I learned a few weeks ago that the ob/gyn clinic where I got my prenatal care offers pregnancy loss (and postpartum depression) counselling services, so I thought I’d check it out. Even though I’ve been having better days recently, I kept Friday’s appointment. Couldn’t hurt, right? And I might learn something.
When I made the appointment, I’d been warned that the waiting room was the same for pregnant patients which “some women find distressing”. I thought about this as I drove there. Maybe it would be empty like last time. Maybe it wouldn’t, but I could wait outside. Or, in that case, maybe I should force myself to sit there. I decided that the latter option would be best. I can handle it, I thought to myself. It’ll be okay. And I convinced myself I could and that it would be. Then I hit rush hour traffic and was pulled away from my thoughts by the stopping and starting of the long line of cars in front of me.
When I finally pulled off the freeway and wound my way up the hill to the medical centre, I was more focused on being slightly late for my appointment. As I turned onto the driveway, the old and familiar sight of the medical buildings came into view and I unexpectedly became distressed. Bizarrely, I felt like I was going to have a panic attack if I didn’t calm myself down. I focused on my breathing and carefully drove to the parking garage, making sure I stopped at every stopped sign. I parked. I made my way, blurry-eyed, down the white painted steps to ground level. As I made my way to the clinic, tears spilled down my cheeks — panic attack averted!
To hold back tears, I focused on the people I passed: an ashen-faced morbidly obese man being lowered from an ambulance, doctors and nurses in scrubs buying coffee at the silver kiosk with a Starbucks sign inside, a man sitting with a black German Shepherd enjoying the Spring air. I rounded the corner. The poppies that had begun to open a couple of months ago were in full bloom. Orange, red, yellow, pink, their heads nodded in the gentle breeze. An old woman stared at me obviously as I passed. I drew myself up and sailed through the sliding doors. At the elevator, a cheerful sign reminded me that taking the stairs is healthier. Gawd knows I’d prefer to take a single flight of stairs than wait for an elevator, but I can never find the damn things ’round here, I winked back. Down one level I went, grateful to be alone. The doors opened up onto shiny linoleum lit by the massive skylight three storeys above. I paused, calm and dry-eyed, for a second outside the waiting room. It’s okay, you can do this. Besides, it’s usually pretty empty.
I turned the corner and saw a waiting room crammed with women and their partners. I psychologically shielded my view, averting my eyes to the left and squinting my right eye, just to get to the reception desk. Take a seat. I went to the loo instead, I couldn’t control the expression on my face. As soon as the door was locked behind me, I wept. For 2 minutes, I indulged myself, thinking a nurse would, as usual, be waiting outside the door to ask Lauren? Exam Room 3, this way please. I opened the door and no one was there.
Back in the waiting room, there was an air of murmuring happiness — most of these women were at least 6 months along. I envied them their happy confidence that nothing would go wrong. I tried to remind myself that I don’t know their fertility story, but another voice reminded me of the words my friend, L., a therapist whose first pregnancy ended in a missed miscarriage, told me: I felt cheated. I couldn’t enjoy my next pregnancy with [my daughter]. Even though everything was going fine and we ended up having a healthy baby, I felt robbed of my innocence.
I put on my sunglasses as I sat down. Around me, happy couples leaned into each other to talk discreetly, share an article, a quiet moment. I felt like I had a black mark against me. One of these things is not like the others. I did my best to maintain my composure, but, frankly, it was all I could do to not scream, so anxious and choked did I feel. I wished I were a snake, to rub my head against a stone and shed my tight skin, and slither away. More tears. Then I got angry. Angry that I couldn’t permit myself to cry because I didn’t want to somehow upset a room full of pregnant women. Angry that the women opposite were staring at me. Like my imaginary snake might, I shed my anger, revealing a quivering, vulnerable blob of I should be in this waiting room as a woman almost halfway through her pregnancy, not waiting for a pregnancy loss counselling appointment.
My name was called. My counsellor, A., a pretty blonde with kind brown eyes, led me to her room. And I poured out my heart. Despite the intensity of my feelings, A. is not concerned about them — they are, in fact, a very normal part of the grieving process. It’s good to know this, but it just feels like this pain is never-ending. Because I thought I was getting better, but the experience of being surrounded by happy pregnant women has sent me into a surprise funk that has lasted for several days.
In spite of that, I managed to bring myself to Like a friend’s Facebook status update — well, it was rather wonderful!:
A huge thank you to my fabulous wife for giving us the most beautiful baby boy. So grateful for all the months of pregnancy & the birth. Such an extreme physical & emotional experience; the debt of which, I can never repay. Massive respect to all the ladies. – I have no idea how you do it!
I haven’t had the privilege yet of giving birth, but I feel quite proud of myself for coping as well as I am. Even though I feel like I’m living on the brink of losing my shit, I haven’t. Three steps forward, one step back…
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In response to what I learned from my counselling appointment, I’ve compiled a list of resources on a new page on this blog called Understanding Miscarriage Grief: Is It Normal?
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P.S. I’ve entered my post Grief Reaction to BlogHer’s Voices of the Year Award. Please vote for me, thank you! (You will need a BlogHer account to do so.)
I feel your pain. The waiting rooms can be terrible. The “urgent pregnancy care” part of the hospital where I went for all my “is it or isn’t it a miscarriage?” appointments and then all the subsequent blood draws until beta reached zero is separate from, but near to, the normal maternity ward. Its waiting area is out in the open. One day there was a woman in labor who’d left her own part to pace around the hallways surrounding our waiting area. I shot daggers at her. Not my finest moment – nor hers either, for that matter. I thought it was thoughtless, at the least.
So I’m all for segregation – there really should be a private area for women who are not at the gynecologist’s for happy reasons.
God, that’s just awful. I am sure you will be much more considerate when you are in labour! Not long now, right? x
I had a similar experience in the waiting room after my son was stillborn. I really wish that OBGYN offices had separate waiting rooms for bereaved parents. Or at least some kind of partition. Seems like a simple thing, and yet could be so important.
Much love.
Oh, Celeste, my heart breaks for you too. I read your posts and they give me hope that I can get through this because you have. Even though I am sure your heart breaks all over again from time to time. Have you written anything about Christopher Robin recently? Much love to you too x
Not in about a month. It’s still so difficult to “get to” those emotions sometimes. The last thing I wrote was actually about Ian’s grief, not mine. http://www.runningnekkid.com/node/241
I want so much to write something to go along with the photos we have of him, but they’re so hard to look at most of the time. I’m still actively healing. Surviving. Standing. But it’s a daily process. Not as much of a *struggle* these days, but still definitely there.
Thank you so much for your friendship, Lauren. I am really honored and humbled.
I’ve read that post several times and I’m so glad that you and Ian have each other. You guys seem like such a good team, and that’s so important.
You are a terrific writer (I love exploring your blog) and that you are still healing instead of hiding from The Dark Side (we all have one!) is testament to your strength. So, as little as I truly know you, something tells me that one day you will know what to write alongside your photos of your son, and I think it will be one of your finest pieces of writing.
I’m grateful for your friendship, in spite of ‘meeting’ under such unhappy circumstances. Honestly, when I think of what silver lining there is to this mess, I think of you and a few other women. Tschin tschin!
What an awful experience, Lauren. I’ve wondered from the time of my own pregnancies (the last being in 1976) why they put the pregnant gals in with everyone else. As I sat in the waiting room with other pregnant women there were also usually some older women and I’d wonder “are they here for a routine checkup or are they here for some horrible women’s affliction with us younger, excited pregnant women?” I seriously think there is a need for two separate waiting rooms. You’re a strong girl, hang in there.
Arlene
I think it says a lot about you that you would have that thought, Arlene. Did you ever talk to any of these women? I wonder how I would respond if I were there, pregnant, and saw a woman in distress. Part of me would want to talk to her, the other part of me would want to keep a respectful distance. I feel I should be able to answer this question but I can’t!
I’m all for a second waiting room. My heart wants this. But then my head asks, aren’t waiting rooms generally these topsy-turvy places? Wouldn’t someone seeing an oncologist for the first time also prefer to not wait with cancer patients, many of whom (if people I have known are a measure) look visibily ill? Shouldn’t we have second waiting rooms for all? And how would someone feel if they were ‘banished’ to the second waiting room? I’ve been thinking about this a little, as you can probably tell!
Thanks for stopping by x
You may feel weak in times like these, but for the rest of us, you are a wonderful example of strength. Strength isn’t not-feeling. Nor is it suppression. Strength is being in the middle of real grief, accepting it, and working through it. The greatest strength is sharing it with us.
I admire you.
I keep thinking about that conversation we all had a few months ago — I realised then that there is strength in vulnerability. Back then, five weeks pregnant, everything stretched before me. Little did I know how my new conviction would be tested! Thank you for agreeing with me then and reminding me of this now. I certainly don’t feel very strong at all!
And, my lovely friend, the admiration is mutual. Your post about dreams has stayed with me.