I write with caution and reverence, as I know I am not alone in this experience. Miscarriage can be such a taboo topic, something we don't speak of out of fear of offending or making uncomfortable. But recently I have felt like I need to express our heartache in miscarriage. Here I am, over a year later, and it's again rising to the surface ready to see the light of day.
We had a surprise pregnancy when Jos was one. I remember looking at that plastic stick with its blue line, and crying. Thinking, I'm not ready. We would have our 3rd child about 3 months before Josie's 2nd birthday. How would I do it? Eventually, excitement edged out fear, and we began to happily envision our life as a family of 5.
When we got Josie's initial diagnosis I was overwhelmed. Scared of the unknown, and not sure how to process it. Things already felt so fragile.
We sat in the emergency waiting room for hours. 7 to be exact. It was a harsh way to add insult to injury. To have to experience such a deep and personal fear in the midst of chaos and drunken commotion. It pained me to watch person after person go in to see the doctors before me, making me feel like no one cared about the fate of my child. I understand there was little they could do, and they just needed to confirm the source of the bleeding, but to see everyone so lackadaisical about something that I felt such urgency about made me feel hopeless. We left with unconfirmed results. When I saw my doctor, she told me that we had miscarried.
That night I cried. Probably the hardest and most genuine tears I've ever shed. They came fast and hard, and I didn't try to hold them back. It was the kind of ugly cry that you know you will feel embarrassed about later, but in the moment you feel like you have no choice but to let your body do what it needs to. The kind of cry that the bible describes as weeping and wailing, and gnashing of teeth. There was all of that.
The next day is what I have been replaying in those late night moments when I am not quite asleep, but relaxed enough to gently slip into it. It's not the intense moments after initially finding out, but the day after. When I was expected to go on with life as normal. When I was expected to pull up my boot straps and get back to life as I knew it. But the problem was, life wasn't as I knew it. What I knew was two healthy children, and excitement for a child on the way. The picture I had held dear, of our life as a family of 5 was instantaneously ripped from me.
I recall walking around my house in my pajamas still feeling sick and sore. The lighting seemed off, more grey than it should. I even checked the fixtures to see if the bulbs needed changing but they were fine. Everything physically looked muted, dark. There was a quiet that hung in the air, hauntingly thick, like if I just waited for the right moment I could reach out and grasp it. The walls seemed too thick, and the ceiling felt too high. I could feel my head pounding, translating the sound of my heart beat. It frustrated me. It felt like a reminder of mortality, and the body that I felt had just betrayed me. I wanted that baby. I wanted to raise and nurture that child into adulthood and see that child succeed. That child was a member of our family and my body decided to discontinue my pregnancy, without even asking. I have never before felt so disconnected from myself. Like my body was its own living, maniacal, decision making thing, and I was merely at its mercy.
As I sat on the couch, I watched as Josie aimlessly wandered the house with that familiar dazed look in her eyes. She looked a lot less engaged in those days, and it pierced my soul as I contemplated my perceived miserable life. I literally felt as though I could never be happy again. Like there was only so much happiness allotted to us in our lifetimes, and because of the loss of our baby, and the loss of the life we had envisioned for Josie, ours would permanently be maimed. We could only attain a certain level of happiness in our lifetime, and it was significantly diminished because of our loss. Like the best grade we could get was a D, and the rest of our lives would have to be perfection to even attain that. My brain tried to tell my heart it would would get through things, that it was speaking irrationally, but my hearts screams just drowned out any consoling thoughts in my head.
I can remember my body feeling heavy, my hair feeling unusually matted. My body felt like it was in a haze, and I remember desperately wishing that haze would envelop my mind so I didn't have to feel this much pain. As I sat immersed in despair and self pity, I noticed a square of light had reached its arm through my window and settled on the wood floor a few feet from me. I felt angry. Enraged that the sun would dare shine on a day like today. Expecting that because of my loss the whole world should be experiencing life at half mast. But it didn't. It was life as usual outside my doors, and I think that's what scared me the most. The feeling that no one was phased, or even aware of my loss. The fear that if I could join the world, that I would too be unphased and unaware of my loss- as though there were only two options. That functioning would be disrespecting the child that I had lost. Wondering how I could accept a life where that child wouldn't exist and find a balance between mourning and normal. My heart had been melon balled and I knew the flimsy shell that was left wouldn't survive the outside world. I felt shame- so much shame. Shame for announcing to everyone that we were pregnant so early. Like after having two children I should know better. I found myself fearing the reaction of others and dreading having to see their expressions when they heard. The world seemed infinitely too large, and far too small all at once.
I don't know when I finally got off the couch, or what compelled me to do so. But piece by piece, I accepted little bits of light back in. Some days I allowed lots of pieces of light in, and others just one or two. It's true that when we have children, our love is multiplied, not divided. And there will forever be a small corner of my heart for that child we never met that will remain empty. The other chambers may swell with joy, and mask that hole for a bit, but it will never fill it completely. It will always be a space for me to visit to be alone and feel the bittersweet sting of mortality.
I don't know exactly why I've been replaying these days in my mind. Perhaps the contemplation of expanding our family in the future has me reliving my darkest days as a form of self preservation. Maybe it's an alarm system integrated in my subconscious telling me, "don't do it- you could get hurt again." Or perhaps I just never processed it like I should have. But what I do know is that in a lot of ways, living in constant perceived fear is worse than heartache. Heartache will soon ease, but fear is an insatiable monster that will continue to grow until nothing is left. Yes, when we go to have another child, we could experience another miscarriage, and have a 20% chance of having another child with autism. But I know that there is a plan for my life. That even though I may not understand all of the pain and hardship this life holds, that I know that they can be overcome. That joy will always trump sorrow, faith will always fight fear, and light will always overcome the darkness. There is so much joy to be had in this life, and a Father in Heaven who loves us immeasurably, and has given us a way to succeed through our trials.
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