Everywhere I go, people ask, “How are you doing?” I know what they are referring to. I ecstatically answer, “Great!” and move the conversation in a more comfortable direction.
With the last miscarriage, I had a split desire to talk about it and deny everything that happened. This time, I am clamming up. Occasionally I let myself think about it, but for the most part I ignore it. There is too much hurt to confront right now. Part of the grieving process is denial. I guess you could say I’m in that stage right now, and I don’t know when I’ll get out of it. I don’t know if I want to get out of it.
Talking about this experience with people is not only uncomfortable, it’s impossible. It’s not that women haven’t experienced miscarriages before, but what often happens is a story sharing experience followed by, “I’m sure you’ll have more soon.” I understand good intentions–hey, I’m the Queen of Good Intentions–it’s just that I’m too hurt, angry, and bitter to hear these things without saying something sarcastic bordering on caustic.
Not only did we lose a baby, but I am facing the possibility of never having anymore children. I’m not exaggerating. So, when people ask about it, I find myself saying bluntly, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
At the same time, everywhere we go, there is this awkward silence followed by rushed conversations. People don’t know what to say and what not to say. They don’t know whether I’ll be hurt when they mention, “so and so is having a baby,” or if I’ll act angry when they say some consoling remark.
I am the elephant in the room.
Sarcastically speaking, it’s lovely to have this loss right as we are moving. People wish to say good-bye and I just want to fall into a deep hole with loud music playing–anything to avoid thinking.
I’m learning to hold my tongue, but know that I really really don’t want to talk about it.
P.S. Since I am responsible for moving, I won’t be around much. Plus, I’m trying very hard not to slip into a depressive state. It’s hard to comment when everything seems so…bleak.
P.P.S. I miss my kids so much it hurts. Really hurts. 5 more days. 5 more days. (Repeat until the emotions die down.)