I Did Not Cry

I did not cry.

For two weeks I did not cry.

As I laid there staring at the ultrasound monitor while the doctor kept adjusting the angle of the ultrasound wand, searching, hunting for a heartbeat, I did not cry.

When we sat and tried to determine if our dates were “right” or if they could possible be “off” and the doctor spun his pregnancy calculator wheel to see if the measurements had any possibility of being correct, I did not cry.

When the financial coordinator started asking about making our hospital copayment and for the first time I had to say that there was a chance the pregnancy was “no good”, I did not cry.

Standing in the parking lot, reminding myself how to take a normal breath while my husband carefully looked me over, assessing to see if I was ok to safely drive the 45 minutes home, I did not cry.

We waited ten days to find out that no, there was not a heartbeat, and no, the baby is not growing anymore. Still, I did not cry.

I matter-of-factly asked what the next step was and how quickly could we be in the operating room. We sat quietly in the doctor’s office waiting to sign consent paperwork and time started slowing down. He told us to cry, to grieve. He warned Charles that I was going to handle this as a medical person and would be strong. I would tell him that I was ok. Then one day it would just “hit” me and there would be a breakdown. It would be unexpected and sudden.

He was right.

I went through fourteen days numb. Everyone asked how I was doing. I repeated that I was ok. I didn’t feel sad; I didn’t feel anything.

When we realized we were pregnant it was nearly three weeks after we had to leave our house after finding extensive mold. We were homeless (figuratively), living at a friend’s vacation home. We had already decided that until our housing situation was rectified, we were no longer going to try to conceive. The joke was on us because we already were.

I was cautious with my feelings. I was excited, but terrified. We carefully told our parents and siblings. I was having a difficult time with nausea, exhaustion, and shortness of breath. I didn’t want to talk about names or what the baby’s sex may be. I was scared. Charles encouraged me to enjoy the process. I started relaxing. I let him talk to my stomach and touch it. I started thinking of baby names. We already had decided to not tell our son until we were well into the second trimester just in case something happened as we did not think he would be able to process that type of loss.

The weekend before our eight-week ultrasound I started throwing around ideas as to how we would announce our news to friends and extended family. I came up with a few ideas and tossed them around with Charles and my mom.

I was no longer being vigilant with my emotions. My guard was down, and I was enjoying the process. My very pragmatic approach to the pregnancy was gone. Although I kept saying to my inner circle that “it wasn’t real until the ultrasound”, I was feeling all of it.

The second ultrasound confirmed we had no growth in the past ten days and there was still no heartbeat. I had spent ten days telling myself that most likely I had a missed miscarriage. I had found myself “reassuring” my friends and our parents that we were preparing for the worst; trying to comfort them as we prepared for what I felt was inevitable.

We tried to hold onto what our OB had told us – focus on the positive that we now know that I can get pregnant. It had been eight months of trying and I had been at the point of starting to believe that a biological addition to our family was not a possibility.

After a hectic weekend of celebrating our son’s sixth birthday and being nonstop for four days, I finished our bedtime routine and after our son was in bed I showered, went to bed, and as I lay next to my sleeping husband it happened. A slow, creeping blanket of darkness moved over my entire body. I could not breathe. I paced the house, trying to regain my breath. I found myself on the bathroom floor sobbing.

The sadness and anxiety and worry and loss hit at once.

I fought the sadness. I tried to push back the bilious, burning sensation of vomit that was trying to creep up my throat. I crawled into bed, back into the cool darkness of our bedroom.

Charles awoke to my hysterics. His sobbing, choking, trembling wife who was still forcing the words “I’m ok” out of her mouth.

“No, you’re not. You’re not supposed to be ok. We are supposed to be sad and cry and get all of this out.”

And finally, I did.

In that moment of him encouraging me to grant myself the permission to grieve, I began what was the start of a healing process that is still developing.

It was a very long night. As I laid in bed with his arm around me, sobbing, letting all the anxiety and sadness I was suppressing for fourteen days leave my body I found my breath. I started purging my doubts and fears and anxiety. He quietly listened and held me. He knew exactly what I needed in that moment.

The past week has been a challenge. It has been a rollercoaster. Some days I am back to “normal”, whatever that may mean. Other days I feel everything like a fresh cut.

I explained to Charles that nothing about my miscarriage and D&C was private. My personal life and my work life became so intertwined with my procedure that when I walk through the halls of the hospital or my office, I feel like people are seeing me undressed, vulnerable. I see their sad eyes and their glances of compassion as they tell me they are sorry and then tell me their story or their daughter’s story or just lend words of support. I feel them seeing me and seeing my sadness.

I know that my story is not special. Miscarriages are common. The cause of our loss was most likely chromosomal. The medical part of my brain knows that.  The medical part of my brain is losing the battle with my heart.

Pregnancy loss is a semi-taboo subject that should not be taboo. It makes people uncomfortable. I think people have an easier time consoling a person who lost someone who they have memories with. They encourage that person to remember the good times and treasure those memories. You cannot have memories with someone you were never allowed to meet. The loss is the loss of a future. That imagined life you started narrating as the weeks progressed and you started talking about a nursery and names and how you would tell everyone.

We know that we will be able to try again if we choose to. We know that we will have the same enveloping love and support from our family and friends that we are feeling now.

What I don’t know is how I will feel if I do get pregnant again. I'm unsure how I will navigate the potential anxiety and paranoia of the first trimester knowing how I feel at this moment.

October is Pregnancy Loss Awareness Month. I have been blessed by family and friends who have encouraged me to talk about our loss and my feelings when I felt ready to do so. Not all parents have that ability. I cannot imagine grieving privately, secretly and still trying to function daily. We need to normalize talking about grief and giving our loved one’s safe spaces to grieve in a healthy manner.