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Last night the husband and I went to Waterfire, an almost weekly event in Providence from June through October. On weekends, they light these bonfires in the middle of the river, play music (heavy on the opera) and performers (living statues, fire dancers, that sort of thing) perform. It goes from sunset until around 11 pm.
Last year we’d gone a few weeks before our wedding as a private bachelor/bachelorette party. We’d rented a room at a gorgeous B&B, complete with jacuzzi in the bath, done a nice dinner, walked through Waterfire (which at the time had come across as romantic), and had a private evening.
This year we’d kept planning on going, but things hadn’t quite lined up. After losing Hope, we realized how fitting a memorial it would be.
At Waterfire, they sell these memorial lights, and we got one for hope.
The new header is a picture of her memorial light as part of a ring of them around a tree. You can’t read the card, but it says
“For Hope-
Who was with us for too short a time, and who we will love forever
Conceived August 2007
Lost September 27, 2007
Love Mom & Dad”
Waterfire no longer strikes us as romantic, but rather, tragic.
We sat by her memorial light for a long time, and then walked past the river, feeling the heat from the fire.
When we walked back, we did so on the other side of the water, so that I wouldn’t have to see her memorial removed. Towards the end of the night, they gather up the memorial lights and burn them in one of the bonfires. I didn’t want to see that. I want to remember Hope’s memorial surrounded by others memorializing other’s losses, and the flicker of the candle inside.
I’m reminded of an old Irish (I believe) saying- “Tis better to light a candle than to curse the darkness”
Hope is my candle.
Little Footprints by Dorothy Ferguson
How very softly you tiptoed into my world.
Almost silently, only a moment you stayed.
But what an imprint your footprints have left upon my heart.
Yesterday was the D&C.
Before electing to have it done, I thoroughly researched the subject, which is just my geek obsessive compulsive organizer I must control my life side showing. My doctor had first brought it up a week ago when we he had the inconclusive ultrasound as one of my choices, and I’d had over a week to think about it before making the decision this past Thursday.
First, a quick aside before I talk about the procedure. I quickly grew incredibly annoyed and pissy with the women who refer to it as a “DNC,” which is the acronym for the Democratic National Committee, as opposed to a “D&C,” which is the acronym for a Dilation and Curettage, a surgical procedure that removes a miscarriage from a woman’s body.
It might sound odd, but I was relieved rather than nervous when I was told that my obstetrician wasn’t going to do the procedure (I think it was her day at her other practice, rather than the hospital). I had questioned if I could stand going back to her with my next pregnancy if she had been the one to physically remove Hope. Instead another female doctor from the practice handled the procedure.
Arriving in the parking lot, we ended up on the opposite side from the elevators. As we were walking towards them, it was just my luck that we’d walk past a couple with a ridiculously small infant (easily under a month old). The husband didn’t notice them, and asked if I was okay when I made a small moan of envy after passing them. Demonstrating my poise under pressure, I snapped “Unobservant man!” and stalked to the door.
I checked in an hour beforehand. When the woman at the registration desk asked me my name, I had to repeat it three times because I just couldn’t get my voice, the voice that can quiet a room of rowdy students with no real effort, couldn’t make itself heard in the quiet waiting room of my hospital’s surgical center.
I was taken upstairs to a prep room, which while small, was at least private. The husband came up as well, planning to stay until they took me away and then was going to go to the hospital cafeteria to get food. They’d given him a beeper so that he could be contacted when (a) the procedure was done, and (b) when he could join me in my recovery room. He watched me fill out the forms they’d given me-basic medical history stuff, and tried to read his book.
The forms at least kept me distracted, until I got to question 26. I even remember that it was question 26, part of a long series of yes/no questions.
Question 26: Do you think you might be pregnant? Yes_______ (if you checked yes, date of Last Menstrual Period)________ No ________
I froze. I sat there and stared at it for what felt like an enternity.
I skipped it and finished the form, then returned to it.
“I dont’ know what to write,” I said to my husband, tears beggining to well up.
He hugged me, unsure of what to say.
I ended up putting the date of my last mestrual period, and then writting “currently miscarrying” over the two boxes, checking neither.
I felt naked, and not just because I was wearing nothing under the stupid hospital johnny. I’d discovered the hard way last year, when I’d had back surgery that you can’t wear your glasses, your watch, or your rings into the surgery room, so I’d left all of them at home. I’m nearsighted, so other than not driving, not having my glasses wasn’t a huge deal. But I wear my engagement and wedding rings 24/7, and without them my finger felt deformed. Washing my hands and not feeling the rings for the first time in years was upsetting. I never leave home without my glasses and my watch on (and when I do forget my watch, I get annoyed and obsessive about the time-I know, OCD much?). Missing those parts of me, and the physical nudity beneath such an impersonal garmet as a johnny made me feel vulnerable and scared.
The nurses were incredibly sweet. They were genuine in their uniform “I’m so sorry for you loss/I’m so sorry for why you’re here today” and didn’t take it any further, which is what I’m comfortable with. They tried to avoid asking me how I felt, although when one reflexively did, I answered honestly that I felt pretty lousy. They managed to distract me for about a minute with the new style of thermometer that they used on me. They run it across your forehead and down the side of your face-I’m pretty sure they’re tracing a blood vessel, but it was like star trek. She told me they’d be available to the public soon, and it occured to me that they would be so much easier to use on a baby/child than most of the available models. Which of course reminded me that there was no more baby.
The doctor was kind, and I appreciated her explanation of the procedure, even though I’d already read it. She was also patient with my questions about recovery, and resuming my “normal” (hah) life. I’m still glad it wasn’t my ob, though.
The IV insertion only took one try, which for me and my small veins that like to collapse, creating large bruises, was a miracle of sorts, especially as she immediately noticed that I was dehydrated. Gee, I wonder if starting to miscarry might put me off my food and drink?
I didn’t start crying in earnest until the anethesiologist showed up. When they got there, I sent the husband to go get food, so I was alone with them. When she gave me the anti-cramping drug, and then told me she was putting me asleep, and that I’d wake up when the procedure was over, I began to cry. They told me it was alright and gave me tissues. I don’t remember the journey to the surgical room, but I do remember that theyasked for me to help move myself to the table and made sure that I was okay in the stirrups (after the back surgery and all).
The next thing I knew I was waking up in the surgical room. It was over. The doctor told me it had gone really well (really well? you just removed my child from me).
I didn’t know what I was going to say until the words came out of my mouth. “Can I see the remains” (although I’m not sure if I said remains, or Hope, or what, but I know I didn’t ask to see the baby).
The nurse picked up a white container and tipped it so I could see in. I don’t know what I was expecting to see. My heart? Hope would’ve been the size of my pinky nail, and it’s likely I lost her at home. I was pretty groggy, so my only real impression was bright red liquid. It was like my period, in a bucket. Nothing that I wouldn’t see on a pad (if I still used them) or toilet paper at home. That somehow struck me as wrong. Shouldn’t it be different? I know that’s stupid, but it’s all I could remember thinking.
“Goodbye Hope” I whispered.
And that’s when it became really really real.
I think I fell back asleep on the way back to the room because I don’t remember that either. The husband showed up really quickly, and we got through the time in the recovery room together.
They gave us a packet that the hospital had put together for women who were there for miscarriages as I was. It included a poem that made me sob each time I read it (I’ll post it here later today or tomorrow), and information about recovery, spiritual help, information about what would happen to Hope (as I’d been before 20 weeks, they’d asked that I allow them to deal with the remains, and as we don’t own land or anything, I’d said yes–her remains would be cremeated and disposed of respectfully). We also learned that they hold a special memorial service (non denom, of course) for families who had lost a baby through miscarriage or stillbirth each spring, and if we wanted to be part of that, that we could let them know. I’m leaning towards yes, right now.
There was pain, but not as much as I’d been having with the natural miscarriage. They gave me food (saltless saltines and gingerale), painkillers, and after awhile I was ready to go to the bathroom. I discovered the ginormous pad they’d put on me, and these stretchy panties I remembered hearing about on the pregnancy boards. They were soft, and fit even my plus sized frame without trouble, something for which I was grateful-the last thing I needed at that point was to feel bad about my weight. We did some walking, some more painkillers, and when my pain fell below a “four” (or when it was really a five, but I just wanted to get out of there) they sent the husband to get the car, I got dressed (although I elected for their panties/pad combo over my own, and wheeled me downstairs.
Getting into the wheelchair, it occured to me how empty my arms felt. How empty I felt.
I’m normally a huge chatterbox, but I said nothing to the girl who was pushing me, until she asked what kind of car we were looking for. We exchanged a few comments about people who don’t know how to drive when one person coming out of the parking garage cut off someone else and almost got hit, and when someone else shot forward after the person in front of them (trying to leave without paying?) and the arm came down on their hood, making the guy in the booth yell at them. As I was waiting for the husband, I felt the gentle fall breeze kiss my face, the sky obscenely blue, and the clouds were so fluffy it made me want to puke. If the weather had mirror how I felt it would have been grey, with that miserable rain that isn’t hard enough to make you need your wiper blades, but is irritating enough to make it miserable, maybe with just enough humidity to make you cranky. Well, that or a blizzard-cold would have worked too-I alternated quickly between pain and numbness.
My first request was food, which the husband got for me.
Then the phone calls. I love my mother and my mother in law, but both of them would have needed to mother me in a way that I would have found smothering had they known that the miscarriage had started and I was getting surgery. My mom wasn’t home, so I just left a message to call me (which was enough for my mom to know what had happenned-anything else and I would’ve left one my usual 5 or 10 minute rambles) and called my mother in law, who was hurt that we hadn’t told her (I explained that we’d just wanted to be alone) and then offered to go grocery shopping or whatever we needed. My mother in law is a doer (as is my husband, as am I) and there’s nothing so frustrating to a doer as the knowledge that there’s nothing they can do. She talked for far longer than I wanted to listen, so I tried to change the topic, and finally just said I needed to go so I could eat. My mom’s and my conversation, when she called me back was much shorter, as she understands that I’ll talk it to death, but only when I’m ready.
We ended up going out again last night. First to Coldstone, where I managed to spill my bottled water into my lap, feeling more exposed and uncomfortable than I ever would have. And when my husband went to get me the napkins I requested, and handed them to me without looking up from his Treo (handheld computer/phone), incredibly normal behavoir for him, I felt totally abadoned and alone. Fragile, much?
At Borders, I listlessly browsed the shelves, unable to choose when normally I have trouble picking just one book. I finally selected something and indicated to my husband that I was ready to go. He told me he wanted to finish something, and rather than explain that I really really wanted to go and that I was feeling a little dizzy, I just went upstairs, sat on a couch, and read travel essays until he came and got me.
The entire time I sat reading the essays, I felt like a ghost. Partially it was the day and the drugs taking their toll, making me feel out of it, but I felt like I was easily seen through, invisible. Lonely. Alone as I hadn’t been in what today theoretically would’ve made 9 weeks of pregnancy. When we were walking to the car I explained how I felt, and the husband felt horrible. Normally I have no trouble being assertive or insisting that I’m ready to leave. But, just as in the registration area of the surgical center, I found I had lost my voice.
On the ride home I was mostly silent, not out of anger for making me stay, but out of sadness.
I finally let the husband read this journal last night, and he asked me to go to bed to hold me. Then he remembered his medications and went to take them. I lay in bed, him thinking I was puttering in the living room for whatever reason, for almost a half hour before calling out to him. I told him I felt abandoned.
Then the floodgates burst and I sobbed, really sobbed for almost an hour on his shoulder. I cried these almost screaming moans that hurt me just to hear them. I cried until I couldn’t breathe, blew my nose, and cried some more. I cried until I had nothing left.
I know I made the right choice, but that doesn’t make it easy.
The husband and I checked the Sox score, and realizing that we’d won, checked the Yankees score. After all, if they lost, we win the American League East. The Yankees lost-and we cheered along with the newscasters.
And then I started crying.
I’m an avid Sox fan, and I’d spent hours watching the games, talking to Hope about the Sox, about our race for the pennant.
I began losing her yesterday, and all the last vestiges of her existence were removed from me between 1:50 and 2:30 today.
She never knew we won the AL East, and for some reason that kills me.
I found this on Baby Carpio’s site. Thanks for letting me borrow it.
Nobody Knew You
by Jan Cosby
Nobody knew you
“Sorry about the miscarriage dear, but you couldn’t have been very far along.”
…existed.
Nobody knew you
“It’s not as though you lost an actual person.”
…were real
Nobody knew you
“Well it probably wasn’t a viable fetus. It’s all for the best.”
…were perfect.
Nobody knew you
“You can always have another!”
…were unique.
Nobody knew you
“You already have a beautiful child. Be happy!”
…were loved for yourself.
Nobody knew you
…but us.
And we will always remember
…You.
I’ve read on countless miscarriage websites that husbands tend not to grieve the way that the expectant mother does. That he may not seem to care as much.
Not in our case.
Today I held my husband while he sobbed over the loss of our child. In many ways, last week, when the doctor initially said Hope wasn’t going to make it, he cried a little, and I sobbed my heart out. But the truth had sunk in over the intervening days, regardless of the depth of my denial, and while I have cried my heart out today, I think my husband was grieving more. Without the constant cramping pain, he could believe more than I could, and thus today’s loss hit him harder.
My husband is sensitive, but not a crier. I’ve seen his eyes glisten with tears once or twice when a fight has gotten particularly nasty and I threw out a comment that hit below the belt, but they were never shed until we lost Hope.
I asked him, over lunch, if he could stand trying again. A few months ago, we’d talked about my cat, who he has grown extremely attached to, and who is on the elderly side (turning 15 this year), and he’d mentioned that after she passes, he doesn’t think he could stand to have another pet. I worried that this would translate to our family, and that the pain of losing our Hope would mean that he’d be scared to try again.
He looked at me and said “I don’t know if I’d be able to get through mother’s day and father’s day if we weren’t trying.”
It’s funny because he’s always been fairly well removed from the concrete desire to have kids. His has always been abstract-someday, while mine has been “now now now.” He was really worried when we conceived Hope (especially after finding out about the pregnancy 4 days after deciding to take a break for a few months) and I’d been worried that he wasn’t as happy or excited or whatever as I was.
I was wrong.
Maybe your partner doesn’t show it in the same way, but know that they grieve too.
It’s started.
This morning there was bright red, thick blood when I wiped. I’ve yet to stain my pad, but each time I pee it’s there. Red, thick, irrefutable. The pains are almost constant now; my body rejecting this child that I love so much.
It’s time.
Time to accept that Hope will not survive. We gave her permission to leave, if she had to, and she has made her choice. So I have to make mine-to suffer through this naturally, or schedule the D&C.
I choose the D&C.
Does that make me cold? It is, perhaps, my coward’s way out. I literally can’t stand the pain I’m in, and watching Hope leave in wipes and drops and spots and flow is just as emotionally painful as the physical pain.
So tomorrow I’ll go to the hospital, and let them remove my vailiant fighter of a child. S/he tried so hard to make it, but I understand that it just wasn’t meant to be.
At least I’ll have memories. Of her heartbeat, of reading to her, of loving Hope.
I’m so lucky…
I’ve read through so many mom blogs and read story after story of multiple miscarriages, failed IVF, and every other horror imaginable on this quest to be a mother. I think about my two best friends, A and K. A and her husband found out that he has no motility, and that she will never have his child. They’ve gone through three cycles of IUI with donor sperm, and none have taken. K has Turner’s Syndrome, which in part means that her body shed all of its eggs before she hit puberty. She can’t have a child made from her own eggs.
What right do I have to have this blog and sit around whining about myself? After all, I’m so lucky, right?
-I got knocked up the very first month we tossed the birth control. I didn’t even so much as think about my ovulation cycle, my cervical mucus, or anything beyond “no condoms, whee!!!”
-This is a first miscarriage. I know (probably more than) three women whose first pregnancy ended in miscarriage and who now have beautiful healthy children. The odds were absurdly high that I would have a miscarriage at some point. I’m 28 (for another month, anyways) and the odds are in my favor that I’ll have a healthy baby eventually.
-For that matter Hope’s development points to a bad sperm/egg combo, not necessarily an issue with either of us. Which hopefully means a healthier combo next time.
So in the eyes of the more fertility challenged than I, I’m pretty fucking lucky.
Which makes me want to laugh, because really, what’s so lucky about losing a child, who although they’re not even the size of your thumb, is already your entire world?
I’m just as guilty of accusing others as lucky, though.
Every time I see a pregnant woman, or a woman with a small infant, my first emotion is a rush of jealousy, and my first thought is “she’s so lucky.” As if I know how hard won that huge stomach or newborn was for them.
Maybe it’s time to try and retire the word “lucky” from my vocabulary.
Hope has managed to foil us yet again (thank G-d).
S/he grew from 5w4d to 5w6d (in 10 days, but I’ll take it) AND s/he has a heartbeat (46 bpm).
Both are signs that the pregnancy is struggling, but still most likely to fail and it’s probably just a matter of time.
But at least we have another week with them.
Ultrasound #4 is scheduled for next Tuesday. We’re praying hard for growth and an increased heart rate. Although, instead of praying, I should say hoping as we don’t do the whole prayer thing.
Stubborn, refusing to follow expectations, scrappy, and maybe even a little bit bitchy about it? Yeah, this is definitely my kid.
In about 10 minutes we’re leaving to get my last ultrasound for Hope. I’ve been doubled over in pain for 10 days, and have begun spotting blood again, but there’s this tiny little part of me sitting with her eyes squeezed shut and her hands over her ears singing “lalala I can’t hear you” over and over to the rest of me that knows that Hope is gone.
As painful as it is to allow myself that little piece of ignorance and denial, it’s going to be so much worse to force her eyes open and pry her hands off her ears and force her to face the truth.
I have a list of questions for my o/b and I know it’s going to be hard to keep it together and pay attention to what she’s saying without letting myself get angry or irrationally try to accuse them of not doing enough.
There are moments when I question getting the D&C. Most of me wants to get the miscarriage physically over with so I can get back to trying as soon as possible. Deep down I know that the real balm for this wound is the knowledge that I am capable of carrying a baby to term; not to replace Hope, but to know in truth that Hope’s death wasn’t my fault. The other part of me welcomes the pain of the cramps even as they get bad enough to wake me from a sound (well, perhaps not “sound”-I’m not exactly sleeping well) sleep. In some fucked up way it’s validation that Hope really existed, and part of me thinks that suffering through every second of her leaving is a way to force myself to accept the loss of Hope. Of course that’s the part of me that was self destructive as a younger woman and has a lot of understanding and empathy for cutters (people who cut themselves as a way to force themselves to feel) and I worry that the desire to feel all the physical pain isn’t on some level equivalent to the cutter mentality or perhaps an effort to subliminate the emotional pain.
At any rate, it’s time to go and put on my big girl panties, and face the truth, leaving behind the last traces of ignorance.
