Why sometimes... keeping to yourself can be easier.
Dear Internet,
It's me Bethany. Remember me? The one that was once good at keeping secrets, but has turned to a life of sharing my experience with strangers of the world via wired networks and blogging? Well, I am back. And...
...
...
I guess I don't even know how to tell the world that the baby--the one I announced only two days ago--well... it is no more. I miscarried at 13 weeks.
Don't reread the last sentence, it will only tear you apart. Trust me. I've had to write at least a dozen e-mails and at least that many more phone calls in the last 2 days about the very topic, and it doesn't get any easier. No matter what you tell yourself.
I could ramble for at least three paragraphs about the small events that lead to a last minute doctor's appointment, furrowed brows during ultrasounds, and the painful experiences of being told nothing for over two hours of test that then led to the dreadful news and the night of too-much-information regarding women's plumbing, mind-numbing pain, and
the inevitable surgery this morning.
Then I could talk about the whole physical pains--that even though I experienced for well over 5 1/2 hours, could never properly explain to another woman who hasn't miscarried this late in pregnancy (and trust me when I tell you. Never. Do. You. Want. To. Experience. This.). Or the blood. Or the fact that it is horrendous and surreal at the same time--so much so, one can barely summons another tear when in the midst of something you can't control.
Or I could talk about the surgery--the Dilation and Curettage (D & C)--the whole shuffle of outpatient surgery and how you feel a bit like cattle, even though everyone does know your full name, birth date, and what *you're in for.* But don't let me forget, if I were to talk about it, to tell you about the doctor. The wonderful man, who upon his 3rd day on the job, meets me, a 2nd time mom with spotting. Who he then in turn has to deliver news of her loss. And then, amazingly calm me from climbing the walls and perform a surgery--all the while, meeting me at each stopping point along the way. Even being the last to comfort me before dropping to the anaesthia--and the first to speak to me when I wake. He was someone sent to me, either by fate, a higher power, or maybe dumb luck. No matter what the reason, this man will always be my hero.
Speaking of heroes, I could also mention my husband. My rock. The one who dropped everything to come to my side. To cry with me. To hold me. And well, to assure me that, yes, indeed, we will make it through this somehow. Even when I'd blabbed our once happy news to the entire world, including friends, neighbors, co-workers, and casual acquaintances. And now, I had to blab the dread in the same light. So that I could avoid the inevitable, "Where's your belly?" statements. Even though, he didn't quite possibly agree with my let's-get-this-over-with-philosophy of a dozen e-mails and phone calls within 24 hours, he still agreed to it. Knowing it was the way I had to handle it to survive. Or maybe make it real.
And of course, I could write multiple posts regarding the emotional pain I am experiencing. Guilt is far from my mind. I am a firm believe, that there really was nothing I could do to save this baby. But the heart-ache is prevalent. Strong. And bit too much to bear yet.
But, as I lie on my day (at least) of bed rest, it is a bit hard to reconcile (or ignore), so here I sit. Writing a post that, if I were to actually write it, would be full of pity, sympathy, and a whole lot of confusion (anger has been long gone. Especially after enduring hours of prolonged, unimaginable pain).
I know I am not alone. I am not the first, nor the last (unfortunately) that will endure what can only be called The Most Confusing Time of My Life so far. But, I do have one little angel that is helping just a wee bit. The Kiddo. My shining jewel of a son, who as confused by mom's recent *sickness* and as charming as usual, has kept me a bit more grounded than I thought possible. I maybe even chuckled at the weird sensation of coming out of anaesthic and the healing powers of the fuzzy Superman blanket he insists I keep on my shoulders at all times. Because he does that to me. And that makes me feel that teeny, tiny bit better. If only for a moment now, I know eventually it will be a lot more, and some day most of the time.
Anyway, dear readers, if I were to write this letter, it was the last letter I'd imagined I'd be writing today or any other time in my life. But I guess, one never knows what life has in store for you. If you knew what was coming behind every closed door and sharp turn, there wouldn't be anything left to experience now would there? Be safe, healthy, and don't forget to hug your loved ones...
-Bethany
a.k.a. mommy writer
It's me Bethany. Remember me? The one that was once good at keeping secrets, but has turned to a life of sharing my experience with strangers of the world via wired networks and blogging? Well, I am back. And...
...
...
I guess I don't even know how to tell the world that the baby--the one I announced only two days ago--well... it is no more. I miscarried at 13 weeks.
Don't reread the last sentence, it will only tear you apart. Trust me. I've had to write at least a dozen e-mails and at least that many more phone calls in the last 2 days about the very topic, and it doesn't get any easier. No matter what you tell yourself.
I could ramble for at least three paragraphs about the small events that lead to a last minute doctor's appointment, furrowed brows during ultrasounds, and the painful experiences of being told nothing for over two hours of test that then led to the dreadful news and the night of too-much-information regarding women's plumbing, mind-numbing pain, and
the inevitable surgery this morning.
Then I could talk about the whole physical pains--that even though I experienced for well over 5 1/2 hours, could never properly explain to another woman who hasn't miscarried this late in pregnancy (and trust me when I tell you. Never. Do. You. Want. To. Experience. This.). Or the blood. Or the fact that it is horrendous and surreal at the same time--so much so, one can barely summons another tear when in the midst of something you can't control.
Or I could talk about the surgery--the Dilation and Curettage (D & C)--the whole shuffle of outpatient surgery and how you feel a bit like cattle, even though everyone does know your full name, birth date, and what *you're in for.* But don't let me forget, if I were to talk about it, to tell you about the doctor. The wonderful man, who upon his 3rd day on the job, meets me, a 2nd time mom with spotting. Who he then in turn has to deliver news of her loss. And then, amazingly calm me from climbing the walls and perform a surgery--all the while, meeting me at each stopping point along the way. Even being the last to comfort me before dropping to the anaesthia--and the first to speak to me when I wake. He was someone sent to me, either by fate, a higher power, or maybe dumb luck. No matter what the reason, this man will always be my hero.
Speaking of heroes, I could also mention my husband. My rock. The one who dropped everything to come to my side. To cry with me. To hold me. And well, to assure me that, yes, indeed, we will make it through this somehow. Even when I'd blabbed our once happy news to the entire world, including friends, neighbors, co-workers, and casual acquaintances. And now, I had to blab the dread in the same light. So that I could avoid the inevitable, "Where's your belly?" statements. Even though, he didn't quite possibly agree with my let's-get-this-over-with-philosophy of a dozen e-mails and phone calls within 24 hours, he still agreed to it. Knowing it was the way I had to handle it to survive. Or maybe make it real.
And of course, I could write multiple posts regarding the emotional pain I am experiencing. Guilt is far from my mind. I am a firm believe, that there really was nothing I could do to save this baby. But the heart-ache is prevalent. Strong. And bit too much to bear yet.
But, as I lie on my day (at least) of bed rest, it is a bit hard to reconcile (or ignore), so here I sit. Writing a post that, if I were to actually write it, would be full of pity, sympathy, and a whole lot of confusion (anger has been long gone. Especially after enduring hours of prolonged, unimaginable pain).
I know I am not alone. I am not the first, nor the last (unfortunately) that will endure what can only be called The Most Confusing Time of My Life so far. But, I do have one little angel that is helping just a wee bit. The Kiddo. My shining jewel of a son, who as confused by mom's recent *sickness* and as charming as usual, has kept me a bit more grounded than I thought possible. I maybe even chuckled at the weird sensation of coming out of anaesthic and the healing powers of the fuzzy Superman blanket he insists I keep on my shoulders at all times. Because he does that to me. And that makes me feel that teeny, tiny bit better. If only for a moment now, I know eventually it will be a lot more, and some day most of the time.
Anyway, dear readers, if I were to write this letter, it was the last letter I'd imagined I'd be writing today or any other time in my life. But I guess, one never knows what life has in store for you. If you knew what was coming behind every closed door and sharp turn, there wouldn't be anything left to experience now would there? Be safe, healthy, and don't forget to hug your loved ones...
-Bethany
a.k.a. mommy writer
