Grief Reaction

For the first time since this ordeal began, I don’t know what to write.

How was my day?

Well, pretty fucking shitty, if you must know. I awoke at 7.30am having had a sequence of stressful dreams.

Strange, because last night I connected with a friend of mine, M., who I have always been very fond of.  We hadn’t spoken in a while, so we Skyped and she told me of her infertility struggles. I had no idea what she was going through and it pained me to hear the extent of the tough time she has been having, but I was impressed at her strength and positive outlook. The two of us shared our journey so far and bonded over our struggles. I went to bed feeling better for having talked to her, so it’s strange that I should have such terrible dreams that night.

In the early hours, I dreamed that M. and I gave birth within minutes of each other.  Her baby arrived first, a gorgeous, chubby little thing with olive skin and a tiny shock of black curls. It gave me so much pleasure to see her as a mother. Suddenly, oh look! and my baby had arrived, a small body and delicate face with downy blonde hair. I laughed in my dream as I turned to my mum and say that the birth didn’t hurt at all, that the miscarriage was far worse. I proudly placed my bundle into my mother’s arms and felt such peace.

Such tranquility was short-lived. In my dream, I started hurling abuse at everyone around me, accusing them of all the things they did or didn’t do. In my dream, I was screaming and crying and eventually my mother slapped me around the face.  It was then that I woke up, shaking and out of breath, and on the verge of tears.

I looked at the clock: 7.37am. I lay awake, suspended in a moment of grief that lasted an hour. I willed myself to get up but couldn’t, and, like a coward, pulled the covers over my shoulders until I forced myself, miserable, out of bed at almost ten o’clock.

Within half an hour, my phone began to ring. My boss… a client… a doctor…  Still on the verge of tears, I sat diligently at my desk and began tapping out work-related emails and putting on a cheerful voice to make work-related calls. It’s at times like these that I am especially glad to work from home, but after a couple of hours I began to unravel.

Eventually, I curled up on my bed with a pashmina over my face. I get a little verklempt over silly stuff, but crying in grief or trauma is very difficult for me and always has been. I guess part of me thinks, what’s the point? So you cry… then what? It’s not like it washes the grief away for good!  Actually, I am easily distracted when I cry: a noise in the next room, my dog’s nose nudging me to ask what’s wrong, a car horn outside, these small intrusions stop the flow of tears Etch-A-Sketch style. But today I decided to concentrate on letting everything out and be present in every hideous moment. Dammit, I needed a good fucking cry, even if it only improved how I feel today. I stuffed my fingers in my ears and focused on the breathing that became weaker on each exhale and rose in a whisper, a high-pitch whining that broke in staccato and forced my mouth open into a square.

I wept, and my body shook and my chest convulsed with sobs. I wept, and a tiny, calm part of me noticed that my legs were bent and rigid. I wept, and felt my knuckles turn white and my nails leave purple crescents in my palms. I wept hot tears that ran down my cheeks, around my temple, and up my forehead. I wept, as snot oozed out of my nose and occasionally shot out in a bubble like a solar flare. In between bouts of sobbing I noticed my uterus was searing with pain. I embraced the physical pain but focused on the emotional grief, knowing that at 13 days after my D&C such physical pain was psychosomatic. I wept, and DH held me close. And finally, it stopped.

I was able to continue my day when the weeping was over. I accomplished all of my work-work, which will help clear the decks for catching up on 4 weeks’ worth of school-work before Monday.  But I am not okay and today I learned that I won’t be for a while. And I’m trying patiently to be okay with that.

Last night, my wise friend M. told me she just takes one day at a time. I’m trying to do the same. I’m trying not to think about how many weeks and days I would have been by now. I’m trying not think of how I will feel when my sister-in-law gives birth in August — such a happy time for the whole family… except me, and I hate myself for Being That Way.

Instead I’m trying to indulge all of my difficult feelings to process my grief.  It’s an uncomfortable, disconcerting, miserable process that I am already sick and fucking tired of. But I need to be in as good a place as possible come June, which is when we can realistically start trying again. By that time I would have been half-way through my pregnancy…It’s so hard. I hope to get better at pushing unhelpful thoughts out of my mind so I can focus on how I am feeling now.

Dr. D. wrote “Spontaneous Abortion and Grief Reaction” in my post-op check-up notes. What I am feeling — what we are ALL feeling — is normal. We may feel ashamed for having these fucked-up feelings, but I have yet to meet an OB/Gyn or woman who has miscarried who wouldn’t validate such feelings as being a natural response to a traumatic event. The tricky part is managing those feelings.

How was my day? Pretty shitty, thanks for asking. How was yours?

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