miscarriage – Page 4

Moving On and Settling Down

If you’ve never noticed before, the tagline of my blog is “moving on and settling down…all at once.” However many years it’s been since I came up with that, I still find it appropriate. The “moving on” part is about not getting stuck in a rut, letting go of things that don’t fit my life anymore, and always evolving. The “settling down” part is about putting down roots, building deep relationships, and generally becoming a grownup. I don’t think I’ll ever stop doing either of these things, but right now, they are both really difficult.

I still haven’t gone back to work. I thought about it last week, and every time I did, I had a mini-panic attack. We decided that was probably a pretty good indication that I wasn’t ready yet. This week, I decided to dip the tiny tip of my pinky toe in the water and visit my classroom…while it was empty. Some copies I’d requested had arrived, and I thought if I was considering going back to work next week, I should probably pick them up and do some planning. I didn’t want to see anyone, though (red flag), so I chose to swing by after everyone had left for the day. I got my copies and sat in my classroom for a few minutes feeling utterly uncomfortable and out of place. I tried to imagine a group of students sitting in there. Then I tried to envision myself giving a vocabulary lesson, and I just couldn’t do it. It felt so foreign to me. It honestly felt like I wasn’t even the same person as before, like a really intense experience of reverse culture shock – where you go away for a while and when you come back to your home culture, you find that you don’t fit the same way (or at all) anymore.

I keep saying that it would be so much easier if I could just start a brand new job – an office gig where I could just go, do my work, and keep to myself (maybe listen to music and podcasts all day while I do my thing). And while I’m still pretty sure that’s true, I would definitely get bored with that kind of job later on. It’s just that right now, teaching still requires more from me than I have to give socially, and the thought of going back to “normal” makes me very sad.I guess my problem right now is that I don’t know where to move on and where to settle down. I don’t know what to let go of and what to dig into.

“Normal” doesn’t mean the same thing it did a month ago. A month ago, we had just started to wrap our brains around the idea that our lives were changing completely. A month ago, our to-do list included rearranging everything in our condo so we could turn our guest room into a nursery. A month ago, getting fatter was a thing of pride for me, and being out of breath was just how things were. A month ago, I had gotten used to accepting congratulations and answering questions about baby things. A month ago, I had just started to feel little flutters of movement in my belly, and although it was weird, it was expected. It was normal.

Along with all of that, a month ago, going to work every morning and teaching was normal, but now that my whole world has been dumped on its head, I can’t just go back to business as usual. It seems wrong that the world is still turning, that billions of people are carrying on as though nothing terrible has happened. Losing Ella felt like being thrown off of a moving carnival ride, and going back to work feels like trying to jump back on while it’s still in motion, knowing that once I get back on, it won’t be as fun anymore.

I suppose that’s what it’s like when you lose anyone. Even if you can get back on the ride, one of your ride buddies won’t be there. It would be easier to hop on a different ride – one that is just starting up, one where all your memories are yet to be made, one where there are only seats to be filled, not seats left empty by those who are gone too soon.

Moving on seems easier, but I’ve done too much settling down to just leave it all behind. Moving on seems like it would bring the instant relief I want right now from the pain of going back to a past that doesn’t look like my future. But settling down offers the long-term comfort and support of those who’ve loved me all along and will continue to do so.

When it comes to work, I’m tempted to move on, but I think settling down is the better choice. When it comes to my daughter, however, I’m not ready to move on, but I can’t settle down either. Not the way I was planning to anyway. I feel like a shift in perspective would help a lot, like “it’s not that I’m moving on from my daughter, but…” or “I can’t settle down into motherhood, but…”

I just don’t know what that new perspective will be or how to get there. Suggestions welcome.

Grief Attachment

One of the things we’ve learned through the grief process is that people have rituals surrounding death because it gives us something to attach the grief to. Lots of people have asked if we’re going to have some kind of memorial service for Ella, and that would be something to attach grief to, but neither of us wants to have one. I’m really not sure why, but it’s just not something we want to do. When we were in the hospital, the chaplain came and did a blessing for her, which looked very much like a baptism. I held Ella, and Will held me, and the chaplain said some things I cannot remember, but that I remember being really beautiful. And she sprinkled some water on Ella’s tiny forehead while we cried and tried to understand what was happening.

Just thinking about that moment makes me cry, so I know that some of my grief is attached to it. The only problem with trying to attach all of your grief to a ritual is that your grief is much larger than that. You can’t just have a funeral and move on. You have to work through it. In the process of working through it, though, there may be other things you can do to memorialize your loss.

Box It Up

I found an Etsy store that makes personalized keepsake boxes. I really liked them, and I could have the box say anything I wanted. I got one that has my daughter’s name and birthday. It also says, “forever in our hearts,” to remind me that although she is no longer physically present with us, she was real, she was alive, and she is not lost. I put all the things that remind me of her into the box: ultrasound pictures, a bracelet with her name that the nurses made for me, the positive pregnancy test, the tiny hand- and footprints they made, and a “birth certificate” the nurses gave us. (They told us that they don’t do official birth certificates for babies born that early, but they made a little keepsake one for us.)

I knew that I wanted to keep all of her things in a special box just for them, but I didn’t realize how therapeutic it would be for me. As soon as I got everything in there and closed the lid, I felt a sense of relief. It was like she had a place and I would always know where to find her.

Plant a Tree or Garden

I haven’t done this yet, but I’d like to. I haven’t done it yet because we don’t have a yard, and I am a terrible gardener. But one day, when we have a house with a little patch of grass, I will plant a tree, and I will watch it grow over the years. And should we sell that house and move, I will plant another one. Alternatively, you could plant a garden. I read a story about a family whose friends and neighbors all contributed items to a memorial garden. They set aside a section of their yard for the garden, and they planted everything they were given. Then every year, they added to it and watched it grow and bloom. I love this idea.

Get a Tattoo (or a Necklace)

My mom will be happy to know that I have not gotten any new tattoos…yet. I might later, but I’m going to start with a necklace and see how that suits me. A very sweet friend sent me a necklace from this website, but there are also tons of Etsy stores where you can buy necklaces or other pieces of jewelry that suit your taste and style.

Do Something Creative

I am not super-artistically talented. My students laugh at my stick figures almost daily. But a friend who is very gifted at painting surprised us with a painting she did as she prayed for us, and it is beautiful.

But art is not only painting. Make a mosaic, write a story, article, song or poem, cook, dance, knit, crochet, cross-stitch, make pottery or jewelry or film. Do something creative to express what you can’t say, or to make something you can keep and enjoy, or just to keep your brain and your hands busy because God knows you have to keep yourself occupied or you’ll remember what happened, start thinking about it too much, and fall apart again.

Help Others

After they measured, weighed, and cleaned her up, the nurses put Ella in a little knitted (or crocheted?) blanket so we could hold her. I didn’t think to ask where the blanket had come from, but it was clearly a handmade, non-hospital-issued blanket, and I think now that it might have been made by someone who cared a lot about helping parents who’d lost tiny babies. It might have even been made by someone who’d lost a baby herself and who kept her brain and hands occupied by making tiny baby blankets and donating them to the hospital.

You can use the fruits of your creative labor to help others, or you can help in other ways. If you know that a friend has lost a baby, you can clean her house, take food, organize food deliveries and visits for her, or just send her pictures of cute animals. Or you can give to your favorite charity in loving memory of your child.

Get Involved

Rather than just giving money to a charity, get involved with one. Participate in a walk/run to raise money for a cause you care about, host a fund-raiser or charity auction, volunteer at a hospital, school, or other community organization. Do something to remind yourself that life is good and precious and that you have a lot to offer the world. Do something to contribute to the greater good and connect with people because connecting with and offering kindness to others will help you to heal. Do something special for your baby because he/she did something amazing for you, and because your love for your child doesn’t end when his/her heartbeat stops and you need an outlet for your love as much as for your pain.

Survivor’s Guilt

Friend A – we’ll call her Ashley – has had two healthy pregnancies that resulted in healthy babies. She has never had a miscarriage or any difficulty conceiving. She told me that during her first pregnancy, two of her coworkers had miscarriages, and she tried to hide herself from them so that they wouldn’t have to see her and be reminded that she was still fine while they had lost babies.

Friend B – we’ll call her Bonnie – had a miscarriage the week before I did and told me that a pregnant coworker was being really weird and avoiding her, and it hurt her feelings.

Friend C – we’ll call her Candace – has also had two healthy pregnancies and no miscarriages or difficulty conceiving. She emailed me the other day to express her sympathy, but we also had a really good discussion about the guilt she feels about so many things regarding her kids. When so many of her friends have lost babies, she feels guilty for getting pregnant easily and never miscarrying, for having her tubes tied when she and her husband felt that their family was complete, for experiencing joy when so many others are experiencing pain, for feeling frustrated with her kids when she knows how incredibly lucky she is to have them, for posting Facebook statuses about her kids, and for being unable to relate to her friends who have experienced the heartache of miscarriage or infertility.

When Bonnie told me about her miscarriage, I was still pregnant, and I said to Will that I felt a little guilty that we had conceived so easily (without meaning to, really) while she and her husband had been trying for several months, and that things had been going so well for us while they had had a terrible loss. And then the next day, my water broke, we lost our baby, and I felt guilty for that too.

Here’s the thing: You can feel guilty for so many things, whether everything is going well or you wonder if you did something to cause a tragedy, but the truth is that there’s no need for guilt. If you had babies without ever having to deal with miscarriage or infertility, you didn’t do anything wrong by having healthy kids, and you aren’t doing anything wrong if you share your joy with others in person or on social media. I didn’t do anything wrong in my pregnancy, and I don’t think I’m doing anything wrong by sharing my pain. People are meant to live in community and share their lives, both good and bad. My hope in sharing now is not that people would feel guilty for never having gone through a miscarriage, but that people who have suffered in silence would feel less alone and more a part of a community.

But now that this has come up, I feel like we need to talk about it. Communication between women breaks down completely around the topics of miscarriage and infertility, and I think there are a few things going on:

Women who have had miscarriages or difficulty conceiving feel ashamed or embarrassed, or they simply don’t want to bring everybody down by shedding light on their misfortunes, so they don’t talk about it (like the dozens of women who have told me privately about their miscarriages over the past couple of weeks).
Women who have only had healthy pregnancies are trying to be sensitive toward their friends who have had difficulties (like my friend Ashley and possibly Bonnie’s coworker), and they feel guilty for their good fortune (like Candace).
We stop talking because we don’t know what to say, or we think saying anything at all will cause pain.

So let me just address all of that now. There is nothing for any of us to feel ashamed of or guilty about. Can we please just love and take care of each other instead of worrying about how we’ll be perceived?

Friend, if you’ve lost a baby, I promise you that people who love you are not blaming you for it. People who are idiots will say stupid things because that’s what idiots do (and even good people are idiots sometimes), but people who love you will only want to hug you and be there for you. They may not know what to say, and everyone will feel awkward standing in your living room while you can’t stop crying, but it’s ok. It’s really ok. Your tears are appropriate and good and beautiful. And I know you feel guilty (and ashamed, embarrassed, confused, angry, hopeless, sad, and lost). I know. Feel it, but don’t become it. You are not at fault, you are not less than, and you are not hopeless or lost forever. You just feel that way now. And you are entitled to your feelings.

Friend, if you’ve never lost a baby, I am so happy for you. Seriously. In the midst of all of this horribleness, I am nothing but thankful that you have never had to go through the same horribleness. Seeing babies makes me sad sometimes, but some friends’ babies are so darn cute, they actually cheer me up. I can’t help it. And seeing pregnant friends is hard for me right now, but their friendship is so important to me. It would make things even harder if they avoided me without any explanation. If you are pregnant and have a friend who is dealing with a miscarriage, it’s ok to ask what you should do. And if your friend isn’t up to seeing you just yet, don’t take it personally. Just give her time.

We need to keep talking. A few days after we lost Ella, we had a doctor’s appointment, and the doctor said that no matter what people said to us, it would probably hurt for a while. Even if people said very nice, comforting, loving things, they would sting. He said it’s like an open wound, and no matter what you do to it – even if you’re doing healthy things like cleaning and bandaging it – it just hurts. And he was right, but that doesn’t mean we should stop talking just because it hurts. That’s like saying you shouldn’t touch a wound – even to clean it – because it stings. Yes, it stings, but it’s necessary for healing.

Unreasonable

I used to say things like, “Everything happens for a reason,” and, “This is part of God’s plan.” I’m not going to say those things anymore, especially when death is involved. Jesus’s death and resurrection were physical so that ours could be spiritual, but I think that in the original plan, there was only life, both spiritual and physical. And I think that in eternity, there will be only life. And while we are physically living, we are meant to experience life in abundance. I think that death is an indication that something is broken. I don’t think it’s part of the plan.

That is not to say that I doubt God. I’m a big believer in the redemption of all broken things, and I hope that I’m in the process of healing. I think these are God-given things that come after a death or loss, but I will not say that God planned the death of my daughter. (Nor will I say that God planned the death of my great-grandmother, who passed away after living a long, full life.) I think we find hope and redemption after a death occurs, and those are good things. I think we have healing, hope, and redemption because we have death, loss, and brokenness. I do not think we have death, loss, and brokenness so that we can have healing, hope, and redemption.

I don’t really know how it all works, but what I do know is that in this time of loss, it is not comforting to me to hear people say that it’s part of God’s plan. It’s not comforting to me to think of God as someone who plans death for babies and pain for parents. It is, however, comforting to think of God as someone who comforts, someone who loves, someone whose heart breaks with mine over the brokenness of death, and someone who brings healing, hope, and redemption.

So if you’re dealing with a death, be it sudden or expected, a miscarriage, a stillbirth, or a loss of any kind, I want you to know that there is hope for the future. There is always healing and redemption to be found. Just try to hang in there. I know that’s what people mean when they say that things happen for a reason. They mean that if you hang in there and work toward healing, healing will come. They mean that in time, you will learn a lesson or come to appreciate something about the hardship. They mean that this will not always be the completely and totally horrible thing that it is at this moment. But that’s not always the way it comes across. So if someone says something insensitive or hurtful to you, I know it’s hard, but try to remember that people are not always the most eloquent, diplomatic, sensitive, or helpful in times like these. They don’t know what to say, but they want to say that it’ll be ok and they love you.

And if you love someone who is experiencing a death or loss of any kind, consider refraining from saying things like, “This is part of God’s plan.” If your friend expresses this sentiment, you can certainly support the belief, but be aware that these words are not always comforting. Honestly, the best interactions I’ve had since my miscarriage three weeks ago have been with people who’ve:

said, “I’m sorry.”
said nothing, but just let me cry.
said, “You can talk about it if you want to, but we totally don’t have to.”
brought food and talked to me like a normal person.
texted me cute/funny animal pictures.
cleaned and/or helped me clean something.
played games with me.

It’s ok if you don’t know what to say to comfort people. They don’t need to hear your theories on why it happened or what’s to come. They just need to know that you love and support them where they are right now.

The Honest Guide to Miscarriage

After 16 weeks of pregnancy, I gave birth to a baby girl. Ella Claire McMillian was born at 9:08 p.m. on July 19, 2014. She was about 7 inches long (18 cm) and weighed 5 ounces. I’m honestly not sure if I should be writing about it yet because I don’t have a neat and tidy bow to tie it up with yet, and normally my blog is more upbeat. But if I’m writing an honest guide to anything, it should be honest. So here we are.

If you want to hear the whole story of what happened, I will tell you, but it’s pretty graphic because my pregnancy was much more advanced than most are when miscarriages happen. So for now, I’m just going to stick with the emotional fall-out from it because I think that is not so unique to my situation and perhaps more helpful to you if you’ve had a miscarriage and somehow found my blog looking for help.

If you have had a miscarriage, I’m so sorry. I am so, so sorry. You are not alone. Your grief is valid and completely warranted. Your feelings, whatever they are, are respected here. I’m not going to tell you about statistics because as helpful as they can be, statistics have not been as comforting to me for the past two weeks as simply having permission to feel what I feel. I’ve been very lucky to have friends and family who have given me that permission and freedom, but who have also encouraged me not to beat myself up.

Hormones

In an honest guide to miscarriage, I should start by saying that your hormones are going absolutely insane for the first week or two at least. And this massive hormone shift will make your already-intense feelings just completely out of control. When I am able to remind myself of this fact, it makes things a little more manageable, I guess because I know that eventually my hormone levels will go back to normal, and I’ll be able to feel things normally again.

In the midst of all the hormonal changes, here’s what I’ve been feeling:

Guilt

My husband has had to tell me a LOT not to beat myself up. Two doctors told me there was nothing I could have done or not done to prevent it, and we had just had a prenatal appointment 4 days earlier where everything looked perfect, so intellectually, I know it wasn’t my fault. But there’s just something so frustrating about it not being anybody’s fault, about there not being a reason for it at all. I don’t know how I would feel if I knew for sure that it was my fault. I’m sure it would be worse, and that I would require years of therapy for that, but part of me still thinks answers – even horrifying ones – are better than no answers, so I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out what I did wrong.

I’ve gone through the quasi-plausible mistakes – I didn’t exercise enough, I didn’t rest enough, I strained too hard when I pooped, I accidentally rolled onto my stomach in my sleep, I didn’t eat well enough, I didn’t take my vitamins consistently – and the philosophical ones – I complained too much about the discomforts of pregnancy, I didn’t appreciate what I had when I had it. But none of it really adds up. Women who treat their bodies terribly and don’t want the babies growing inside them have been having healthy babies for centuries. There’s just no logic to it.

The thing is I didn’t do anything wrong. The doctors said so. And my counselor friend pointed out that if I didn’t do anything wrong, I must have done everything right. I hate that right now because I still want to know why this happened. I want to know how we can prevent it from happening again. I want to trouble-shoot so that next time, I can do pregnancy perfectly and keep my baby safe. There is a chance that I will get some answers. They’re running some tests on the baby to see if she had some sort of chromosomal abnormality that prevented her from developing, and in a few weeks, I’ll have a follow-up appointment where they’ll start looking to see if there’s anything physically wrong with me that can be fixed. But the truth is that nobody knows why a lot of miscarriages happen.

Anger

There just are no answers, and there might never be, which really pisses me off. What has medical science been doing for all these years that there are still no answers in one of the most devastating situations ever that SO many women go through? I’m also mad at my body for not doing its job. I’m mad at Facebook for showing me all of my pregnant friends’ happy pregnancy posts. I’m mad at the rest of the world for continuing to spin and function as usual when my world has completely crashed down around me. I’m mad at myself for getting so wrapped up in pregnancy that it became my whole world. I’m mad at the fact that women who don’t take care of themselves or their unborn babies have completely healthy pregnancies, that women who don’t want or love their babies still carry them to term, that we were supposed to be in the clear, having made it squarely into the 2nd trimester, and that we’d gotten so excited and told everybody the news just to have it completely shattered.

Depression

I’m angry and sad about the same things, and sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference between the two emotions. I think the only way to tell (for me) is that when I’m angry, I want to destroy something, but when I’m really depressed, I want to destroy everything. I’m not saying I’m suicidal. I would never, could never do that to the people I love. But when the sadness becomes overwhelming, you just want it to stop, and you care very little about how that is accomplished. And in the midst of all those hormones, sadness can turn into intense depression very easily. These are just the facts. I think I’m out of the woods on this one, thankfully. After a lot of crying, a lot of talking with my husband, a lot of board games and Parks and Recreation on Netflix, a lot of praying, “Help,” over and over and over, a lot of friends and family bringing food and babysitting me, and a little bit of time to adjust, I have more hope. And hope goes a long way. Here’s what I have told myself often over the past two weeks:

Where there is love, there is life, and where there is life, there is hope.

Will and I love each other like crazy. Our friends and family have shown us so much love. We believe that God loves us completely. And even though it hurts, we loved and still love our baby. The joy we feel loving each other and the pain we feel loving Ella both remind me that we are experiencing life. And where there is life, there is hope.

Fear

Hope and fear play a terrible tug-of-war in my mind and my heart. As soon as I think, “We can try again,” I am immediately afraid that this will happen again, and I don’t know if I can do this again. When you have a miscarriage, everyone wants to tell you success stories about people who had a miscarriage, but who now have healthy kids. It’s helpful in a way, but it doesn’t stop you from being terrified of trying again and going through this pain again.

Hope

Right now, we’re in a never-ending fear-hope-sadness cycle. I start to feel ok, but then I do a load of laundry, and there are still maternity clothes in there. I start to feel ok, but then I eat something I craved when I was pregnant, and it reminds me. I get sad, and then I think we’ll try again, and then I’m scared. It just doesn’t stop. I’m told that that’s normal, and that it will probably continue, especially if I get pregnant again. I’d like to see longer stretches of hope and shorter stretches of fear in the cycle, but I suppose I need time for that to develop. For now, I’m eating chocolate cake for breakfast and looking forward to a weekend away with my husband because when the past is painful and the future is terrifying, all you can do is focus on what you have going for you right now.

If you knew how many life lessons I’ve learned from the Broadway show Rent, you’d either feel like you don’t understand me at all but you love me anyway, or like we are absolute soul mates, depending upon the depth of your love for musical theater. Different ones hit me at different times in life. Right now, it’s this:

Forget regret,
Or life is yours to miss.

And this:

Give in to love,
Or live in fear.

The rest of the song is sort of hit or miss, but I really love those lines about giving in to love and not missing out on life. It isn’t fun at all right now. It hurts, and it’s scary, and I wish I could fast-forward through this part of life or just cut it out entirely, but I’m starting to think it’s possible that I might make it through to a place of joy again at some point in the future.

A good friend who had a miscarriage a couple of years ago sent me a message that I’ve kept in mind a lot these past two weeks. She said that you never really “get over” it, but that it’s like a drop of ink in water, and over time, it goes from being a drop of ink in a shot glass to being a drop of ink in a bathtub. I hope (and feel like) there is truth in that. And I think that every kindness, every loving thought, word, and deed, every bit of grace and truth, every casserole and chocolate cake delivered, every card, email, text, call, and Facebook message, every prayer, every hug, every moment that folks sit with me and just let me cry, every heart that is broken with mine, every moment of snuggling with my husband, every funny/cute animal picture, every episode of Parks and Recreation, every board game, every warm shower, every breath of fresh air is a drop of water in my glass. It’s still pretty dark, and I think it will be for a while, but it’s diluting slowly.