There is something so uniquely depressing about wiping the blood of my potential unborn child off of the toilet seat with a clorox wipe. It's so final and almost obscene, like I'm erasing the evidence of a crime scene. Like I'm trying to deny it ever happened, b/c once that's gone there is nothing to say I was ever almost 12 weeks pregnant.
I had a tiny bit of blood for a few days right after we passed the 10 1/2 week mark. Since giving birth the number of times I have leads to undesirable side effects (like Hemorrhoids, yuck), I assumed/hoped with good reason) that's what it was. Sunday Angel & I stayed home, for his sake (see the next post for details on that), so I was up most of the afternoon unlike most Sundays wherein I sleep all afternoon. Robert was getting the smaller sifties into a bath in the evening and I was going to the bathroom. When I wiped, Robert noticed (from across the bathroom, note), "That's not a little bit of blood," he said.
Obviously, we were both thinking the same thing. I guess that's it for this one. I went on to fixing dinner, gushing blood occasionally and running to the bathroom at random times, pretty much ruining most of the pita bread I was making, trying to act for the kids' sake that nothing was weird or amiss. Eventually dinner got done, we ate, sometime in there Robert told Angel what was happening, and the missionaries called to cancel their dinner appointment with us (thank goodness! Who wants to keep running to the bathroom very suddenly with the poor missionaries there?). At some point Angel asked Robert if he was going to work tomorrow. Robert's answer broke my heart. I was going to have to do this alone, on a Monday.
Thank goodness for a diva cup, b/c I hate pads, and I wouldn't feel comfortable using tampons during a miscarriage. As it was I also walked around with a dishtowel folded up between my legs all evening Sunday and all day Monday (and now, btw).
Here's the stuff no one tells you about a miscarriage, and I wish I had known, just because: it is NOT like a period, but more like nothing else really. It's big clots of "stuff", that comes out like you are giving birth, quickly and unexpectedly.
It's painful. It feels very much like birthing, the waves come and go, they shoot down my legs and from my lower back. The difference for me is it's not over in a few hours, it lasts for days. I have renewed respect for women who "labor" for days before birthing. My hypnobabies techniques have been invaluable, but I have been loathe to do my cds b/c I can't stand the idea of listening to pregnancy affirmations and relaxation sessions that talk of nothing but my baby. I have been using my finger drop and putting myself into a deep state of self-hypnosis, just to relax and let the waves do their thing. And at the same time that I appreciate having these techniques at my disposal, I wish I simply had a big bottle of tylenol 3 to make it all go away. Then who would take care of my sifties, with Angel incapacitated?
I thought I would be angry this time. I thought I would cry a lot, which I haven't even done once. But when I think about it, I have been warned that Jane may have been my last. I just didn't believe it. I was only 30 when I had her. 30! I've enjoyed this great nostalgia the whole 2+ years she's been here. When I look at her I enjoy her more so than any of the other sifties. I've always thought of it in terms of "what if she were my last baby?", without actually believing it to be true. It was just a way of living in the moment for me, truly appreciating what I have, you know.
About the time she turned 18 months, and I was wondering why we weren't pregnant again, Robert told me that he thought that maybe I wouldn't get pregnant again. It came out of nowhere, but Robert usually has good promptings. He just KNOWS things. It's weird, but it's one of the things I've always loved about him, he is so close to the Spirit that he gets these promptings about everyday things, like going to the movies or which direction we should drive to go somewhere.
I've been overweight since I was old enough to know what it meant. I sat at 150 pounds since I was 12 (remember I'm only 5' 2"), then after I had Angel I went up to about 170. Then by the time I had Oliver I went up to 195. I was determined that I would never hit the dreaded 200 mark, which would be like the black spot to me. I went on birth control again (long story), started counting calories and getting healthier, lost 40 pounds over 8 months, then got pregnant with Isa. Over the last 6 years (and 2 more sifties) I gained it all back. Overall I've never really felt healthy except when I was losing weight before Isa, and during pregnancies when I was exercising.
Then I got pregnant. "Whew,"I thought. There's nothing wrong with me. 10 1/2 weeks later it was over. Read how I dealt with that here (and the subsequent posts) if you are brave.
Amidst my wallowing and confusion, I received a prompting, "You need to lose 20 pounds, April."
I hate counting calories.
I hate exercising.
I hate weighing my food.
But count, exercise, and weigh I did. I lost 15 pounds in 3 months. I felt better. I kicked my caffeine habit. And I got pregnant! After only 15 pounds! So it was a test! I passed, and I get to have another baby. I get to use my Hypnobabies again! I get to have a homebirth! But I didn't use exclamation points in my head. I was wary. I decided to tell NO ONE until we hit 12 full weeks. Let me illustrate why we've done this with each and every pregnancy.
We went into the pediatrician's office last week. The nurse said to me (from behind the tall counter mind you), "You're pregnant!" I said, looking around, "Can you tell?" She told me that I had told them the last time we were in (I must have mentioned it to the doctor last time we were in months ago). It dawned on me that she was talking about my miscarriage, wherein I could have been 7 1/2 months pregnant at this point. I had the most painful few seconds in which I explained that I was pregnant again, but we had lost the former pregnancy at 10 1/2 weeks. And she had that awkward silence and look on her face that said, "I have no idea how to respond to that" and she apologized. Can you imagine, not remembering all the people you told you were pregnant at 6 weeks or whenever you found out? Then running into them randomly over the next 6 months, at which point you've dealt with it as much as possible, but every time someone sees you they remember that you were (they think ARE) pregnant. Then they ask about it when you don't even remember telling them, and suddenly it's as if a depression bomb is dropped on the conversation, and your day is ruined from there on. Then you spend the next few days (or more) living it over again.
That's why we wait to tell people.
I was sicker than I usually am. I even left church once, b/c my stomach was so upset. I even did a 2nd pregnancy test a couple of weeks ago to see if my HCG levels were rising. It came up positive before the indicator line came up. I was elated, but still wary. But I didn't tell anyone, though Robert & I were sorely tempted. I take that back. I told one person: the midwife we were seeing with the last pregnancy. I emailed her and asked for any advice she may give, but declined having her come out to see us until we passed the critical point (10 1/2 weeks in my mind). She even called me the day before I was to hit 11 weeks, b/c she was going out of town the whole next week and offered to come over and see if we could hear the heartbeat. I was SO tempted, but I had seen a tiny bit of blood at that point, and I also knew that with all my other pregnancies we never could pick up a heartbeat with the doppler until almost 12 weeks, so even if baby was fine we may not hear it. So I declined.
Now we're back to the beginning of the post.
I feel sad. Will I never give birth to another sifty of my own?
I feel disappointed. Isn't this a righteous desire? Aren't there Spirits that need bodies still, and I'm willing!?
I feel empty. Are my desires wrong? Am I doing something wrong with my sifties that I don't deserve anymore?
I don't feel angry. I recognize that my whining is akin to a millionaire complaining that he only has 5 yachts, when someone else out there has 8! How selfish could I be? I have 5 beautiful, intelligent, kind, sweet, amazing blessings. I've been blessed to give birth to 6 healthy children. I have the most amazing husband who has supported, loved, blessed, given everything he is to our family and me.
How could I possibly be so selfish as to want more?
Maybe just 1 more? (Then we'd be an 8 person family; 8 is my lucky number...)
- ► 2010 (7)
- ▼ September 2009 (4)