I will be out of the house from 10am to 10pm, and there will be blood and tears.
Today is the first day of the new semester and the first day of my 4th cycle, post-miscarriage. Aunt Flo did not arrive with a bang as she usually does, but a small show of blood. Were it not for a third slump in temps, I might still be clinging to the delusional hope that this were implantation bleeding at 14dpo.
There’s no easy explanation for the past week. I don’t believe my symptoms were psychosomatic — because they persisted after I’d lost hope; so I wonder if it is a chemical pregnancy — someone on Twitter said she had a chemical pregnancy and that her symptoms were exactly like mine; or maybe now my cycle has changed and I get pregnancy-like symptoms the week before my period is due; or maybe, as my therapist suggested, this is my body preparing for pregnancy — except that I’m not pregnant. NONE OF THIS MAKES SENSE.
And now that I am not pregnant, I will have CD3 bloodwork done on Thursday. FSH, AMH, estradiol, and thyroid. I am expecting bad news. Why would I expect anything different?
The only thing I have to look forward to today is my acupuncture appointment. Maybe she can shed some light on what my body is doing.
I don’t want to go to school today. At the beginning of last semester, I had known I was pregnant for a week. I don’t have the energy to sit in class, pay attention, make a good first impression on a new teacher and new classmates, most of whom are in their late teens or very early twenties. I don’t want to see anyone. I am feeling so angry, so disappointed, so tearful, so broken down. I want to curl up into a ball of hot, angry tears. And yet a tiny part of me — the usually cheerful, goofy Lauren that still exists somewhere inside, though most of you have never seen her round there ‘ere parts — says to look at this day as a fresh start. A new cycle means another chance.
But, oh, to keep trying and keep failing? This is not something I am good at. When I try for something, really try, and it doesn’t work out, it rattles me to my core. It fills me with a unique despair. I know so few people who understand what it’s like to not have a child and long for one. I am so envious of the women who have miscarried but already have a child. I do not mean to belittle their loss or imply that mine is greater — because that would be untruthful of me, not to mention, unhelpful and divisive — but it is also true that they also do not know the deep and unsettling despair of not knowing if they will ever be a mother. This despair persists after the acceptance that yes, miscarriage happened to you. It’s separate from pregnancy loss grief, and is distinct from the despair of not knowing if you will be able to have a second or third child. Their families might not be growing in the way they hoped, but they are still a mother to someone. I am a mother to no one. This despair seeps into the cracks of everyday life and pushes everything askew. It rears its head every month alongside the universal disappointment of finding out you’re not pregnant this month when you’d hoped to be. There are mothers and there are those women who are not but long to be. Some people consider me a mom to Bean, but I do not. Most people would not consider me a mother. It’s a sad, cold, hard fact: if I responded to the question “Do you have kids?” with a Yes or Almost I would be forced to explain what I meant. If you’re really a mother, you don’t need to explain — you simply elaborate. Yes, I have a 7-year-old boy and a 4-year-old daughter. No awkward silence, but happy smiles. I WANT THAT AND I DO NOT KNOW IF I WILL EVER HAVE THAT. EVER.
Hello my sweet, sweet Chee Chee! I wanted to let you know that I dedicated my meditation to you last night. I know you won’t find this strange, but I get my best zen on at kick-boxing. It gives me the chance to meditate on one thing, while I punch the daylights out what sucks in life. So I was meditating on you, hoping for the universe to provide you unbounding compassion, and also asking, “Why the f*ck is this happening to my good friend, God???!!!” Love you!
I just adore you. I love the thought of you kickboxing your way through your aggression and love that you asked God about me as you hurled yourself against a punchbag. It’s an image that puts a smile on my face. Love you!
I’m so sorry for the unsuccessful cycle Lauren. It isn’t easy, and never seems to get any easier. I know I may not be the best person to weigh in here, as I do have a child, but I struggled to have her, too. I remember what it was like to wonder if motherhood was to forever remain a dream. I do know that deep and unsettling despair, as you so eloquently put it.
I agree with Annie- let school be your escape. I’ve come to realize just how important that is after dealing with infertility and loss for many years now. I used to view things like work and cleaning house as a burden, but I now welcome them as distractions. The only way to move forward is to keep right on living. Hugs, friend… thinking of you today.
Lovely Catwoman, like I said to Della, below, you were another person who I didn’t want to offend when I wrote this post. I am SO GLAD that you weighed in. For one thing, you gently reminded me that there are women who are mothers who also once knew this despair of mine. This is so important to me because, for one thing, you reminded me of a group of women who don’t fall into my black/white category, so thank you for this healthy perspective. For another, it gives me hope that I, too, might be a mother some day. And for yet another, if I did secretly offend you, even just a tiny wee bit, that you shared your thoughts and accepted mine really says a lot about the kind person you are. Thank you for being in my life, even virtually xx
Just try to offend me! Lol… no, not at all offended. I have fought more than one battle against the green-eyed monster, and I can assure you, the battle is not over. But 40 years of living has taught me a very valuable lesson- not everything is as it appears. The woman with two perfect children that I am so jealous of may have a husband who is dying of cancer. Or may have endured sexual abuse as a child. Or may be unemployed, and struggling to make ends meet. I am constantly reminding myself that no matter how bad things get, it could always be a little bit worse. Hang in there, Lauren- and keep focusing on your many blessings. Hugs to you…
Dear Lauren,
I am so very sorry, comrade. I was holding out hope until you posted this. It is so unfair and just really sucks. I’m here holding your hand every step of the way. Such a tough day to have a tough day, when you are trying to dive back in to the school year. You are brave and strong to have continued on with your day. My heart hurts so much for you. I remember being on the other side, the crushing wondering if I’d ever be a mother. To have loss and struggle added to that, I cannot imagine my sweet friend, except for how your writing affects me. I am so glad that you are writing your way through this, that you are sharing your deepest thoughts and wounds, that you are sharing with jagged honesty the awfulness of what has happened. You are an amazing woman.
Della, my sweet friend, you were one of the people I worried I might offend with this post. I am so glad that I appear to have not offended you, or if I secretly did, that you are still able to take the time to comment kindly and thoughtfully. Thank you for accepting how I feel. Thank you for sharing that you know what it’s like. If I am amazing, it’s only because I am judged by the company I keep, love xx
Dear Lauren,
You speaking your honest truth could never offend me, sweet lady. Never ever. I debated whether to ever mention my girl when I started this pseudonym, knowing that having a child already and being upset about not being able to have another is a whole different thing than what so many of the amazing women I’ve met on the computer are going through. But, she is my truth and my pain is as a mother aching for another before, during, and after loss and for my girl to know what it is to be a sister. I am grateful that I’ve been welcomed as I am. I feel so lucky to be sharing my journey with you, comrade.
I’m weeping along with you. I’m sorry Lauren.
Holding your hand tightly, comrade x
Oh Lauren, as you know, I can relate so powerfully to what you wrote here: “This despair persists after the acceptance that yes, miscarriage happened to you. It’s separate from pregnancy loss grief, and is distinct from the despair of not knowing if you will be able to have a second or third child. Their families might not be growing in the way they hoped, but they are still a mother to someone. I am a mother to no one. This despair seeps into the cracks of everyday life and pushes everything askew.” You just articulated something I think about every single day but seem to have trouble explaining to other people.
I also know how painful the first day of a new semester can be when you’ve been nursing your heartache in private for so long. Let yourself get lost in the work; let school be an escape for your mind. I will be thinking of you today, friend.
Sweet Annie,
I had you in mind when I wrote this post <3 Those are all good suggestions, thank you! Thinking of you too, friend xx