Before I became pregnant for the very first time
and subsequently miscarried, I was a woman that liked to live life. I was a new
wife to a wonderful nerd that I married barefoot in the sand on the island of
Jamaica. I was a person that loved to drink booze and partake in the legal
greenery of my state. I was someone who woke up late and snuggled with my dog
because I was unemployed and had nowhere to be and my husband makes just enough
so I don't have to work. I was the kind of person that called her parents on a
regular basis, and sent all kinds of ridiculous text messages to her sister
about amazing SyFy movies like "Sharknado." I was an auntie that
couldn't get enough of my five-year-old niece's company. I was a
Gchatting/Facebooking/phone-talking maniac with all of my friends. I was someone
you wanted to have at your party because I'm fun and funny and love to have a
good time, whether it's game night or shot shot shot shot shots shots! I was
the girlfriend you love to have as your wing woman, 'cause I'm cute and outgoing
and wifed up, so I pull 'em in and you can take 'em home. I was someone that
couldn't wait for that little green fertile calendar on my pregnancy app so I
could give my husband a good rummaging.
I was a pregnant woman, freaking out about being
pregnant because even with all that planning and talk about making a baby, I
was scared as shit when I saw my positive pregnancy test. I was so angry at
myself for not being excited about being pregnant. I was obsessed with all the
things I had to give up (booze, weed, sushi, lox, over-easy eggs) and my
husband didn't have to give up anything. I was worried that something was wrong
with the baby; I was crazy, irritable and couldn't believe I was going to be a
mother. Crazy Face herself was going to bring life into the world ... but I was
happy. It wasn't all that long ago, two weeks actually, since I had a
You might be thinking what the hell is a
D&C? It's not something you learn about, unless you have to, because it's
the procedure they do to you when you find out there is something wrong with
your baby, when you have something called a "missed miscarriage." When your
body doesn't know your baby is no longer living and you still think you are
pregnant. They remove the contents of your uterus, and you're not pregnant
anymore. That's what stage I am at in TTC (Trying to Conceive): I just lost my
little baby and my heart is broken.
I am a woman who had a miscarriage and has told essentially everyone I know.
I decided to share the terrible news on Facebook, accompanied with a piece of writing I had sent out to my family, because
talking is just too painful for me right now. I was shocked and saddened by how
many of my friends and family members wrote to me about their miscarriages — so many of them had told no one. They suffered alone. No one
should go through this on their own because of feeling ashamed or being scared
to tell people. So that's who I am now, a woman who felt all the fear and joys
at the possibility of bringing a new life into the world, only to have it taken
away just as I was getting used to the idea.
I am a woman who had a miscarriage and has told
essentially everyone I know. I'm not fun anymore. I cry a lot; I haven't talked
to my family since we had our second ultrasound, the one where there was no heartbeat.
I write in my journal and I scroll through Facebook and I watch T.V., and I eat
junk food. I am trying to take care of myself, and be kind to myself because
the old me can't be all gone, she has to come back. I miss her and I know my
husband misses her too.
I have been taking my prenatal vitamins because, although my husband and I are still grieving, and I am terrified of
trying again, we have one tiny hope we are nurturing a little bit each
day: After I have physically healed, we can try again. I would be
lying if I said that I am thrilled with the possibility. It's frightening. I'm
36; I am afraid that I am too old and we won't be able to conceive again or
that the same thing will happen — that I will have multiple miscarriages,
because there is maybe something wrong with me. People talk about pregnancy as
a journey. The word "journey" conjures up so many pleasant images for me — a
long road full of adventure, ending in a beautiful place, completing something.
Well, I am looking down the road and it is dark and scary and we don't know
what is going to happen. I'm not excited and nervous and giddy with the thought
that we might get pregnant. That was the old me.
Now, I am apprehensive,
scared, worried and unsure. But there is one thing. It's the tiniest hint of
something that makes the tears come over and over: Maybe, just maybe,
we'll have good luck this time and we'll make our little monster and it will
wreak havoc over our lives and keep us up all night and make us take care of him/her even after he/she graduates from college and we will have to send money as
he/she travels all over the world making poor decisions, just like her/his
mama. Then maybe she/he will activate his/her father's smarts and change the world,
make millions, be happy and take care of her old parents.
I realize that's a
great deal of pressure for my imaginary kid, but when you're trying to make a
baby after a loss, I think you must have hopes and dreams to shed some light on
the terrible darkness that a miscarriage brings. I have hope that one of these
days, I will wake up foggy from my dreams and my hand won't go to my
belly when I remember what's real. Tears won't prick my eyes when my
husband leaves for work. I have hope I will stop using my dog as a tissue, as she
squeaks to get away sometimes when I hold her too tightly. I have hope that one
of these days I will get out of bed and my womb will be healed and my body will
say, "I'm ready."