I Cried

I had a miscarriage in May. End of May. I wasn't very far along.

Shit. This is hard to write.

I never cried when I found out I was pregnant. I stared at the line up of 3 (mostly) inconclusive tests for a long, long time. Hid them in the laundry room, snuck in to check on them while fixing dinner or correcting homework, squinting to see if the palest of lines was darker than it had been the day before, the hour before, the minute before. I was in denial. Over the next week I bought a few more, just to see if any of them were any more clear, until finally I coughed up the money for the "fancy" test - the one that develops the word "pregnant" so that there can be no doubt, no uncertainty - you are going to have a baby. And that's what it said, in letters darker than anything I'd ever seen. Pregnant. And I was conflicted.

I already have six kids,an embarrassment of riches. I'd never had a miscarriage, a stillbirth, a child with a birth defect - I felt like I'd dodged a big bullet and honestly, I was unsure if I could handle being pregnant again. I remembered my last pregnancy and how difficult it had been - granted, it was a mere 5 months after the previous one, and I'd been on some heavy duty mood lifters, but the last five years of the spectrum stuff have been rough on me and I just didn't feel ready to do all of it over again. I've read that siblings born after a child on the spectrum can have a higher rate of their own "issues", and I worried about my sanity if I had to do all of "it" all over again. After all, I'd had a little nervous breakdown in March, so what was I doing adding to my workload - even though it was a complete and total accident? I plotted out the due date and realized it would be right after Christmas, just a bit into a brand new year. Go though a winter baby again? Gah. All my winter babies came down with RSV and asthma. And being huge at Christmas? This was not in my plans.

But I was pregnant and as soon as I really realized it, I grew to be happy. I looked through the baby clothes and remembered my favorite outfits, went up in the attic to gaze on the bassinet and the papasan chair, and looked online for maternity clothes and cloth diapers - I'd given almost all of mine away in certainty that I'd never be pregnant again. I told no one, though, except for one blogging friend. We had an enormous family wedding coming up and I wanted to spare my niece the drama. What drama? Probably it was all in my head, and I certainly didn't give anyone enough credit, but I remember the comments and digs, the swipes and the hurtful ugly things that were said to me during my pregnancy with Riley. Not so much by family members, although the jokes about my sex life aren't funny coming from anyone, but people can be deeply cruel without realizing it. Sure, I was getting to the comfort zone, but I was not fully there, and I wasn't secure enough yet to be able to deal with ugliness and crass comments - and I knew both were coming.

So I kept the pregnancy to myself.

And then I lost the baby.(What a dumb saying, for who would LOSE a baby? You lose your eyeglasses, not a human being.) And I realized that, by not sharing my news, I'd kept myself safe from swipes and digs, but unknowingly sheltered myself from consolation and comfort, for how could anyone comfort me if I had never told? I explained here on this blog, and received tremendous comfort from you, my readers. I gave the baby a name, talked about it a very tiny bit with my husband, and put it behind me.

I did not cry.

I put it behind me and went on with my life. "You already have six kids," I told myself whenever my thoughts touched on the subject. "God knew what he was doing, for you couldn't have handled it. Besides, you have nine kids together - it's greedy to want more." A friend had a baby and I was happy for her, but sad when I visited her in the very hospital that I'd delivered two children. I pushed that sadness away. A mother on my daughter's soccer team was pregnant, and it turned out that we would have been due a day apart, and I silently observed her tummy at games and practices. That's what I'd look like now, I thought to myself. She's as far along as I would have been. It was tough, but I pushed it away, for greed is unflattering and how could I explain what I didn't even really understand? When I thought about it, I switched my thoughts to something, anything else. Nothing to see here, move along!

Thank goodness you miscarried, said one well meaning friend. Now you can get on with your life. You are almost 40, said another, babies born to older mothers have "problems". You CERTAINLY don't need any more of THAT! True. And True.

And yet.

A baby lost at any stage of life is still a baby lost. I knew this baby a short time, and grieved it's conception for most of that time - a reality that will haunt me forever. I wish I could go back. I wish I could do things differently. I'd have shouted from the rooftops, ignored all the hurtful things that were said, and punched anyone in the face who'd dared to tell me differently. My hands would have been sore, no doubt.

I went to a funeral today. The friend who was pregnant with me gave birth to a stillborn daughter.

And I cried. For her, of course. For her two remaining daughters, her husband, her family. For the incredibly small box, the pink roses, the framed picture of the baby and the photos of her three girls together once. Only once. I cried when her 6 year old spoke at the service.

But, I think, I cried for me as well.

Most probably, I will never have another baby. I'm having female issues that will need to have some type of resolution soon, and those actions will take my fertility. My husband doesn't get it - but how can he, when I really don't understand it myself? Nothing to see here, move along, you already have six kids, Who are you, Michelle Duggar with better hair? Don't be greedy....

And yet...

I cried today. Almost all of today. I'll probably cry tomorrow too, and maybe on and off for quite a while.

I cried, I think, for me.

Comments

[Chantal]

It's okay to cry for you. Always.

[Amy]

Beautiful, heart breaking post. I am now crying for you too.

[Patois]

Chantal is so right. Cry until you don't have to.

[Patricia]

When you run out of tears, let me know, and I'll cry for you until you make more tears.

[Melissa - The Sisterhood of the Shrinking Jeans]

Crying is part of healing. Beautiful post.

[KatieButler]

Thinking of you. And I don't mean this as man-bashing, but I don't think men can really understand, some women, either.

[Kerry]

I'm crying too. I'm SO very sorry for your loss; the loss of the new life you had inside you, if only for a short time, and the loss of all the other children that you will never have. (((hugs)))

I don't care how many children you have. Loss is loss is loss. And yes, even loss of possibility.

My condolences to your friend as well.

[Headless Mom]

I'm crying too.

Love you, friend.

[shizzknits]

I'm so sorry for your loss....cry as much as you want- sometimes that's the only thing that makes sense. (((hugs)))

[amie]

I am so very sorry for your loss. Erase all that stuff from your mind about having 6 or 9 or being 40 & let your heart & mind have time to grieve this very real loss. xxxoooo

[Amy]

So beautifully written.

Your story echoed mine almost perfectly. I was a bit younger but still....

It's been nearly five years since my second miscarriage and nearly 10 since my first. I still tear up from time to time about it. Both came after we considered our family 'complete' and I was surprised how quickly I grew attached to a new life.

Feel free to grieve. It's so important.

[Monica Bertone]

I'm so sorry to hear that. I had one shortly after my first child, and I was devastated. You need to cry and let it all out. Nothing to hide, or be ashamed of... Grieve and let it all out.

[The Only Girl]

Hugs. And understanding. I too "lost" a baby and often wonder about what would have been. I try not to dwell on it, because I have 2 wonderful, healthy children, but you can't help but wonder.

Beautifully written.

[Cathy]

I'm so sorry. It's perfectly reasonable to be sad about your baby and miscarriage. No matter what the other "good reasons" are for appreciating what you have and where you are...it doesn't take long to wrap your head around the idea and start having hopes and dreams as much as you think about the things you'll have to work around. I'm so sorry for your friend too - such a nightmare to carry your baby to term and leave the hospital without her.

[maybaby]

Oh my dear. You may never totally sort out that tangle of feelings...but you know what? you don't have to.

The number of living children in a family has no bearing on grief. There's no time limit on working through that grief, either.

Contemplating the end of fertility is a loss and a grief (and a relief and a joy, sometimes) all of its own. That's a lot to deal with, emotionally. Just feel your way through it day by day. Thank you for writing about it, and sharing it.

[db]

One doesn’t replace another, they are all special to you and they are all your children. Don’t let other people get in the way of how or when you grieve. Im sorry for your loss, and the loss of your friend as well.

[Susan]

Your soul needs to heal - and it's normal to cry until it does.
I'm so sorry for your pain.
God Bless.

[She Likes Purple]

Six kids, 16 kids, one kid, no kid, doesn't matter, I think all women can relate to this a little bit. I'm thinking of you. And your friend.

[Thumper]

It's not a numbers game; you're allowed to grieve for things and people lost, no matter how many others are in your life. People who try to brush it away with platitudes like "you already have six' (or 2. or 10. It does not matter) don't get the bigger picture. I have three siblings but that doesn't mean I wouldn't grieve hard if something happened to one of them; it doesn't matter that I have 2 more. The hole created is the same; it's the lost opportunities, the chances never to be, the wonders of what-if.

And truly, there were times I didn't want those siblings, but damn...to lose one?

The analogy is stretched thin, but the point is the same... The grief is yours to feel, no matter what anyone else thinks. And to cry for yourself in the midst of crying for your friend is necessary and compassionate, and speaks to an inner kindness that a lot of people just don't have.

[Naomi]

I don't think I could have understood before I became a mom. We only have two kids and don't plan on having more but I can relate to the mixed feelings of dread and excitement when your period doesn't come. And then the unexpected sadness when it finally does.

I am so sorry for the pain and sorrow you must be feeling, especially since others didn't know and maybe can't relate to your grief. It's easy to say "you already have six kids!" but that's totally irrelevant. Each of them is a part of you and so important.

[Wendy E]

I am crying for both you and the other mother right now.

[Jess]

It does not matter how many children you have when you lose something you cared for with all of your heart and soul. Unconditional love is something that so sacred, and we give it to our child inside our womb almost immediately. When something like this happens, it is hard to take back that love so easily especially when you didn't get a vote or a chance to fight for it's life, something you would do with all of your children now.
It was so hard, and even 18 years later I find myself grieving for something that I could not change, and I think that is what hurts the most... not being able to save my angel. {{hugs}} to you or posting this... there are so many untold stories out there, that need to be told.

[Stimey]

I am so sorry. It's okay to cry. For you, for your friend, and for both of your babies.

[Beth]

I had a stillborn baby (our very unplanned 4th child) the same day my dear friend had her 4th - a boy after 3 girls. We were walking into the hospital for the "birth", after an ultrasound gave us the awful news earlier in the day, when we ran into my friends parents, who, understandably thought we were there to see the new arrival. Ackward doesn't even begin to describe it. Even 14 years and six kids later, I still cry on Jan. 3rd (I'm doing it now even!) and I have a wee bit of trouble even today of seeing her son as a teen, just knowing... My heart and tears go out to you and your friend.

[Kait]

I had my first miscarriage at nineteen. Even though I knew, really truly knew, that it was better that I wasn't having a baby as a teenager with a boy who wasn't ready either, even though I acted like it was no big deal, even though I moved on and went forward with my life and got married (and had more miscarriages) and adopted two amazing little girls...even though it was really better this way, I still cried when the church had a thing in the bulletin about buying holiday flowers in memory or in honor of someone. I still know exactly when I got pregnant, when I found out, when my due date was, and when I wasn't pregnant any more. I still know how old my baby would be and I still think "So we would have had a four year old, a three year old and a two year old right now..."

I'm so sorry for your lose Carmen. My heart is aching right along with you.