If I had ever imagined the possibility that one day I would be “over” my miscarriage, I would have expected that particular grief journey to end because of a new beginning–a new pregnancy, one that ends with a healthy baby, and onto the next chapter: Motherhood.
Floundering in the depths of my grief, I was able to console myself by telling me that others have it far worse. At least you know you can get pregnant. At least you know you can get pregnant quickly. At least you’re not infertile. At least you don’t have a genetic disorder. These small reassurances were me trying to paint a silver lining onto the face of grief and patience. Your time is gonna come. I hummed this, one of my favourite Led Zeppelin songs.
Such consolations have been ripped from me. That I was ever pregnant, let alone managed to conceive so quickly, is nothing short of miraculous. (Dr. D estimates I have a 3% chance of conceiving in any given cycle. Now that he knows of my genetic disorder, I wonder if he would revise that percentage.) Whereas I might not technically be barren, I straddle the land of fecundity with the seas of infertility. I am floating in still bathwater with a foot hanging out of the tub.
At this point, my fertility is a moot point, trumped by the mother of all fears: not, will I get pregnant; nor, will I miscarry; but, will I have a severely mentally and physically disabled child? If I were pregnant and even made it to 16 weeks, I would have to do an amniocentesis, something I’d always hoped to avoid. If I found out my child had Recombinant 8 Syndrome, what would our decision be? Continue, knowing our child would suffer for his or her short life? Or terminate?
The only time I have not felt cleaved in two (envy on one side, shame on the other, bound by grief) by the sight of a pregnant woman was in the genetic counsellor’s waiting room. Two questions on the form leapt out at me: How old will you be when your baby is born? How old will the baby’s father be when the baby is born? In that waiting room — a long walk down a maze of shiny peach linoleum, far, far away from medical exam rooms — there is a presumption of pregnancy. Indeed, we were the only couple not sporting a bump. None of these women were sat gently rubbing their bellies as they patiently waited. They perched on the edges of their chairs, looking drained but alert, waiting for the bad news that would force them to make a tough decision. No one smiled or exchanged the usual pregnancy waiting room talk. It was eerily quiet. I felt no envy. I felt bad for these couples… and lucky for us, that we might miss facing such a heart-wrenching decision. Indeed, our genetic counsellor called our pre-pregnancy finding “fortuitous.” But we still have the bad news that I might have a Recombinant child.
This past week has been filled with research and contemplation. We are waiting to hear what Reprogenetics, the lab that will perform the micro array CGH lab, will say about my DNA, and whether they can design a bespoke probe to test our embryos, how long it would take to build, how much it would cost, and, most importantly, how accurate it would be. Meanwhile, DH and I have looked at dozens of egg donors, and even found one we really like. However we decide to proceed, it’s all going to cost a lot. I mean, a fuck lot. If I have a healthy child or children at the end of it, it will be the best money I ever spent… but there are no guarantees.
I catch myself thinking about back when I was pregnant. It seems so far away now. I’m very self-absorbed, as I let all of this bad news still sink in.
It’s hard for me to be supportive of women who are trying to cope after their miscarriage. A single miscarriage is, of course, a tragedy. It is devastating, heart-breaking, soul-destroying. It turns your life upside down and inside out. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. But I am envious of women who are grieving only their lost ones. I can no longer go to my miscarriage support group because I do not have the patience to be surrounded by such women, and I feel bad about that. But not for long — unfortunately, I have other things to think about.
It’s even harder for me to be supportive of women who are pregnant again after their miscarriage. I know that if I am ever pregnant again, I will be even more worried — not just about miscarrying again, but will my baby be healthy, knowing there’s a good chance s/he might not be. Regrettably, I am downright intolerant of women who are pregnant (with the exception of those in the genetic counsellor’s waiting room). How she came to conceive her baby is of no importance to me. That passing her due date is still hard makes me want to scream, Well, imagine how I feel! I feel overlooked and forgotten. I feel bad that I can’t be this amazing Zen-like philosophical woman who celebrates all her sisters-in-loss’ pregnancies (there are a couple of notable exceptions to this, and you ladies know who you are). But I can’t worry about whether or not that makes me a bad person. It is what it is, and it won’t be forever, one way or another. Besides, I am sure a woman who is pregnant after loss would do better being cheered on by a woman who is or has been pregnant after loss. They are the ones with the wisdom, not me. Sadly, I have nothing to offer, even if I wanted to. I barely have the capacity to bolster my own reserves.
I try to remember what it was like to be pregnant. The happiness. The sense that everything was — finally, after 5 long years of hard lessons — falling into place. Being content with the knowledge that although things weren’t perfect, well, are they ever? this baby is coming and it’s a wonderful, beautiful thing, created in love by two people who are committed to this baby and each other. I started researching cloth vs. disposable diapers, and decided we could wait a while before purchasing a stroller. I devoured the dozen baby books Momsicle so kindly sent me, and hugged the soft toys and burping cloths she’d used as padding. DH and I shyly talked about names. And yet I couldn’t picture holding a baby at the end of this journey. Time and again, I pushed aside the gnawing sense that something was wrong. My body was still acting pregnant and I wasn’t spotting. No one — not even the nurse — seemed worried, so I chalked it up to first-time first trimester nerves and joked to myself that a lifetime of worry had already begun. But somewhere in my head crept the thought, I must enjoy this pregnancy, because what if it’s the only one I ever have? That’s why I try to remember.
I worry that I can’t distinguish between instinct and fear. And I worry that, rather than time being the great healer, the thing that has really moved me past miscarriage grief is the very new and real worrying possibility that I actually may never have a child of my own.
You are 100% entitled to your feelings of resentment towards pregnant women Lauren, I completely get that and feel the same way. I try everyday to tell myself that I can handle even infertile bumps but truth is its fucking hard. I can’t. And I can see how attending a miscarriage support group just won’t cut it anymore. I feel that too and I’m not even dealing with the same magnitude of issues you are. Your situation is so unique. Allow yourself to feel whatever you need to feel, it’s all part of it. Thinking of you xx
Lisette, honey, I’m so glad to know I’m not the only one having these difficult feelings. I wish you didn’t understand and feel them too. Thinking of you too xx
I am hoping this doesn’t sound wildly and crushingly insensitive, but I have a question. Why would you even want to get over your miscarriage? I mean, I understand wanting to come to terms with it, and maybe that’s all your are talking about. But losing your child is a devastation that our society just does not help us hold. We are expected, on some level, to not remember. To just move on.
Why? And how?
You are a beautiful person, Lauren. I am so much the better for having known you these short long months. And I truly believe that the world was robbed of your child when you were robbed of that precious bean as well. And while there is no way for us to undo that, that doesn’t mean we have to get over it or ever forget. And in the face of this devastating genetic reality, your bean seems all the more precious and lost. I am so sorry.
And having been a woman in the perinatologist’s office, hoping against a nightmarish fear and a memory of a dead child, I can tell you that you are absolutely not obligated to be happy for other womens’ pregnancies. Other people’s celebrations in contrast to your sorrow. In fact it is we, who have already known the fortune of having some hope of carrying again who are obligated to *you*. Decades ago, there would not have been the procedures and treatments that helped me carry Iliana to term. I am lucky, pure and simple. If I walk away from you in my good fortune, I dishonor the women who came before me (like my mother) who weren’t as fortunate. I am saying that because my pregnancy problems were solved, nobody else’s matter. How fricking selfish!
It’s a shame that we are only here, with still so much farther left to go. But if you’ll let me, I’ll be here walking with you, and knowing that if you are angry and standoffish and incapable of magnanimous joy, you have every right to be. I would be the same.
My children are the lights of my life, and my most important gift. I do understand, at least from afar, what the lack of them would do to my heart. And I do not at all begrudge you any venemous emotion as you find your way through all these layers of grief and loss.
Much love, sisterfriend.
Celeste, my sweet friend, there is very little you could say to me that I would find “wildly and crushingly insensitive!” Your question is a good one. By “get over” I don’t mean forget–I will never forget. Only that the active grief of losing Bean has been eclipsed by the new grief of not knowing if I will ever know him (if you like the Buddhist idea of nothing ever dying) or his genetic siblings.
There is so much in your comment that moves me, love. How you knew that my Bean seems all the more precious and lost to me in the wake of my genetic news says volumes about the thoughtful and loving person you are.
And again, you accept that this is a very difficult and confusing time for me, riding on the coattails of what has already been a horrific year. You haven’t shrunk away from my feelings — in fact, you have helped me capture them. I am indebted to you and honoured to call you my friend.
I am so pleased you are walking beside me, friend. And I am so pleased that your three children have you as their mother. Two to be guided in this world, the other always remembered through your compassion and understanding for others.
Much love to you, sisterfriend. Always.
I just wanted to send you a giant hug, Lauren. Don’t beat yourself up over having no tolerance for pregnant women- we all have our limits, and I would say that you have endured more than your share of shit lately. I think you’re entitled to NOT be the bigger, more gracious person at the moment. I wish I could tell you that things will get better, but I really can’t. The road you are on is going to be a tough one, and if (g-d forbid) it were to not end with a babe in arms, I can’t imagine how you would ever get past that. But whatever happens, we’re here for you.
And of course you can’t distinguish between fear and instinct. After loss, nobody can. And with genetic issues at play, the waters are even more muddy. It’s a tough reality to be facing. Sending lots of love. xoxo
Giant hug received and appreciated, Catwoman. Thank you for that, and for reminding me that we all have our limits. I think my recent moods have turned off some readers, so it’s all the more heartening to hear from you, my steadfast friend.
Your description of the pregnant women in the genetic counseling waiting room gave me chills. I never thought I could not be jealous of a pregnant woman, but you’ve made me realize that presumption is naive. I don’t know when or how your journey will come to its resolution, but I know you are a courageous woman with a bright spirit who will keep fighting. Don’t feel bad for your feelings of resentment toward women who have been able to conceive again after miscarriage. It is totally understandable that you would feel this way. Our journeys are different, but I am always here cheering you on.
I love you, Annie. You are a ray of sunshine in my corner of the world <3