After our day yesterday, all I could do was cry. And cry a lot. And then more. And even more still. Today, still more tears. A lot. Out of my control. And then some. They won't stop. And I'm sure for the rest of the week, the tears and sobs will be intermittent.
I woke up yesterday feeling something off. Couldn't quite put my finger on it but I knew this wasn't going to end well. I woke up and felt...next to nothing. Other than dread. Which is never a good feeling at all. I tried to put it out of my brain but I couldn't because I knew. I knew this day wouldn't end well before it even began. I laid in bed hoping the feeling would pass but it didn't.
I knew.
It started with spotting. Which is normal in the first trimester (from what I've read and hear from others). But I knew.
So I did the sensible thing and called the doctors. Because I'm a new mom, and that's what was suggested by the ones I'm closest with. But they didn't call back. Then it got worse.
I knew, in my heart of hearts and in the pit of my stomach, the unshakable feeling that something was off...I didn't feel sick as I had been for the past week. I didn't wake up as tired even though I had slept for 10+ hours.
I asked Zach last night if it was okay if I wrote about this. He's a very caring and understanding person and knows it easier for me to have it all out, rather than have the questions being asked over and over and over again. I'd rather not. Something so personal and taboo to discuss. Something so private it's hard to explain. I'm sure if you've read this far, you also have a pit in your stomach. And that feeling is correct, you know. You know where this is going. It always helps getting my feelings out in the form of written words. If you know me at all, you'll know I have a lot more finesse behind my fingers than I do from my brain to mouth. My filter is practically non existent and although my words usually come out a jumbled mess of adjectives and profanity, I am far more eloquent when it comes to writing. It makes me seem as though I know other words than "fuck". Because eloquence.
I miscarried yesterday.
I'll spare you the details of the mad dash to the store to buy a pregnancy test to pee on...and the change in lines, the downright sobbing and despair that escaped my mouth as I called my mother before I called my husband who was frantically texting, trying to find an answer for the last text I sent. I could utter no words except loud sobs and hyperventilation because I couldn't breathe. She instructed me to call my husband...have him come home. I should have called him first but I had no words. Only wails. Call a friend, don't be alone right now. So I did.
Zach rushed home, my person rushed over from her shift as soon as I called because the guttural sobs could only be mistaken for one thing and one thing alone....the loss of an unborn child. The loss of the baby we've worked so hard for. The one we had just found out about a week ago.
I knew it wasn't going to be easy. I didn't want to tell anyone right away because I felt as soon as I saw those two pink lines, it wasn't going to be easy. Why would it? Nothing else has been. So far, the only thing that has been easy on us is us. Which I am very fortunate and thankful for. We don't have to work to love each other. We don't have to work at our relationship because it's natural for us. There's so much love exploding out that most days I'm so overwhelmed at how lucky I am. How incredible it is to be loved by someone with the capacity to love a full and wholeheartedly as I do.
It's been no secret that we've been struggling to make a baby. I've felt that if I share the struggle, it will make it less so. Less temperature taking, less monitoring my "junk" (I won't get into that because I find it gross and that's just my personal opinion), less "Let's do this now, the window is small", less invasive, less...everything. Just relax, it will happen. Less hearing the doctor tell me we aren't trying hard enough. But it didn't make it less anything. Until a week ago.
And for one whole week, I got to be a mom. Even though there was no tangible evidence. No physical evidence besides the bloating and morning sickness...nothing to tell that there was something growing inside me other than sheer pride and utter exhaustion with a side of vomit in my car (in my lap to be more precise) between showing houses. For one whole week, I got to feel...like my dream had come true. Like I had finally given my husband the only other thing he's wanted except for my love (the cup runneth over in that department). I didn't want to tell everyone because I felt like it shouldn't be so easy. But I did. I wanted to share our excitement. I wanted to finally give us and our family what we've been trying for for over 3 years. And I did. For a week. That's a week more than it's ever been. I celebrate little victories.
You know what? I'm okay. We...are okay. Well...all things considered.
You wanna know why?
Because I know it's possible. Because the rates of carrying a baby to term next time are 75% and after the second miscarriage (Heaven fucking forbid), the rates go up to 95% of carrying a baby to term. I know we can do this and as awful as this sounds, I'm rather relieved it happened so early. I'm relieved because I didn't have more than a week to get attached.
I wanted sooooo badly to be angry as we waited for the ER doctor to come into the room to tell me what I already knew. "Pee in this cup and bring it to the window for testing." I had to write the reason for our visit...miscarriage. I couldn't even spell the word properly. It made me sick to my stomach. I made Zach take my intake paperwork to the window while I walked with shame to the bathroom. My head down, face red, swollen and snotty from crying so hard. I heard the nurses talk about me "Her pregnancy was confirmed, she's here for miscarrying". (The nurse finally called back and told me to go to the ER make sure everything was happening as it should after I informed her of my negative test...all things considered). I sat on the hospital bed and cried...while Zach rubbed my cold feet and wrapped them up in my sweater. We made inappropriate jokes because how else do you deal with the fact you're there to be told you lost your "baby"? Zach wanted to be angry, I wanted to be angry. I wanted to be so mad at the world all I could see was red and red alone. But I couldn't. All I could see was my blurred surroundings from the tears in my eyes. I can't be angry. We can't be angry...because we have one answer. It is possible.
I'm not mad at the world. I'm not jealous I have other pregnant friends. I am so completely elated that these amazing people I've chosen to have in my life are spreading their love and making things from that love (not that I think your babies are things, bear with me...I'm on a controlled substance for the pain so brain isn't working entirely correct, my apologies). Their struggle is not my struggle so I have no room or bearings to judge a situation I am not completely immersed in. I'm the farthest from jealousy and anger that I think I have ever been in my whole life. I feel...sad. Also at peace, but still very sad. And I will allow myself to feel sad....for a short while. Because I deserve it. We deserve it. It has been one hell of a week.
So I'm going to put on my big girl panties and deal with it. Why? Because we have at the very least....ONE answer that's been plaguing us since we started this venture into trying to make a baby...which for those of you that have also fought this same (but different) battle...isn't pretty. Even if it isn't possible naturally...we can share our love through adoption (which we've discussed), fostering (which we have also discussed) or we can drink expensive champagne and travel the world...either way, the world is our oyster and just so long as I have that absolutely incredibly amazing man by my side...I can tackle the world.
With that being said, it's far past my bedtime for the amount of anything.
Xoxo,
Riley Writes
