A good friend of mine recently miscarried and I'm suddenly thrown into seven years ago when it happened to us. I wasn't so public about my struggles with infertility back then and have only recently come to grips with what happened. Back then I was writing a book, called "9 years for 9 months" with the hopes of gaining perspective and a publisher. I stopped writing it shortly after the miscarriage and before we started the "Adoption Process" so I really never acheived either.
This is chapter 26
“And we all fall down”
Every week, the infertility doctors showed us pictures of our growing baby, but remarked how slowly the child seemed to be progressing. Tim and I jokingly replied that our child was a procrastinator and would catch up with the class by next week. We didn’t worry when the doctors tossed around the words, “cautiously optimistic” because we knew they were just protecting themselves from a lawsuit. It was their disclaimer clause. Just in case something happened (and we knew it wouldn’t) they would be able to safely say that they did not guarantee or promise us anything. Tim and I got to the point that we threw around the word whenever anything wasn’t certain:
“Will it rain tonight?” “Well, we’re cautiously optimistic.”
“Will you have school tomorrow?” “Nope, I’m cautiously optimistic.”
“Can we get fries with that?” “Certainly, we’re cautiously optimistic.”
In our minds, our child was progressing with the few little bumps that were expected from two people who’d had nothing but rotten luck all their lives. We knew that nothing about this pregnancy would go perfectly right. We expected there to be some rough spots. We didn’t worry about them because we had faith in this miracle. This was our miracle baby and there was no possible way God would give us a pregnancy and then take it away. God didn’t do that kind of thing to good people like us.
At eight weeks, we thought we had silenced our doctors’ fears. There was a heart beat. It was faint and tough to make out, but there was definitely a heartbeat. Tim saw it on the screen. It took a second or two for the doctor to confirm it and about five full minutes before I could actually see it. He was still “cautiously optimistic” because our child was supposed to be further along than it was. The heartbeat was supposed to be more pronounced and faster. Tim said she was a procrastinator, like her mother. I flicked him.
At nine weeks, we met with Dr. T (not one of his colleagues, as before) to take a definitive look, once again. He used his best machine to look at the baby. He seemed quiet. And though the recent remodeling job done on his section of the hospital was supposed to make patients feel more at ease, the new paint and the beautiful hard wood felt strange, unfamiliar and discomforting. The worry had broken through the shield of faith I’d had.
“The baby’s heart rate has slowed even more.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s not good. I had expected . . .”
“What? What did you expect?”
“Most of the time, these things declare themselves, one way or another. Your baby hasn’t done that yet.”
“What did you expect when we came in today?”
“I honestly didn’t expect to find a heartbeat.”
“Well, there is one. Doesn’t that mean something?”
“For some reason, there is a glitch in your baby’s development; something keeping it from developing further. I recommend we get a neo-natalogist to take a better look at it, to find out what’s going on.”
“When?”
“I’ll find out what their first available appointment is.”
Dr. T left the room and I started getting dizzy. My world was crashing down around me and there was nothing I could do about it. My heart was pitifully barren and ragged – like those pictures of towns and cities, homes and buildings after a nuclear bomb has decimated everything. I couldn’t cry, yet. I was stalled in the aftershock of losing everything I’d worked so hard for. Before I could turn to Tim, Dr. T returned. Neither of us had moved.
Dr. T said the neo-natal clinic could see us on Tuesday at 2:00. Despite the fact that Tuesday was the first day back after the Labor Day weekend, I took it off. This was the most important thing in my life. It was the only thing in my life right now.
I still hadn’t gotten dressed, so Dr. T left Tim and me alone, so I could finish up. That was when the tears came. At first it was the little drops that pelt you on a hot summer day, leaving divots in the dry, dusty earth. But then the dam broke and out poured all of my despair, the aching sorrow for something that had completely filled my life and then suddenly been ripped from me. I felt stupid for having had any hope or faith. I felt angry – at Dr. T and at God.
If he’d known that this was going to happen, why didn’t he say anything? How could he let us be so happy without warning us that this might happen? Did he delight in putting us through this kind of pain? Or was it that failure of this sort is par for the course where he works? What kind of sick, twisted son of a bitch allows a couple like us to keep on hoping when there is no hope? Why didn’t his colleagues, his interns, his fellows, his medical students, nurses or even that stupid OB/Gyn say anything to us?
Oh wait . . . they did. They knew all along and we didn’t even listen to them. We were so stupid. All along they had said they were . . . and that we should be . . . “cautiously optimistic.”
I must’ve cried forever. And there were no tissues in the room. I blew my nose in the rough, brown paper towels that every hospital clinic room has stocked and ready for messes. I was a mess.
Dr. T talked to Tim about keeping an eye on me. He even asked Tim if I needed a prescription to help me sleep tonight or to keep me calm. He said to call if the baby declared anything over the weekend. He meant to call if I miscarried. Tim carried me home where we fell into our sorrows, let them wreak havoc on our hearts and then fell into a sorrow-shocked sleep. After all, I had to work the next day.
Somehow, with the narrowest sliver of hope, I survived the following day at school. The kids were well behaved and nothing out of the ordinary happened. Frankly, I don’t remember a lot of it. A fog seemed to settle around me, protecting me from everything, keeping me from reacting to anything or anyone.
Thank God for the weekend. Not that I was talking to Him anymore except out of habit, I was at least relieved that the weekend had come.
Sunday came and we did not go to church. I could no longer convince myself that a miracle would come. That fantasy – the doctor had made a mistake – felt deflated. God did not care about his sheep. He didn’t care about the pain he’d inflicted upon us. He probably thought it was some great big joke – tease us, tantalize us with the hope of a child and then yank it away when we’re at the height of joy. I hated Him. I started to spot that evening.
Monday was Labor Day. I awoke from a broken sleep, shattered by dreams of babies in cribs I couldn’t see or reach, trying to find a bathroom while avoiding dangerous elevators and navigating staircases that went nowhere. I wasn’t feeling well; the spotting had become bleeding.
My miscarriage took only a little while to occur. First, there was pain, much like a punch to the stomach; the kind of pain that takes your breath away, doubles you over and begs you to show weakness by screaming. This lasted the morning, through the shower, fighting sharp spikes of pain, to the Advil that finally kicked in and on through breakfast. At lunch, when the Advil had worn off, the cramping started. Everything between my knees and my chest ached. My back burned with sudden fire, while my bones – hips, pelvis and spine – ached and throbbed like they were being twisted from the inside out. My intestines rebelled and I spent half an hour in the bathroom. Constipated diarrhea had plagued me before. But this . . . I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t know I was going into miscarriage labor.
Nausea plagued me and I spent another half hour bent double over the toilet. Back and forth, I rocked myself – trying to settle my stomach which was trying to commit suicide both ways. Half the time I worried I was going to get sick while the other, I kept hoping I would. I was in agony, praying that the pain would end. Finally, with the smallest of pops, it was over.
I cleaned myself up and called Dr. T. As this was a holiday we got the fellow on call. She told us not to worry about the miscarriage unless I started profusely bleeding bright red. There was nothing more that could be done.
I called my boss, took the next few days off and then went to sleep. My family found out a little later that day. Tim told them while we were at Mom’s for dinner. I had decided that I really didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I just wanted to go back to normal. I wanted to pretend that everything was done and already dealt with. Tim and I had already cried it out on Thursday, Friday and all day Saturday. I was done.
A few phone calls back and forth and one last appointment between the doctor and us revealed that my miscarriage was perfect. There were no remnants or leftover tissue. They told us to rest. I was defeated, done with it all; Tim wanted to discuss IVF. We rested.
Then I covered each drawer with stickers. They're easily removed if Jenny decides she'd like to have something other than princesses, fairies, and mermaids on her dresser.
