I think I have ostracized each of you. I deeply apologize. My emotions are much more stable when thinking about the miscarriage. I also don’t feel so fragile. (That doesn’t mean I’m willing to talk about it, yet, just that I’m not as easily wounded.) I feel more comfortable talking about certain aspects of what happened, just not confronting what it might mean for the future. So, for now, I will skirt the issue. Please don’t feel uncomfortable e-mailing me. I value my friendship with each of you.
WARNING: Graphic and extremely sarcastic post ahead. Proceed with caution and don’t eat while reading. Thank you.
When walking into the store to buy pads or diapers, we inevitably pass through the incontinence section. Since Ben and I are so mature, we always crack some lame joke about one of us needing it and giggling like high school boys.
Little did I know, Ben would soon have a legitimate reason to mock me.
Wednesday found me taking care of the kids without any help. As usual, since Saturday (when the whole m business went down), I was having my bleed fest and making regular trips to the bathroom. I noticed I only had 6 pads. I didn’t think anything of it.
But when I went through 4 in 2 hours, I started feeling a little concerned. I mean, I couldn’t very well go to the store while pints of blood poured from my vagina–you know? So I thought about plan B.
Unfortunately, before a plan actually formulated, I was on the last one.
“Um, how long can I stretch this pad out,” I thought. My answer came quickly enough. “Mommy! Blood!” Emily cried while pointing to my pants.
“Sh**,” I thought (and maybe said but I seemed to have blanked that moment out).
I looked across the room and saw the diaper box.
I did the only reasonable thing I could think of.
“Emily! Can you give me a diaper?!” I said while running to the bathroom. Soon I heard the pattering of her feet across the carpet and into the bathroom.
“Here Mommy! Oh no! Blood!” Emily said, with a very devastated voice.
“Dear God, please do not allow Emily to remember this when she gets older,” I thought, calculating the expense for the years of counseling she would need.
“Thanks!” I said as I took the diaper from her and attached it to my underwear.
Now I can say I have something in common with babies and the elderly population.