..this is about to get real, and very personal.
We came home from Sunday dinner with my family, and though all was going fine while we were at the house, once we were on our way home I knew it was going to be a dark and difficult night for me. I had visited the doctor early in the week and received some disappointing news after an ultrasound. I should have been a 12 weeks along mommy, but within a single hour was suddenly turned in to an empty shell no longer growing a new baby.
When I first heard the news I was devastated and deeply disappointed, but also partly relieved to finally know what was actually happening instead of being full of stress, questions, and concerns. For a handful of days part of me knew something had gone wrong with the pregnancy, but the baby wanting part of me didn't want to hear it. For those first days after the hospital visit I was expecting the painful, gruesome experience I knew came with miscarriage, but it didn't come. I stayed home most of those days expecting any moment my body would start breaking and the would-have-been baby would be painfully torn from my body and heart. However, when it didn't come in those few days, I thought maybe it wouldn't be as bad as I had been expecting. But it did come, that Sunday night it came in full force.
On the drive home the pain started. It started low and persistent in my back. Then the hot pains progressed to my stomach. I was hunched over in the back seat just wanting to be curled up, tucked away in a dark corner somewhere. We got home and I tried my best to put our son to bed, but Superman ended up having to do most of it himself. I crawled feebly into bed, still in agony, and whispered urgent prayers until finally the labor like pains eased two hours later.
Sparing the most hideous of details, I will say I spent the rest of the night and early morning dashing in and out of the bathroom. I was horribly, terribly uncomfortable. I was sad and sobbing. I was exhausted and worn. I was trying to be as quiet as possible so I wouldn't disturb my wonderful, caring, completely inert husband who had to get up at 4 a.m. and go to work. It was such a difficult and lonely night, probably one of the hardest I have ever had to endure. Though I did have a lifeline through it all, my mother.
When the pains started, I told her before we left the house that I thought "it" was happening. The distressing, heart tearing "it" that no one wants to speak of. The "it" that had shattered the hopes and glimmers of a new, growing life. When I told her she said I could call any time if I needed anything. I couldn't call, and I wouldn't, but I did end up texting her for most of the night. I was so worried, so stressed, and so despairing. My head was full of questions and fears. She calmly, lovingly answered and mostly just let me know I wasn't completely alone. It was all the comfort I needed and I was so grateful for that exchange of messages.
That night was the kind of terrible, awful I would never wish on anyone. It is something I never, ever want to revisit. It is a dark time I will never be able to blot out from the pages of my mind. That nightmare of a night has changed me, dug a deep hole in me, and wrapped its hot, shiny claws around a bit of my hopeful heart. It also forged me to the sisterhood of women who have been through the same experience, or even worse and repeated experiences with miscarriage. I ache for them and for me. I ache for that singular and soul-shattering loss.
It was also the kind of night that helped me realize what a true miracle it is to actually bring a baby into this life. I love my baby, and my husband, and my mommy so much more because of that dreadful experience. I am stronger now also. I am more determined. I know in time, in the right time, we can try again. And we will. I still have a bright, lingering faith that everything will work out as it should. Our family will heal and grow. I look forward to that day, that right time meant just for us.
We came home from Sunday dinner with my family, and though all was going fine while we were at the house, once we were on our way home I knew it was going to be a dark and difficult night for me. I had visited the doctor early in the week and received some disappointing news after an ultrasound. I should have been a 12 weeks along mommy, but within a single hour was suddenly turned in to an empty shell no longer growing a new baby.
When I first heard the news I was devastated and deeply disappointed, but also partly relieved to finally know what was actually happening instead of being full of stress, questions, and concerns. For a handful of days part of me knew something had gone wrong with the pregnancy, but the baby wanting part of me didn't want to hear it. For those first days after the hospital visit I was expecting the painful, gruesome experience I knew came with miscarriage, but it didn't come. I stayed home most of those days expecting any moment my body would start breaking and the would-have-been baby would be painfully torn from my body and heart. However, when it didn't come in those few days, I thought maybe it wouldn't be as bad as I had been expecting. But it did come, that Sunday night it came in full force.
On the drive home the pain started. It started low and persistent in my back. Then the hot pains progressed to my stomach. I was hunched over in the back seat just wanting to be curled up, tucked away in a dark corner somewhere. We got home and I tried my best to put our son to bed, but Superman ended up having to do most of it himself. I crawled feebly into bed, still in agony, and whispered urgent prayers until finally the labor like pains eased two hours later.
Sparing the most hideous of details, I will say I spent the rest of the night and early morning dashing in and out of the bathroom. I was horribly, terribly uncomfortable. I was sad and sobbing. I was exhausted and worn. I was trying to be as quiet as possible so I wouldn't disturb my wonderful, caring, completely inert husband who had to get up at 4 a.m. and go to work. It was such a difficult and lonely night, probably one of the hardest I have ever had to endure. Though I did have a lifeline through it all, my mother.
When the pains started, I told her before we left the house that I thought "it" was happening. The distressing, heart tearing "it" that no one wants to speak of. The "it" that had shattered the hopes and glimmers of a new, growing life. When I told her she said I could call any time if I needed anything. I couldn't call, and I wouldn't, but I did end up texting her for most of the night. I was so worried, so stressed, and so despairing. My head was full of questions and fears. She calmly, lovingly answered and mostly just let me know I wasn't completely alone. It was all the comfort I needed and I was so grateful for that exchange of messages.
That night was the kind of terrible, awful I would never wish on anyone. It is something I never, ever want to revisit. It is a dark time I will never be able to blot out from the pages of my mind. That nightmare of a night has changed me, dug a deep hole in me, and wrapped its hot, shiny claws around a bit of my hopeful heart. It also forged me to the sisterhood of women who have been through the same experience, or even worse and repeated experiences with miscarriage. I ache for them and for me. I ache for that singular and soul-shattering loss.
It was also the kind of night that helped me realize what a true miracle it is to actually bring a baby into this life. I love my baby, and my husband, and my mommy so much more because of that dreadful experience. I am stronger now also. I am more determined. I know in time, in the right time, we can try again. And we will. I still have a bright, lingering faith that everything will work out as it should. Our family will heal and grow. I look forward to that day, that right time meant just for us.
I am so sorry for your loss. I hope you find peace and heal quickly.
ReplyDeleteYou are so kind. Thank you. Things are getting easier with each day that goes by.
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