Every day I wake up thinking today will be better. I will not cry. I will not float away into random thoughts of sadness. I will not tear up at the sight of a pregnant woman. Sometimes, I manage just fine. But, every day it hurts. Sometimes, as impossible as it may seem, it hurts more than it did the day before. I think about it without even thinking about it. When will it ever end? Will it ever get easier?
At first I wanted to grieve on my own. I did not want to answer their questions or hear their attempts at trying to make me feel better. So I put on a smile and engaged in pointless conversation. I did not get angry at the uncomfortable avoidance of anything ‘baby.’ I did not flinch at the blatant inquiries of how I was managing so well. Although it is only obvious to those who really observe, I have been a shell. Not even my shadow is visible. I am broken. No one could hear even a whisper of what I am really feeling or thinking.
I keep pondering the seven stages of grief, and how some people get stuck in one stage or another and go back and forth. It is like a prison, I can’t escape from myself. I often times stare off into the distance, lost in a maze of nothingness. I forget things, simple things. I trail off in conversations. I get angry, irritable, even frustrated at absolutely nothing. As time passes, I resent having to deal with my pain alone. I wish there was someone that I could tell everything to, every time I feel like I am lost. Only problem is that it would be far too often for anyone to have the time to listen. I worry about stressing my husband, with the move from Japan, a new important job, the custody issues with his daughter; I just want to be strong for him, like he has been for me. My sisters feel so helpless. My friends seem so busy. It just does not seem fair.
I spent New Year’s Day in New York with my family. We went shopping, toured the 9/11 museum, enjoyed the sights and environment of NYC. After walking block after block, after block, we stopped in at the Border’s Book Store near Madison Square Garden. For the first time in my pregnancy, I allowed myself to imagine the what if’s. Kevin and I went to the ‘pregnancy’ section, had a seat, and explored the rows and rows of books. We passed and failed certain baby names, and we felt like we were our very own Google search engine as we poured over the pros and cons of pregnancy, what to expect, what not to eat, and what not to do. It kills me to think about it now. To wonder if our baby may have already been dead inside of me. That the moment I dared to relax in my pregnancy, it no longer was. How does one let go of that? How do I get over that? Kevin says that we will get through it. I want to believe him, and for the most part I do, but I am drowning here, NOW. When? When will it get easier?
I want so badly to be able to say, I am okay, and have it be true. I want so badly to be able to say, we will try again in a few months, and believe that we will. I want so badly to feel confident that it will get easier, and know that it Will. Get. Easier.
Right now, it is not easy. It has not gotten easier. The loneliness only increases. Sometimes I catch myself touching my belly and imagining what it would be like to still be pregnant. I have finally changed my email preferences for all of the ‘your pregnancy now’ messages that used to be a delight, but now seem like torture. I have taken the prenatal vitamins out of my purse, so my hand does not accidentally run across it while reaching for my wallet or keys. I have finally put the baby booties and onesies that I purchased ‘away.’
I went to the doctor’s office today for my follow up appointment after miscarriage, and I felt like such a failure among all of the swollen tummies in the waiting room. I felt resentful at all of the happy moms holding peaceful babies in the photos on the wall. While being escorted to my room, I walked by a room where a mother was being monitored. I could hear the heartbeat. I heard a strong heartbeat and I felt jealous and then guilty for feeling that way all at the same time. I craved for a plain, stark white examination room, without the photos, the signs, the pictures of the stages of pregnancy. I despised the sympathetic glances, the soft hands on my shoulder, the pity as they moved onto women they could actually exchange words of excitement with. Most of all, I hate the ultrasound machine. I hate the emptiness of it. The finality of it. The goodbyes it demanded, when it was suppose to introduce me to my baby. I go between asking why me and why not me?
The nurse asked if I had any feelings of depression. I actually laughed out loud. My husband probably thought that I had lost it. I thought to myself, I feel incredibly sad and lost, and scared and angry. But I do not feel depressed in the clinical sense, despite having depressing feelings. I wonder how much sense that makes? I fear saying too much and having people diagnose me with depression. What is the difference between grief and depression anyway?
I did not have the courage to talk to my daughter about the miscarriage. Kevin did it for us instead. She has not asked any questions, although I can tell that she is craving more of my attention lately. Every time I open my mouth to ask her how she feels about it, I swallow my thoughts because I am not ready to hear her answer. I have enjoyed being close to her. The distraction quenches my thirst against misery. But with Kevin working now, and my daughter in school, I have a lot of dreadful time to myself.
I wish I could keep pretending that I am okay. I tried to join a miscarriage group on BabyCenter. Tried, but I could not. I am just not ready for it. Some women bounce back faster than others. Some do not bounce at all, but fall flat. Some just float by, unnoticed. Every day, I continue to pray for strength and guidance and patience with myself and those around me. This is all so very new to me. And I hope it gets old quickly. I hope it will get easier, soon.
