This post is very personal in nature and contains emotional and somewhat graphic details about my miscarriage experience. Tread lightly if you are sensitive to such details. I share them in the effort of processing my own pain and experiences, to help others have a greater insight and understanding of me, my life, and these kinds of experiences in general, and also to reach out to those who have been through similar things. I want to be a voice for others who do not have the strength to find their own.
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November 1st.
A day I will never forget but don't want to remember.
But I feel compelled to write about it. I've felt prompted by the Spirit that I need to continue to tell my story. I'm not sure the exact purpose or reason, but I take seriously the commandment to write and to document our history. So here goes...
The morning of Thursday, November 1st, I had another doctor's appointment to test the blood work and do an ultrasound as needed. Monitoring my situation. I desperately hoped that growth would occur and a heartbeat would appear. I longed for a miracle but knew the reality was dark and unlikely. I was trying to accept whatever the outcome and just wanted to know for sure either way. I was DONE being in limbo and wanted to know which direction my life was going to turn...And I got my answer that morning. The wait was over.
I woke up with odd-feeling cramps and a bloody mucus-like substance in my underwear. I was immediately concerned but tried not to panic since it wasn't very much and it didn't seem to be flowing at the moment. It could have been passed off as a slight spotting, which could have been considered normal. But despite my attempts to calm myself and still hope that everything was okay, I couldn't hold the tide of the reality that was about to sink down on me, heavy and strong, with the possible threat of never being able to come up for air.
As I stripped off my clothes and got into the shower to get ready for my Dr's appointment, I felt reality rush out of me in one big bloody gush down to the shower floor and watched as the water washed all of my dreams away down into the drain. I don't know if there will ever be words to describe the rush of emotions I felt in that moment. I literally felt like I could curl up and die. I began to hyperventilate as I tried to somehow stifle the emotion I was feeling, knowing that if I let it loose I may never return from that dark oblivion... And I knew I had to make it to my doctor's appointment, especially if what I thought was happening was indeed happening. And I knew it was. It was the final doom of an impending diagnosed miscarriage. Yet there was a tiny place in the back of my mind that wondered if maybe my body was passing the old 2nd embryo that didn't take and was still floating around. And maybe, just maybe, my one baby was still okay. It was a tiny spot of hope. I was still hyperventilating through these thoughts and was teetering on the edge of oblivion-like despair. I nearly fell into it as I slumped to the shower floor. But on the way down I cried aloud, "My God! My Lord! Help me!! Help me!! Help me to have peace! Hold my heart together a little while longer and help me to move my body. I need to move my body. Please hold me. Hold my heart." I held my heart together like I always do when it's in deep pain, by placing my hand over it. And as if someone else had taken over my body, I felt myself stand up on my feet and begin to go through the motions of taking a shower. The shock and the grief in my mind did not leave, but I felt the love of the Lord surround me and I felt Him helping me along.
I made it to the doctor's appointment where I sat stiff in a cold chair listening to the Indian lady talk over me about severely declining hcg #'s and what to expect over the next week. There was a tone of pity and "I told you so." But I could tell she was trying to help me with her limited scientific view. We scheduled a follow up for a week away. She told me to call her or go to the ER if the pain got too severe. But I knew that no amount of physical pain could ever match the depth of the emotional pain I was feeling. I'd learned that lesson a long time ago. Thank goodness the Lord seemed to be walking along with me and keeping that pain from overtaking me. I was mostly feeling a sense of relief as I left the dark and cold doctor's office...Relief that the wait was over and that I could finally move on to accepting my doom. The 2 weeks of trying to convince myself it wasn't really happening was over and reality could set in. I could get back to being ME again, as opposed to the hopeless hope-filled woman chained to the doctor's office.
In fact, as I left the doctor's office, the physical pain hadn't set in yet either, and I was able to make a trip to Kirkland's to return a clock that didn't match the living room like I had hoped. I shopped around and exchanged it for a medium-sized framed mirror to hopefully hang on the other side of the window. On sale of course. I left the store feeling exhilarated with a combination of the relief of knowing for sure, attempted acceptance, preparation for the pain to come, and a sense of eternal perspective and reflective light as I looked into my newly-purchased mirror. I even had time to hang it up in its new home before the pain and severe bleeding began. I loaded up on Tylenol and perched myself on the couch ready to bear down and cope.
I suffered off and on, the pain crashing down on me in waves, coming every few minutes in the classic pattern of contractions. I'd always wanted to feel this pain. The pain of labor and delivery. In a sense, I welcomed it, even though I knew the end result would not be the same as other women's. I wanted to prove that it could be endured. That
I could endure. And endure I did. It was severe. But something about it was empowering and exhilarating. I knew this may be as close as I could ever get to experiencing what I'd longed to experience... what most women and all female mammals on earth get to experience. My tiny moment of wondrous empowering womanhood. My brush with pregnancy and motherhood. Birthing my baby. My dead baby.
Alone on the couch, I felt these feelings as I suffered. Yet, I felt Him near. Bearing me up. Encouraging me on. Knowing my pain.
After a few days (Thur-Sat) I thought the majority of it had passed. The pain would come and go and it had mostly subsided by Saturday night. I planned to go to church because we were in the middle of the Primary Program practices with all of the children in the chapel on the stand. I really needed to be there and was glad it was looking like I would get to. But Sunday morning came and I awoke to the worst pain I'd yet experienced. I basically had to crawl to the bathroom, and once I got there it became physically impossible for me to move anywhere else, the pain was so bad. At one point I vomited because of it. I sat crouched on the floor rocking back and forth on my heels trying to focus on my breathing, but moaning and yelling would force its way out of me uncontrollably as the pain would sharpen suddenly. There was no way I was making it to church that morning. I had to figure out, in the midst of the pain, what to do about it--How to communicate to the proper people what needed to happen. Spencer helped me. We got my bag together and all of the signs for the songs. I wrote down specifics on a paper and instructed Spencer to take all of it to Jen Johnson (our Primary President and my close friend) and she would give it to Jen Reed after she was finished playing the organ for sacrament meeting that day. Jen Reed had subbed for me before and would know the drill. I felt so relieved that there was someone I could count on to handle it properly--to be my stunt-double. I'm so thankful Heavenly Father sent her here. He knew I would need her.
Once all of that got handled, I remained in the bathroom struggling through the pain. I suffered through it most of the morning while Spencer looked on with pain-filled eyes. Finally, it came out. In one big gush, I felt the large tissues that encased my tiny little fetus pass from my body. I dared to look and was thankful that nothing was large enough to be recognizable. But I knew what it was. And I knew it was the end.
And I cried.
I cried as I placed it in the toilet.
It felt so cold and shallow, as if I was dropping a 10 cent goldfish to be flushed. That comparison flashing across my mind made me feel so angry that I was having to do this. It was indeed not worth a mere 10 cents, but instead it was a $13,000.00 pregnancy!! That I had waited 6 years for!!
With all of the emotional imagination I could muster, I pictured that toilet as a literal porcelain throne--the sacrificial alter--where I laid down all of my hopes and dreams, all of which were righteous desires that just couldn't come to pass for me in this life--all of the hard work, the tears I had shed, and, yes, the money that was spent, was represented in a physical way on that piece of tissue paper floating in the water. And with one courageous, ceremonial push I pressed the button that would flush it all away.
I thought of Abraham and Isaac and how many times I had felt like I was in their shoes--asked to sacrifice the impossible. But this time I actually had to take the plunge. At least that's what that felt like--pressing that flush button. But I also continued to think of how that story about Abraham and Isaac is a similitude of how God had to sacrifice His Son. And I knew that He felt my pain and wept with me.
And we wept.
My body stayed weak for a while after that, and still isn't fully recovered. My body has been through a lot this year. Every part of me has been through a lot, and for a long time. Legitimate torture. This was the climax of it all, though. Without the happy ending. At least not for now.
I continue to be tortured. Perhaps not physically, but emotionally and SOCIALLY. Everywhere I turn I am reminded that no one truly understands what I've been through. I am alone in my situation. And while some are extremely sweet, sensitive, and at least attempt understanding (thankfully, my closest friends) a huge majority of people, though well-intending, are completely clueless, insensitive, oblivious, or right out rude. It's never ceased to amaze me how someone that's never stepped foot on this particular walk of life thinks they somehow have the authority to give what they think is some kind of magical advice that will make me feel better or solve all of my problems. I know that people feel an innate desire to fix things for people, but some things just can't be fixed. How about telling me simply that you love me, that you're sorry this has happened, and maybe even distract me with a little bit of laughter. Laughter is always the best medicine when trying to heal the heart. I've learned to be very forward and outspoken about what I specifically need when I've been through something hard and tragic like this. Yet people seem to ignore and just do and say what they want. CLUELESS PEOPLE. They just talk and talk and talk and talk and say stupid things. It really makes being around adults very annoying... MORE than annoying--TRAUMATIC.
I could list experience after experience of traumatic social encounters that I've had since the miscarriage. I've tried to put myself out there a little at a time, despite my discomfort, just because I thought it would be good for me. I'd already been out of the loop since I spent 2 months going through IVF. I wanted to see my friends again. I wanted to laugh again. I needed help forgetting the crud. Some of the time spent trying to be social again was good. But mostly it caused an acute awareness and realization that I AM DIFFERENT now. And that no one really understands what my perspective currently is. Perhaps a few have a glimpse and are sensitive and helpful. But the rest--if they truly understood, they wouldn't say the things they say, or bring up pregnancy and babies around me, or complain about their children. I am not offended by these things. I don't hold a grudge. But I do seem to retreat from that person for a time and am wary of being further hurt. If they only knew the way it made me cringe and break inside, to be reminded every day that I don't have--almost did have--and most likely may never have--what they talk about so carelessly. Those things that you assume all women will get to have. But I am left out, because I have nothing left to contribute to that conversation anymore. I used to try to contribute to these pregnancy/children conversations in my own way. With a hope-filled voice, I would describe what I planned to do one day when it was my turn to be a mother. But now, the hope is gone, and there is nothing left for me to add. So I listen, and silently grieve inside. While the other mothers can openly talk about their frustrations a midst nods of understanding, I am keenly aware that if I dared vocalize my frustrations there would be nothing but awkward silence and the sound of crickets.
I experienced the height of this feeling as I went to a little party last night. The thought of that evening makes me cringe and retreat away from the thought of EVER going to another group type social event again. EVER.
It sparked a relapse of grief in me that overflowed into today.
I had to leave early from church because of it, causing me to unfortunately miss Primary. Sitting in sacrament meeting, I struggled with my feelings. I prayed silently for help all through the passing of the sacrament. When it was over, the person giving the first talk got up and started rambling about not having prepared their talk. The old Amy would have been smiling at her encouragingly regardless. But it struck me that I just didn't care anymore. None of it seemed to matter, and it seemed so shallow to have to sit there and tolerate nonsense chatter when that person is dang-well old enough to have prepared her talk for church. And in the midst of these thoughts, another clueless and oblivious person walked in late and sat down with her red-headed baby right in front of us... and something about that made me just SNAP on the inside. I grabbed my bags and got up and left. I walked down the hall to the dark and empty Primary room, shut the door behind me, and began to just CRY and cry and cry. It was deep grief that was forcing its way up out of me and was impossible to stifle.
A few minutes later I heard someone walk in. My head was down leaning on the chair in front of me, and I didn't dare look up. I was still crying pretty hard and just needed to let it out regardless of who heard. I hoped that person would realize pretty quickly (my crying was definitely audible) that I was grieving and just needed to be left alone. But I then heard that person stomp across the room and switch on the overhead speakers, blaring the sound of the sacrament meeting speakers that I had just tried to flee from. I heard the footsteps of that person walk past me and then right behind me and plop down in a chair. At first I thought, "What in the world!" But ever hopeful, I thought that maybe it could be Spencer coming to check on me and be with me. So I looked up with hope-filled eyes... only it was NOT Spencer... just another clueless, and apparently extremely insensitive random person! They didn't say a word, but just sat there listening to me cry.
I SNAPPED again on the inside, feeling flustered, disturbed, and more distraught than ever that someone could be so callus to the obvious upset emotions coming from another human being, and that I couldn't mourn in peace. I jumped up from my seat and began pulling out the items for Primary that I thought might be needed and putting them up on top of the piano ready to use. I started writing this long note to Jen Reed about my suggestion for what to do for Primary Singing Time. Funny thing was I hadn't totally planned what to do/say for Singing Time, but as I wrote that note it somehow seemed to pour out of me. I learned later from Jen Johnson that it went magically smooth and seemed like Jen Reed had prepared for subbing all week. I was so thankful to hear that, and knew it was a tiny miracle and a tender mercy guided by the influence of the Spirit during my time of need. It was such a blessing to feel comfortable enough to count on these good women: Jen Reed, Aubrey Christensen, and Jen Johnson, not just as fellow Primary workers and musicians, but as sincere friends with compassionate hearts. I was able to leave those items and that note and walk out the door with full relief to be able to JUST CRY in peace.
And cry I did.
All the way home, and on the couch where I continued to cry some more. The grief harbored deep down inside of me just spilled and spilled out since there was no more room to keep it. As I sat on the couch, I prayed to my Heavenly Father that He would send me comfort. And not even a few minutes later I heard the sound of salvation...
I could hear him rounding the corner on that loud bike of his, and then could see him riding down the street looking like a real man dressed in his Sunday best, dark shades, and black helmet. I felt a jolt of relief and he took my breath away as I whispered to myself, "There comes my hero to save my day." And I began to cry again. This time because I felt loved and knew that Heavenly Father had sent him to me to help me. And so we could help each other. Spencer confessed that he had been feeling the same way I did during church and, not knowing that I had left already, decided one hour of torture was all he could take and escaped by heading home. He had had to sit there during sacrament meeting while the red-headed baby tried to hand him things and smile at him. Pure torture. But we had both escaped it and were safe in the haven of our home, filled with love for each other. We sat on the couch and just talked. We exchanged horror stories and rambled about random thoughts. It felt good to let it out and just be together with the one person that totally understands. We share the same wounds and battle scars. We share the same squashed hopes and dreams.
And at least we have each other.
And the pups.
I found myself wishing out loud that we could just stay in this spot together and never go out into the world that we don't fit into and are misunderstood by. Knowing full well that it just doesn't work that way. But it became very clear to me that all of this hard stuff Spencer and I have been through has only made us closer. I feel closer to Spencer now more than I ever have. I love him with a deeper love, and feel the same from him. With all of our differences there is something in sync about us--some magical alignment that I've felt just since the miscarriage. We celebrated our 8th Anniversary a couple of weeks ago--we did random fun things throughout the week with the big celebration being going to the Atlanta Falcons game on Thursday night. SO FuN! Wherever we go, I feel so safe with him. I feel endlessly connected to him--like a true eternity--inseparable. I feel like always celebrating US and who/what we've become and what we've been able to endure and accomplish.
Spencer Jay--it's me and you forever, babe.
It's US against the WORLD. ♥
