Deep within my heart is a hiding place. In it resides the four pregnancies I have lost. I don’t know what to do with them.
They are lost, like me.
I feel empty more than sad. Like a spoon has slowly scooped out my emotions and left me bare. As I try to pinpoint my exact feelings, I am faced with more confusion. I guess I feel beyond questions like “why me?” or “why has this happened again?” The likelihood of finding answers is signficantly low and I don’t really have the energy do to so.
According to one website that I frequent often–and found after my second miscarriage–my chance for having a normal pregnancy is 43%. That is not a promising number.
A dear friend reminded me, though, that I must continue on, that life is not as desolate as I feel. She encouraged me into action, so I made an appointment with a doctor to see if they might find what my other physicians didn’t: an answer. Again, in 50% of cases like mine, there is no discernible cause.
The appointment is a few weeks out and I have no idea what will come of it, but I guess there’s nothing to lose.
The website I mentioned above also provides a very accurate list of what women might experience after miscarriage:
- disturbed sleep and eating patterns
- unexplainable tiredness
- unexpected tears
- disturbing dreams and mental confusion
I would also add,
- extreme emotion–anger, sadness, happiness, etc
- feeling betrayed by your body and/or by God (if you believe in a higher power)
- wondering if you should have done something different and feeling guilty for little things you feel you could/should have changed
When a miscarriage is your second, third, fourth, etc, things change. It seems–in my experience–as the miscarriages add up, the more distance I’ve placed between myself and the situation. This is proof in how I announced my pregnancy to the few people I told: “Well, I’m pregnant; since I probably only have 3 weeks left, I’m not too worried about sickness and other symptoms.” Talking about it with my usual dose of sarcasm was my way of coping with previous losses and steeling myself against the possibility of another one.
Somewhere on this website, the authors mention a sense of ambivalence when a women finds she is pregnant, again, after suffering multiple miscarriages. There seems no point in seeking a connection with the growing embryo when your body will spontaneously abort it soon.
I find myself wondering at how I will cope with this one. It sounds weird, but I feel confused (see? mental confusion) and unsure of what is going on in my head and heart. I feel tears behind my eyes, but no desire to let them through. I suppose it seems that tears are unnecessary; I’ve been there, done that, and feel like a broken record when I speak about my loss to anyone.
And I really dislike the word miscarriage. It comes off my tongue with spite, like the very word is poison.
Let this post indicate to you how I am doing. I just don’t know. One minute I am seething with unknown anger, the next I am listless. I feel pointless. Not like I am worthless, but like I don’t have direction–my thoughts, my purpose, I just don’t know what I am doing or where I am going. Even at work, I will sit at my desk and think for 10 minutes about what I need to do. It’s strange, really, because it isn’t connected to religion or whatever, it’s connected to this loss that I don’t understand. A loss that most people don’t grieve over, publicly, and many people aren’t fully informed about what it involves. It’s almost like we, I, are trying to force our way into the parent category of the child/infant loss group. People will roll their eyes at my grief, suggesting it really isn’t that bad.
And maybe it isn’t.