able to fully let it go. Chained as it is to me I don't think I'll ever be free of it. But like everything else, I will adapt and it won't feel so heavy. Every day it'll feel less of a burden. Some day I'll not notice it for an hour, then for two. It'll always be there though. I just have to get stronger through practice.

Josh, Papa and I bought you a book. Robert Munsch's I'll love you forever.

I'll love you forever
I'll like you for always
As long as I'm living
My baby you'll be.

One Week Later

What I learned in the week that followed my miscarriage:

1) Some relationships can grow and become stronger with any trials thrown their way, some can crumble and cannot be blamed for it. It is not easy to deal with loss of any kind, but I think saying goodbye before you ever said hello might be the most difficult type for me. From my view, we are the lucky ones. Our love has not wavered in the slightest. We are, as always, a balance of friends and lovers. This week friends took the back seat and we let our souls do the driving.
My husband is amazing.
He called me a Gryffindor during my contractions but I didn't remember until yesterday. Normally we're both Ravenclaw.
If you get it, you get it.

2) Most people don't know what to say, so after the initial, "I'm so sorry, if you need anything…" you either stop hearing from people or they may at some point put their foot in their mouth. Try to not take it personally. I hardly know what to say. Next time though, start with I'm sorry for your loss, and then compensate for words with food.

3) Natural Miscarriage seems to be relatively undocumented territory, and with the exception of googling forum responses it is really difficult to get information on what to expect. My midwife's nurse prepared me better then most, and was always a text message away with any questions we had. Still I had questions that I wished I could just find a simple answer to. The answer is however, with miscarriage as with birth and pregnancy- rarely simple.

4) Everything about this sucks, but it can suck less if you just let yourself go. Just feel your way through it.

• Don't think you have to put away the baby items the first day. Trust me, you'll just end up taking them back out. It is nice to see them. 
• If you feel like crying don't fight it, just cry. 
• Keep taking your prenatal vitamin, for me it helped keep me feeling better, stronger. Plus it gave me a bit of hope back, like I was helping my body prepare for eventual pregnancy again.
• Take time, from work, from chores. Build a fort in your living room. It would have been easy to stay in bed and cry. My husband wouldn't let me, but he would let me stay on a pillow fort in the living room, sleeping and watching movies, reading and crying. One day he had to make a five hour trip to pick up a car we'd been in the process of buying. I stayed in bed that day. By the time he got home I was so drained from wallowing in my sorrow and not moving all day that it was like I'd regressed from any healing I'd done. Partially it was not having him with me but largely it was allowing myself to stay in a dark room and a dark place. I didn't snuggle my baby's blanket or play with the dog, nothing made me laugh that day while I was alone. I didn't do anything life affirming like take my dog out or water my plants. I haven't done that since. If I am in that bed in my room it is with my husband and we are going to bed.

I don't pretend to be an expert in this. Who would want to be an expert in this. I am not even entertaining the idea that any one will read this but me. This is a list for myself to read. From: a me that is feeling optimistic and sad. To: the me that was hopeless and depressed.

One week ago I lost my baby and thought I was alone, but in truth I've not been alone. I have a ring on my ringer that says I never have to be alone again. And I'm not. I am lucky, very lucky. 

You were lucky too Josh. In the nine weeks you lived you experienced more love then some do in 90 years. As the Doctor says, “Some people live more in 20 years than others do in 80. It’s not the time that matters, it’s the person.”

The Tenth Doctor, The Lazarus Experiment
You didn't get twenty year Josh. But the time you got was wonderful for everyone who got to be there.

Dear Josh

Last night was the hardest night of our lives.

We lost you to the universe Baby B.
And now I'm writing this only for therapeutic purposes.

Three days ago we found out my labs were low for the hormone that helps keep you safe and cozy.

Two nights ago we went to work, cautious and not very hopeful. Seeing some blood on toilet paper caused a pretty massive emotional breakdown.

One day ago we went to get my labs redrawn.

Yesterday it became obvious that we couldn't keep you.

This morning is the first alone I've been in nine weeks and four days.

Everything is a blur. Some things do stand out against the rest.

Your Papa held onto hope a lot longer then I did. He is a rock and we are the ocean that crashed against him. He held us up when we couldn't do it ourselves. Now that we is back to I he is the sand that we rest on, giving only slightly and holding me softly. He is helping me to let you go.

Papa made Mom a fort on the floor, of all the pillows in the house. It is our management of hard times. When your heart is on the floor, he makes that floor soft and cozy and he puts dogs and cats and hot cocoa on it until you can get back up.

We named you Joshua. Papa came up with the name, at first I wasn't sure. Then Papa reminded me of my favorite book and why Joshua was a good name, and I knew that you were our Josh.

I finished your blanket off, tied in all the loose yarn and made a small border. It is only a fourth of the blanket it would have been, but every stitch I crocheted I did with love for you. It is what we will hold when we wish we could have held you.

The most comforting thought about you, my sweet baby Josh, is to know you never knew pain, or cold. You never felt sorrow or fear or jealousy or rage. You never heard a word of judgement or prejudice. You knew only love and warmth. You were held for every second of your life in a womb that was proud to have you. Even as you left us, your Mommy was proud to call you hers.

I am a mother. You did that. And I want to thank you for every second you gave me. Sleep sweet baby Josh and know that you are loved.