My husband and I went out on Saturday afternoon
for a drinking jaunt on the town. We kind of wanted to celebrate after my
almost-good news last week and I had stopped spotting entirely for almost a
week. With the two-week timeframe my
doctor had given me, I felt ready to maybe let a little hope in my hard heart
and thought it would be a good time to have some drinks. We laughed and held
hands and my eyes only welled up with tears once. Out of buzzed habit, I
mentioned something naughty and then thought about how nothing naughty has
been happening and remembered why. Still, we were enjoying each other and our
city and finally feeling good.
But when we got home, I started spotting again.
And just like that, I was back down the rabbit hole. My husband is in a British
car club. His car was given to him by his father who had flown in for their
annual car show which was the next day. I was determined that I would go and
have a good time. I went and no one could have known by my game face, but all I
could think was the little thing they saw on the ultrasound last week was
missed tissue and I would need a third D&C.
The spotting wasn't like a period and it was only
16 days since the D&C. It couldn't be my period—it was too soon. After we
got home from the car show, I became overwhelmed completely and couldn't stop
crying, I sent my husband out with his family and I curled up in bed and I
cried for hours. I broke. I couldn't go on, I couldn't pretend that I was OK;
I had reached my daily limit of fake smiles.
Then I started bleeding heavily and I couldn't
even allow myself to think for one second that it could be my period. I didn't sleep;
I just kept getting up to change my pad, horrified. It was exactly what
happened before I needed the second D&C. I knew the third one was coming. I
went back to the doctor yesterday with a heart full of fear and the certainty
that my semi-rare miscarriage experience was going to get even rarer. But it
didn't. My ultrasound lab tech/girlfriend took extra long at my request and
assured me everything was looking good in there. My doctor smiled and said,
"Now I feel like I can give you some good news: It's your period."
My reaction to the miscarriage was to turn inward and isolate myself, but I think I'm ready to be back in the world.
I didn't react how I thought I would; I thought
I would feel happy, elated and relieved, but I didn't. It's like I have
Stockholm Syndrome—I'm free from the miscarriage now, but I miss my captor. I
expressed this to my husband, who pointed out I haven't had a good night's
sleep in two weeks and that would make anyone feel like crap. So last night I went to bed early and slept a
solid 11 hours. And today, I did my laundry. I got on my bike and I rode to the
gym. I lifted some weights, which I haven't done in months; I watched "New Girl" on my phone and worked up a light sweat on the elliptical. I made myself a low
sodium turkey and avocado sandwich after my workout. And then I went out with
my bestie and ate a bunch of raw oysters and got drunk, to celebrate my period,
because getting my period means we can try again soon and if we succeed, no
I only cried once when we talked about the
miscarriage. After my second D&C, my husband couldn't stay with me and I
couldn't be alone because of the anesthesia, so she stayed with me for hours. I
cried and hugged her because I was grateful that she was there for us at such a
terrible time. I read somewhere that sometimes during a miscarriage you find
out who your real friends are, sometimes people abandon you during the grieving
process. She said, "I know you well enough to know that you would come around
when you were ready, I know you needed space."
Last night, hanging out and eating oysters and
talking about her bad dates made me feel so good, so normal (I'm sure the several
drinks we had didn't hurt either). As we laughed and reminisced about the terrible men we had dated, I realized
how much I missed her.
My reaction to the miscarriage was to turn
inward and isolate myself, but I think I'm ready to be back in the world.
I told my husband that I still have a hole in my heart, and I feel like a different
person; I'm not who I was before the miscarriage. He replied, "You are
different, but you're going to be OK. We're
going to be OK."