For better and worse

Thursday I was completely numb yet I was able to leave the house and run some errands.  I went to the bookstore and bought some books on miscarriage, although I have only had the strength to half-heartedly read one.  I even got my brows waxed and spent $90 at PetSmart - so much for my boycott.  Without really thinking about it, I went in and just picked things off the shelves.  I guess that was my mothering energy asserting itself before the inevitable breakdown.


Things are better this time around (if you can really say that) because at least this time my body let things go naturally.  Last time the idea of a decomposing baby floating around inside me for a month put me on a one-way track to the loony bin.  I couldn't get the image out of my head and have nightmares about it still.  Knowing that I don't have to deal with that this time has made it better.


What's worse is that because my body is dealing with things naturally I'm getting a front-row seat.  I'm still bleeding pretty steadily, and Friday afternoon I passed.....something.  It was gray.  A little more solid than a clot, a little softer than cartilage and it was gray.  I actually studied it there in the bathroom, even touching it.  I find it so ironic that I can handle large quantities of blood flowing out of me with relatively little reaction but the thought of a needle in my arm sends me into convulsions.  There's no telling what it was - the sac maybe?  I wasn't far along enough for it to have been embryonic tissue, I don't think.  Who knows - I'm no doctor.  It was so surreal, sitting in the bathroom, staring at what may or may not have been my baby's home.  Yet, even in that moment I found myself grateful that it was coming out, that I didn't have to have the surgery to go in and get it.


It's better that no one is here this time.  When I finally had my breakdown late Thursday night I was in the privacy of my own home, not on the side of a busy freeway.  When I was going through the house Friday morning slamming doors, screaming and crying and pounding on the walls, no one was there.  Drew was outside with the landscapers who had dropped by to check on things.  When I laid on the living room floor crying my heart out Drew sat next to me.  Just him.  It was better that way.


Yet it's worse because Drew is so very logical.  Like most men, compassion and softness are not his strong suits.  When I speak from pain, telling him that I'm not going to do this ever again, that we're never going to have children, he doesn't just say 'ok.'  Because at this point that's really all you can say at a time like this.  He tries to explain that I shouldn't be so negative, that we don't have to talk about it right now.  It's hard for him to understand that talking right now is the only way I won't go crazy.  When I tell him I read that less than 2% of couples have a third consecutive miscarriage, but I'm afraid of being in that less than 2% group, he rolls his eyes at me.  He tries to reason with my pain, thinking that pain can be conquered with logic.  


I know I should be more positive and have hope but I just can't right now.  Not yet.  There's still too much pain and using my words is how I cope.  It doesn't matter what I'm saying and my words at this point shouldn't be taken as representations of the desires of my heart or my true intentions. I'm just talking, because I don't know any other way.  Even what I write here is me 'talking.'  Rolling the eyes, exasperated sighs and pursing your lips because you're trying to bite your tongue are pretty transparent body cues of what you're thinking.  It doesn't help.  It makes things worse.


It's worse that the natural way of dealing with this is going to take longer than last time.  The amount of blood is not alarming but it's enough that I constantly feel like I'm wearing a wet diaper.  The intermittent cramps remind me that my body is trying to get rid of something I desperately wanted and it makes me feel like my body is betraying me.  I feel detached from myself.


It's worse that there are no social cues to signify that a loss has occurred.  There is no hospital stay - hospital stays mean something bad has happened and we must act accordingly.  There is no anesthesia - which means that you must be treated softly for the hours and days afterward.  Last time I lost about 24 hours total - this time, I'm present for every excruciating second.  There are no family and friends stopping by - which actually could probably go in the 'better' column.  It's hard to be surrounded by people who don't know what to do and say and inadvertently make things worse.    


To look at me you would not know anything is wrong.  I'm not in a drug-induced haze.  The pills I'm taking for the cramps don't affect me.  The cramps and bleeding do not keep me bed-ridden and I've even pulled myself together to take care of some personal assisting appointments I'd set up prior to the miscarriage.  I didn't want to cancel them all and have to explain why so I went ahead with them.  Last time, that wouldn't have even been an option.


This time Drew brought me pie - that's better.  It's better this time that there is no calling of the cops, no excessive cursing, no burning white-hot anger.  Nothing got broken this time.  What's worse is that those things are absent because I'm more accustomed to this.  I'm not caught off guard, rocked to my core.  As they say in Texas, this is not my first rodeo.  Anymore.


I don't want to get used to having miscarriages - the thought saddens me to the very deepest part of my soul.