Usually when I write, I do it from a positive place. I want to offer hope, motivation and education to people who experience similar experiences to me. But right now, if I approach the grieving process I’m going through from a positive place, I’ll be lying to myself. Maybe next month I’ll be in a new phase, filled with hope and renewal of my spirit. I plan to get there and I know I will. But I’m grieving right now and I think it is important to be true to what I’m feeling and to let other women know it’s okay to be angry and devastatingly sad for a little while. Keeping your outlook positive IS important but it’s not realistic all of the time and sometimes the only way to get back up is to let yourself genuinely feel the sadness that going through a miscarriage makes you feel.
Two things you shouldn’t say to a woman ever: Especially if she’s having a miscarriage. Are you going to have more kids? And, don’t worry. You can try again.
Those two sentences bring a woman going through a miscarriage to one of two places: extreme sadness or extreme anger. Both places are filled with F words that haven’t even been invented yet and we can’t be held responsible if they come out of our mouths and straight towards you.
I’m having a miscarriage. This isn’t a story about a month ago or 5 years ago or someone else entirely. This is where I am. Right now. I’m pregnant. There’s a baby inside me. But there isn’t. It hasn’t made its move to come out but the doctors say it is happening. So until then, I get to sit here with a positive pregnancy test and all the painful but beautiful signs that my son is going to be a big brother, except that he won’t be.
I’m devastated. It’s not my first miscarriage this year and I never even realized how much of a miracle having my son was. I don’t for a second take him for granted because I know a lot of women going through what I’m going through don’t have an already perfect child lying next to them. That fact puts my emotional roller coaster onto the guilt phase. I know that I need to appreciate what I have because I read a comment from a woman today who’s had 11 miscarriages. 11! I’ve had 2. And now I feel guilty for my grief over these 2.
I’m angry. I’m angry that my friends have babies. I’m angry at the pregnant people I see posting on Facebook. I’m angry at the pregnant woman I saw tonight waddling around looking pregnantly miserable. I’m angry at myself for posting beautiful stories about my perfect son for the past three years because now I know that for everyone who has enjoyed them, they’ve hurt someone else who remains silent, wishing they could tell those stories. I’m angry at my doctor and my nurse for hugging me. They only hug me when the news is bad. I’m angry at my husband for saying “we will try again.” A new puppy does in fact help ease the pain of a lost one, but the suggestion of one isn’t a comfort. I’m angry at myself for being so distraught and in so much pain that I can’t look at him and know that he’s only saying what he thinks could help.
I’m angry that for three weeks I could barely get out of bed because I stopped taking my ADD medicine so that my child could develop properly. Three weeks of agony that at the end of nine months would have been worth every rough day to look into that little sweet face.
I’m lonely. I’m surrounded by my beautiful friends and family with outstretched hands and kind thoughts and words. But not even other women who have been here can truly be in my bubble of self doubt, shame, sadness. This feeling of aloneness is tearing me up.
My loneliness is confusing. I may outwardly push you away but my soul needs your care. I’m so grateful to my friend Michele, who brought me a beautiful meal. She handed it to me by saying it was nothing and the least she could do but her eyes were filled with empathy and compassion and a gesture she felt was small was monumental in helping my loneliness.
I’m a phony. Every smile, every bright idea, every conversation that comes from me right now is from the necessity of having to continue functioning in society. I don’t want to. Not yet. I want to crawl in a hole and be alone and be angry at everyone who’s not in the hole with me and wish they’d leave if they try to join me and wish they’d come if they didn’t. I want to be rude and get away with it because I deserve to. I want to not want those things. I want to be selfish and I want to be weak and I want to be giving and I want to be strong. I want to be a hypocrite. No, I get to be one.
The grief is not what you expect. No one else, NO ONE, connected with the baby like I did. People heard he/she existed, maybe they even talked to my belly. But they didn’t feel the pregnancy pains. They didn’t walk with their hands on their stomachs feeling the comfort of knowing soon that a baby would be in their arms. No one else fell to the ground begging me to stop bleeding. No one else feels the physical and emotional stab of 10 million sharp knives taking my child away from me.
If you lose a child, a real child, a living being, you are expected to grieve. You are allowed to have that time. But with a miscarriage, especially a relatively early one, no one understands why you aren’t yourself the next day. No one understands why you don’t want to go out and get your mind off it.
I’ll get through it. I have to. But don’t tell me to be strong. I will be, to survive, but you don’t have the slightest idea how strong I have to be and how weak hearing you tell me to be strong makes me feel.
I know I will move on. I know I’ll try again. I know I will be strong. But not yet.