Approaching the two-week mark and I have about as much charm as a saguaro cactus. Full of pissed off disgruntled hornets and probably an angsty bear or two.
When I went to the doctor for my last appointment before the physical miscarriage occurred (about two days before), I had been aware of the fetal demise for a couple weeks already. I managed to remain positive somehow but the Ultima-Bitch was also there to make sure that didn't last for very long. Between still feeling nauseous and annoyed with having to wrestle with my boobs, I was also having the shitty reality of "haha guess what, all of this physical discomfort is going to result in nothing good" sinking in more every day.
And that day sitting in the packed waiting room sandwiched between a pregnant woman early in her second trimester thumbing through a glossy issue of the latest Parenting magazine and a terribly unpleasant man, I felt the last of my tolerance for humanity slipping away. And the cranberry juice I'd drank earlier churning in my stomach. I don't even like cranberry juice. Stupid tart liquid. Stupid kidneys, why can't they fancy oranges more? Stupid doctor's office. I wanted to be back at my apartment soaking my Tempurpedic memory foam contour pillow with tears like I'd spent the last few Fridays doing.
I wasn't even mad at the woman to my right. She was radiating an air of general unease that seemed to indicate she was no more excited to be there than I was. And she kept wrinkling her nose, exhaling though it sharply once in a while, and shifting awkwardly in her chair; something was obviously offending her sense of smell. I knew because this was the same way I found myself struggling with "Okay, I'm in public and something fucking reeks, but proper social conduct confines my reaction to suffering silently while screaming GROSSSSSS in my head and fighting the urge to flee to the nearest pocket of fresh air." It sucks, and I know it does.
I turned to her and said, "I'm sorry, I couldn't help but notice that you're uncomfortable. I thought perhaps my perfume might be too strong?" The spritz I'd administered was well over 4 hours old but then again not everyone loves Victoria's Secret Dark Orchid Eau de Perfum as much as I do. She seemed startled at first by my initiation of conversation then humbled by my concern.
"Oh no, no you're fine," she said with a small smile before dropping her voice and adding, "It's the guy sitting on the other side of you." I took this chance to glance at the man seated to my left. The one who'd had his elbow jabbed into my ribcage despite my leaning my torso 45 degrees away from him for the past 15 minutes. The one who was practically sweating out a 30 pack of Keystone Light through his pores amongst who knows what else. The one who was shamelessly picking his nose and wiping it on his pant leg repeatedly. The one who had boobs as big as mine and sweat stains resembling 5 of the 7 continents.
Ahh yes, that guy.
I returned my gaze to the woman and said, "I see." She gave me a friendly smile as she rose due to her name being called by the nurse to go back and mouthed "Good luck". She was referring to my being left next to the Bobo from Finding Bigfoot doppelganger. I smirked at her; sarcasm is my language. I decided I liked her and immediately moved to her now vacant chair.
This caused Bobo to break away from his quest of finding sasquatch in his nostrils and see what all the fuss was about. We looked at one another directly for the first time. I narrowed my eyes in as obvious of a "Leave me the hell alone" glare as I could muster. Then I took out my phone to establish the tone of I'M BUSY, NO TALKY, assuming that was the end of it.
It wasn't. Never assume anything. I couldn't even open up my Mahjong app before I heard a, "So what are you in here for Blondie?"
Uh, did I magically get transported to a jail cell? Wait, I'm still sitting in a doctor's office waiting room? Ugh. I quickly put my evil glare back on and whipped it to the obnoxious man, hoping I'd somehow gained the power to shoot muzzles from my eyeballs.
"It's not particularly any of your business, now is it?" I snapped. I didn't want to go out of my way to be just straight up bitchy but I noticed he was now scratching his groin like fire ants had been dumped into his sweat pants.
Yes, allow me to repeat that for those of you in the back who could not hear: He was pawing at his junk in public, in front of men, women, and children of varying ages.
I cleared my throat loudly and said, "Stop what you are doing. NOW." By then the other patrons of the waiting room were noticing the exchange as well as his putrid behavior. It was distressing several of them.
"If it itches, you gotta scratch it," the jerk said next with a wink. HE WINKED.
That was so it. That was the final straw.
I'd been practically dying to vent my frustration on someone since I found out my baby had died. I'm the kind of person who tends to internalize my rage and sadness until it explodes like that can of soda you shook up before giving to your friend. I have encountered a lot of unfair, disappointing things in my life but nothing, nothing, could prepare me for the freight train of emotion that came with knowing I'd not only been carrying an unviable pregnancy, but that I would have to continue to do so until my body took care of it or I elected to have a D&C.
I was sad. I was devastated. I was beyond livid. And now some disgusting pig in the room I have to sit in while waiting for more bad news is going to not only annoy the living hell out of me, but be completely crude in front of small children? Nope. Not okay. I've had it. Time to open the cage for Ultima-Bitch to come out.
I dropped my voice and leaned closer to him despite not wanting to, and said, "I don't fucking care if you had ninja stars teleported into your scrotum. Stop doing that before I have you hauled out of here. And if you say one more word to me, I have a can of police grade mace in my purse that will burn your damn eyes right out of your skull."
Only had to be subjected to about 5 more minutes of strained tolerance before I myself was called back. Literally the only time I felt elated to go to one of these appointments. I went through the motions of it, drove myself home, and then started to cry.
But I was used to the crying by then. And that's why when it still continues to come now I don't even try to fight it. Does not matter if I'm in public now or not. I could not stop it if I tried.
It's all part of the process. A process I don't wish on anyone. But I won't lie, it felt pretty damn good to not hold my emotions in that day in the waiting room.
xoxo
Angela
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
In This Moment of Lucidity, Allow Me To Brief You
Today was pretty tough. Despite my physician's request that I take two weeks off of work to "regain my bearings", I went back to the regularly scheduled programming known as my pre-pregnancy life starting yesterday. While I'd certainly love nothing more than to stay in my bed and continue my hermity way of grieving, fiscal responsibility simply won't allow it. I've been fully paying for all of my medical expenses out of pocket and as everyone knows...that piles up. Quickly. And inconveniently. However, doing so allowed me to find a great doctor with an equally great staff and that took some of the sting out of swiping my card at their office countless times over the past month.
But like I've said before and now consider my personal motto, just because things happen that are out of my power, I do not have to like it.
The level of physical exhaustion is still pretty high. The mental fatigue is far worse though. I think one of the most irritating things about this is being completely aware of "Oh sure, one day I'll be a relatively normal human being again", yet feeling as though that is light-years away. I 100% know now what it means to take things one day at a time.
Continuing on...
I'm going to give you an abridged low-down on this situation and the things leading up to it.
* I've never even had so much as a pregnancy scare in my entire life. I'm not pooh-poohing away any incidents of "Oh Shit, where is my period??!". I literally and honestly never had anything like that happen to me. Until this time. And that was somewhat misleading too since my monthly cycle is as fickle as reality TV frenemies.
* I conceived despite using a diaphragm AND the Plan B pill (in no way am I disputing these methods, they simply didn't work for me). A couple of other things factored into the failure of these methods for me, and I'll elaborate on that later (along with why I wasn't on the birth control pill at this time despite my best efforts to be). A lot of conception has to do with certain things being in "the right place at the right time", so to speak. Regardless of preparedness.
* I had what is commonly referred to as a "Missed/Silent Miscarriage". This means that your little one has departed from life but your body has not received the memo and continues pregnancy business as usual. At this point, I still feel incredibly betrayed by my body and nature in general for allowing something like this to happen to me or anyone else. In my case, the fetus died at 4 weeks exactly but my pregnancy did not end for another 3 1/2 weeks. For some reason typing that felt like a punch in the face.
* I'd been pursuing my dream career of becoming an OB/GYN Nurse since graduating high school. I felt that it was my destiny, despite being on the fence on having a family of my own one day. Expectant mothers and infants and birth are things I relished and I basked in the glow of all things maternal. Immersed myself in it. Could practically detect a pregnant woman from a mile away and it'd just make me elated. However, despite seeing every possible symptom countless times in countless women, I somehow failed to recognize it in myself. Suspend your disbelief. I wrote off everything I felt with an excuse of being something, ANYthing else. It wasn't even "I better not be knocked up"; the thought never crossed my mind as a possibility. And as such, that's why I've decided to stop pursuing my previous dream career aside from the painful bitchslap my heart gets from being around anything like that right now.
* Despite using contraception and not planning, let alone trying, to conceive (obviously), that does not make this whole ordeal suck any less. Not by a single iota. I was not immune to the draws of the heart. I've only fallen in love twice in my life; once with my incredible boyfriend, and again with this tiny little life I was lucky enough to carry around in my body, albeit briefly. Two different kinds of love. Both all-consuming. Both rewarding. Both life changing. I didn't plan for either, but that is what makes them both so grand.
That is how I manage to somehow feel lucky despite all that has transpired. 2014 has been a pivotal year for me. I've been introduced to the two greatest loves of my life after 26 years of merely existing beforehand. I've learned more since March than I did from every AP and Honors class, textbook, cram sesh, research, you name it...up to that point. When someone finally came and flipped the switch inside me and I finally understood why all my friends had gotten married, and Ryan Adams' songs made a whole new level of sense to me. I thought everyone was just more sensitive to it than I was. My boyfriend didn't even have to go out of his way to woo me, everything just crashed together.
Another switch was flipped in August.
I know now, fully, what its like to be alive and not just exist. Ryan Adams' sad songs make me cry in a new way now.
Loving and losing is shitty. And painful. Boy, do I get it. If I was more articulate (hell, even a musician in any sense) I'd churn out an average of an album a year for a span of my career, too.
For now, I think I'll stick to this whole getting through it one day at a time thing. Because everything else is still currently far too overwhelming to even consider.
xoxo
Angela
But like I've said before and now consider my personal motto, just because things happen that are out of my power, I do not have to like it.
The level of physical exhaustion is still pretty high. The mental fatigue is far worse though. I think one of the most irritating things about this is being completely aware of "Oh sure, one day I'll be a relatively normal human being again", yet feeling as though that is light-years away. I 100% know now what it means to take things one day at a time.
Continuing on...
I'm going to give you an abridged low-down on this situation and the things leading up to it.
* I've never even had so much as a pregnancy scare in my entire life. I'm not pooh-poohing away any incidents of "Oh Shit, where is my period??!". I literally and honestly never had anything like that happen to me. Until this time. And that was somewhat misleading too since my monthly cycle is as fickle as reality TV frenemies.
* I conceived despite using a diaphragm AND the Plan B pill (in no way am I disputing these methods, they simply didn't work for me). A couple of other things factored into the failure of these methods for me, and I'll elaborate on that later (along with why I wasn't on the birth control pill at this time despite my best efforts to be). A lot of conception has to do with certain things being in "the right place at the right time", so to speak. Regardless of preparedness.
* I had what is commonly referred to as a "Missed/Silent Miscarriage". This means that your little one has departed from life but your body has not received the memo and continues pregnancy business as usual. At this point, I still feel incredibly betrayed by my body and nature in general for allowing something like this to happen to me or anyone else. In my case, the fetus died at 4 weeks exactly but my pregnancy did not end for another 3 1/2 weeks. For some reason typing that felt like a punch in the face.
* I'd been pursuing my dream career of becoming an OB/GYN Nurse since graduating high school. I felt that it was my destiny, despite being on the fence on having a family of my own one day. Expectant mothers and infants and birth are things I relished and I basked in the glow of all things maternal. Immersed myself in it. Could practically detect a pregnant woman from a mile away and it'd just make me elated. However, despite seeing every possible symptom countless times in countless women, I somehow failed to recognize it in myself. Suspend your disbelief. I wrote off everything I felt with an excuse of being something, ANYthing else. It wasn't even "I better not be knocked up"; the thought never crossed my mind as a possibility. And as such, that's why I've decided to stop pursuing my previous dream career aside from the painful bitchslap my heart gets from being around anything like that right now.
* Despite using contraception and not planning, let alone trying, to conceive (obviously), that does not make this whole ordeal suck any less. Not by a single iota. I was not immune to the draws of the heart. I've only fallen in love twice in my life; once with my incredible boyfriend, and again with this tiny little life I was lucky enough to carry around in my body, albeit briefly. Two different kinds of love. Both all-consuming. Both rewarding. Both life changing. I didn't plan for either, but that is what makes them both so grand.
That is how I manage to somehow feel lucky despite all that has transpired. 2014 has been a pivotal year for me. I've been introduced to the two greatest loves of my life after 26 years of merely existing beforehand. I've learned more since March than I did from every AP and Honors class, textbook, cram sesh, research, you name it...up to that point. When someone finally came and flipped the switch inside me and I finally understood why all my friends had gotten married, and Ryan Adams' songs made a whole new level of sense to me. I thought everyone was just more sensitive to it than I was. My boyfriend didn't even have to go out of his way to woo me, everything just crashed together.
Another switch was flipped in August.
I know now, fully, what its like to be alive and not just exist. Ryan Adams' sad songs make me cry in a new way now.
Loving and losing is shitty. And painful. Boy, do I get it. If I was more articulate (hell, even a musician in any sense) I'd churn out an average of an album a year for a span of my career, too.
For now, I think I'll stick to this whole getting through it one day at a time thing. Because everything else is still currently far too overwhelming to even consider.
xoxo
Angela
Monday, September 8, 2014
Are Sundays Going To Always Suck Now, Too?
I might be a little quick to jump the gun in this assumption, considering its only been one week, but I can't help but feel as though I'm going to permanently have some adverse feelings towards the day I once reserved for sleeping in and catching up on my laundry.
Last Sunday I didn't get to sleep in. I was woken up at promptly 7am (literally, right on the dot) with the first of what would be several hours of rhythmic, terrible cramping leading up to the single most harrowing ordeal I've faced yet. But boy, did I have a LOT of laundry to do by the time that was over with.
I know there is a light at the end of this hypothetical tunnel. I'm torn between wanting to reach it and move on with my life and feeling immense guilt for wanting to do so. It's self-contradictory. It's tormenting. I still feel incredibly stuck at this point.
Luckily, I do believe that the last of the hormones have left my body. Or I'm assuming as much by my absence of previously relentless pregnancy symptoms. These are the things I began feeling at roughly 4 weeks gestation (everybody is different, mind you):
-Sore breasts. Like, really sore. As in "That 2 mph breeze just punched me in the boob, RUDE" level of sore. Also, I went from being a 32D to a 34DDD in the matter of two weeks (albeit a little further along in the process). I did not make a typo, 3 D's. The current complete lack of soreness and dramatic recession in cup size since Aug 31st has left me with the notion of the hormones taking leave. Also with some glorious white stretch marks and new sagginess. Well, that's just peachy. And now I have no use for all the damn monstrous sports bras I had to buy. Maybe I'll install new sails on my nonexistent yacht, sew a quilt of bitterness, I don't fucking know.
-Who the HELL is cooking with garlic?! I never had a problem with garlic, in fact we used to be pretty tight. Granted, I never liked when people who pretend to know how to cook just drown everything in garlic and think they're Wolfgang Puck or some shit. But I'd have the occasional bulb chillin' at my apartment for the appropriate pasta or flatbread. Well, I should've known something was up when the people barbequing in the next complex over dared to use a marinade with garlic and it was more offensive than a barn full of flatulent sheep. Obvious exaggeration, but anyone who's developed a smell aversion knows that you can't get away from the offending reek fast enough. Now, the marinades don't bother me anymore. Neither does the canister of garlic salt in my pantry. But the people laughing and partying and enjoying their lives? That is still quite irritating to me. Anyways...
-BRB, gonna take a nap. And by that I mean a coma. I originally attributed the insane amount of exhaustion to an abrupt 500000% increase in my day to day stress levels. My job can be pretty tiring and my nightly routine usually consists of coming home, making a hookah (no I don't think it makes me cool and yes smoking is bad), and binge watching Korean drama television shows on Netflix for a couple of hours then passing out. Sometimes I'll have a glass of wine or a screwdriver. Wake up the next day and repeat. But I'd started nodding off if I was sitting still long enough and became genuinely concerned about safely completing my half hour commute. Also, I have insomnia that is capable of keeping me up for 3 days if I don't do something about it due to a brain injury I sustained a few years ago. Needless to say my Ambien went untouched and I'd just curl up on the couch and go night-night without even taking my purse off my shoulder. Now, I'm back to staring blankly at a wall for hours on end. Might need to blow the dust off of my relationship with sleep aides.
-Don't mind me, just being cute and throwing up randomly. I typically only get sick really bad about once a year. That also means that my gag reflex is only exercised annually as well. Until I started gagging when I was brushing my teeth, or drinking certain teas or certain foods. I'll just cut the crap and say it was happening whenever it felt like, due to whatever reason. Sometimes I'd be driving and debate pulling over abruptly on the freeway and emptying the contents of my stomach onto the cement. Your tax dollars at work, California.
-My mood swings cause whiplash. I can be a real asshole sometimes. The kind that doesn't bow out of confrontations whether they involved me originally or not and leaves the people around me feeling super awkward. Since meeting my boyfriend though, I'd mellowed out significantly. I even stopped getting mad at the douchelords who'd cut me off dangerously during my morning commute. Then, The Ultima-Bitch came back with a vengeance. Randomly. At inappropriate times. Almost immediately followed by The Sob Monster, or LOLJK I Love Everything Moron. My mood swings were probably registering on a Richter scale. I'm currently a delicate balance of "How Dare You Smile Within a 50 Mile Radius of Me" and "I'm Just Gonna Hide in My Bed Until The Sun Supernovas". It works for now.
Part of me is grateful for being able to sleep on my stomach again and not upchucking with the slightest provocation. It was enough of a perpetual mind fuck to have my body keep telling me I was pregnant even when the baby had died (at approx. 4 weeks, not the original estimation of 2), even more so roughly a week after I had birthed it from my body. I guess its a closure of sorts, or the start of one at least.
Another part of me feels even more empty now. Like slowly all of my insides had been ripped out throughout the process, and this lack of symptoms I'd actually grown used to is like whatever gutted me decided to come back and take out my skeleton too. That's a pretty accurate way to describe it, come to think of it. Feeling like a sack of blood and nerves. Exposed, oversensitive nerves that cause me to cringe and twitch with the pain and overstimulation of what seems to be life going on around me in a normal fashion when all I want to do is cry. And scream. And damn everything.
8 days post-miscarriage and I'm still a miserable person. But I suspect that will probably be for some time yet.
And if that wasn't enough, Evergreen Terrace's cover of "Sunday, Bloody Sunday" just popped up on my Pandora radio. Excuse me, I might have to pitch my phone through the window now.
xoxo
Angela
Last Sunday I didn't get to sleep in. I was woken up at promptly 7am (literally, right on the dot) with the first of what would be several hours of rhythmic, terrible cramping leading up to the single most harrowing ordeal I've faced yet. But boy, did I have a LOT of laundry to do by the time that was over with.
I know there is a light at the end of this hypothetical tunnel. I'm torn between wanting to reach it and move on with my life and feeling immense guilt for wanting to do so. It's self-contradictory. It's tormenting. I still feel incredibly stuck at this point.
Luckily, I do believe that the last of the hormones have left my body. Or I'm assuming as much by my absence of previously relentless pregnancy symptoms. These are the things I began feeling at roughly 4 weeks gestation (everybody is different, mind you):
-Sore breasts. Like, really sore. As in "That 2 mph breeze just punched me in the boob, RUDE" level of sore. Also, I went from being a 32D to a 34DDD in the matter of two weeks (albeit a little further along in the process). I did not make a typo, 3 D's. The current complete lack of soreness and dramatic recession in cup size since Aug 31st has left me with the notion of the hormones taking leave. Also with some glorious white stretch marks and new sagginess. Well, that's just peachy. And now I have no use for all the damn monstrous sports bras I had to buy. Maybe I'll install new sails on my nonexistent yacht, sew a quilt of bitterness, I don't fucking know.
-Who the HELL is cooking with garlic?! I never had a problem with garlic, in fact we used to be pretty tight. Granted, I never liked when people who pretend to know how to cook just drown everything in garlic and think they're Wolfgang Puck or some shit. But I'd have the occasional bulb chillin' at my apartment for the appropriate pasta or flatbread. Well, I should've known something was up when the people barbequing in the next complex over dared to use a marinade with garlic and it was more offensive than a barn full of flatulent sheep. Obvious exaggeration, but anyone who's developed a smell aversion knows that you can't get away from the offending reek fast enough. Now, the marinades don't bother me anymore. Neither does the canister of garlic salt in my pantry. But the people laughing and partying and enjoying their lives? That is still quite irritating to me. Anyways...
-BRB, gonna take a nap. And by that I mean a coma. I originally attributed the insane amount of exhaustion to an abrupt 500000% increase in my day to day stress levels. My job can be pretty tiring and my nightly routine usually consists of coming home, making a hookah (no I don't think it makes me cool and yes smoking is bad), and binge watching Korean drama television shows on Netflix for a couple of hours then passing out. Sometimes I'll have a glass of wine or a screwdriver. Wake up the next day and repeat. But I'd started nodding off if I was sitting still long enough and became genuinely concerned about safely completing my half hour commute. Also, I have insomnia that is capable of keeping me up for 3 days if I don't do something about it due to a brain injury I sustained a few years ago. Needless to say my Ambien went untouched and I'd just curl up on the couch and go night-night without even taking my purse off my shoulder. Now, I'm back to staring blankly at a wall for hours on end. Might need to blow the dust off of my relationship with sleep aides.
-Don't mind me, just being cute and throwing up randomly. I typically only get sick really bad about once a year. That also means that my gag reflex is only exercised annually as well. Until I started gagging when I was brushing my teeth, or drinking certain teas or certain foods. I'll just cut the crap and say it was happening whenever it felt like, due to whatever reason. Sometimes I'd be driving and debate pulling over abruptly on the freeway and emptying the contents of my stomach onto the cement. Your tax dollars at work, California.
-My mood swings cause whiplash. I can be a real asshole sometimes. The kind that doesn't bow out of confrontations whether they involved me originally or not and leaves the people around me feeling super awkward. Since meeting my boyfriend though, I'd mellowed out significantly. I even stopped getting mad at the douchelords who'd cut me off dangerously during my morning commute. Then, The Ultima-Bitch came back with a vengeance. Randomly. At inappropriate times. Almost immediately followed by The Sob Monster, or LOLJK I Love Everything Moron. My mood swings were probably registering on a Richter scale. I'm currently a delicate balance of "How Dare You Smile Within a 50 Mile Radius of Me" and "I'm Just Gonna Hide in My Bed Until The Sun Supernovas". It works for now.
Part of me is grateful for being able to sleep on my stomach again and not upchucking with the slightest provocation. It was enough of a perpetual mind fuck to have my body keep telling me I was pregnant even when the baby had died (at approx. 4 weeks, not the original estimation of 2), even more so roughly a week after I had birthed it from my body. I guess its a closure of sorts, or the start of one at least.
Another part of me feels even more empty now. Like slowly all of my insides had been ripped out throughout the process, and this lack of symptoms I'd actually grown used to is like whatever gutted me decided to come back and take out my skeleton too. That's a pretty accurate way to describe it, come to think of it. Feeling like a sack of blood and nerves. Exposed, oversensitive nerves that cause me to cringe and twitch with the pain and overstimulation of what seems to be life going on around me in a normal fashion when all I want to do is cry. And scream. And damn everything.
8 days post-miscarriage and I'm still a miserable person. But I suspect that will probably be for some time yet.
And if that wasn't enough, Evergreen Terrace's cover of "Sunday, Bloody Sunday" just popped up on my Pandora radio. Excuse me, I might have to pitch my phone through the window now.
xoxo
Angela
Saturday, September 6, 2014
And So My (Written) Story Begins...
Yesterday was my birthday. September 5th, 2014; the date to mark my 27 years of being on this wonderful, wonderful planet. A day that normally would have called for celebration, dinner at the local brewery with my father and stepmother, siblings, and anyone else who would've liked to join. Because typically, although I usually find myself trying to avoid my fellow man like the H1N1 virus, I can also find myself wrought in spells of joviality. Kindness towards others. Let's all be nice and enjoy the moment.
But this September 5th was not like any other that I've seen yet in my (now) 27 years on this wonderful, wonderful planet. When the typical flood of "Happy Birthday!!" texts started pouring in, my phone had long been shut off as I drove myself to the hospital with a weight in my chest that was comparable to a dumbbell. In the passenger seat sat a very small white Styrofoam...box? Cooler, I suppose you could call it. I stared dumbly at it at every red light I stopped at, and for an extra 10 minutes when I finally parked at my destination. Until I finally worked up the nerve to pick it up with trembling hands and take it inside a medical establishment for the last time.
I was spending this birthday taking the remains of my 7week 3day miscarriage to the hospital to be cremated with other lost pregnancies. Lost dreams. Lost wonders of "what if?". Just LOSS in every sense of the word.
The first trimester miscarriage I'd completed naturally, at home, by myself, on Sunday August 31st, 2014. Even now, although it is still so soon after the fact, I will never forget the way I felt when I handed that small box over to the appropriate staff member. I will never forget the way I've felt in the past month or will undoubtedly feel in the times to come...if I live to be only 31 or 101.
I've thought this whole time, rather ignorantly, that I would want to forget everything about this. That I would be immune to the process of pregnancy, hormones, bonding, and loss.
I now know that I don't want to forget. Not only that, but that I don't have to.
This blog is beginning with the vaguely described end of my physical connection to my baby. I will later describe this event in great detail, as every event will be. As this progresses, I'll take you through the process of my first spells of morning sickness and sore breasts, to when it all started to go downhill before I'd even had a chance to piss on a stick to confirm what instinct was already telling me. It will continue though the uncensored account of every contraction, blood spatter, and tear; through to the present. And how I cope (or not) as I claw my way back to some sense of normalcy.
There will be gore. There will be shameless swearing. You will find no sugar coated recollection of a shitty event in enlightened retrospect. No clip art of winged cherubs and rainbows.
Here, you will watch how a woman in her mid-twenties declined, was shattered completely, is still broken and grappling to put all the pieces back together. Sometimes she'll gather them gently in a pile and manage a smile, even a (now few and far between) laugh. Other times, she'll strike at them violently while she's in a tearful fit of dismay, scattering them back into total disarray.
That woman is me.
Angela: 27 years old. Blonde hair, green eyes, in an adoring long distance relationship, 2 small dogs, living in Northern California.
If you've found this blog while scouring the internet in the wee hours of the morning, nursing a broken heart or your worst nightmare as a mother materialized....know that you are not alone. I am here, aching just like you and literally thousands of other women are/have/will be.
Many things in this life are indeed "Sad But True". But it doesn't mean we have to like it. Take it with a grain of salt. Get the hell over it. No, there is a reason we feel so unjustified when bad things happen.
Because it fucking sucks.
If any of you reading this, or any future entry of mine, feels any sense of relation or thinks "Me, too." even once....then baring the rawest insides and emotions of myself as I experience my first brush with motherhood come to an abrupt and confusing end will be completely worth it. Regardless of whether you tell me that my story has affected you or not. You are as welcome to observe this silently as you are to share your thoughts.
Putting it out there when there are so many limited resources on a startlingly common yet stigmatic subject: priceless.
xoxo
Angela
But this September 5th was not like any other that I've seen yet in my (now) 27 years on this wonderful, wonderful planet. When the typical flood of "Happy Birthday!!" texts started pouring in, my phone had long been shut off as I drove myself to the hospital with a weight in my chest that was comparable to a dumbbell. In the passenger seat sat a very small white Styrofoam...box? Cooler, I suppose you could call it. I stared dumbly at it at every red light I stopped at, and for an extra 10 minutes when I finally parked at my destination. Until I finally worked up the nerve to pick it up with trembling hands and take it inside a medical establishment for the last time.
I was spending this birthday taking the remains of my 7week 3day miscarriage to the hospital to be cremated with other lost pregnancies. Lost dreams. Lost wonders of "what if?". Just LOSS in every sense of the word.
The first trimester miscarriage I'd completed naturally, at home, by myself, on Sunday August 31st, 2014. Even now, although it is still so soon after the fact, I will never forget the way I felt when I handed that small box over to the appropriate staff member. I will never forget the way I've felt in the past month or will undoubtedly feel in the times to come...if I live to be only 31 or 101.
I've thought this whole time, rather ignorantly, that I would want to forget everything about this. That I would be immune to the process of pregnancy, hormones, bonding, and loss.
I now know that I don't want to forget. Not only that, but that I don't have to.
This blog is beginning with the vaguely described end of my physical connection to my baby. I will later describe this event in great detail, as every event will be. As this progresses, I'll take you through the process of my first spells of morning sickness and sore breasts, to when it all started to go downhill before I'd even had a chance to piss on a stick to confirm what instinct was already telling me. It will continue though the uncensored account of every contraction, blood spatter, and tear; through to the present. And how I cope (or not) as I claw my way back to some sense of normalcy.
There will be gore. There will be shameless swearing. You will find no sugar coated recollection of a shitty event in enlightened retrospect. No clip art of winged cherubs and rainbows.
Here, you will watch how a woman in her mid-twenties declined, was shattered completely, is still broken and grappling to put all the pieces back together. Sometimes she'll gather them gently in a pile and manage a smile, even a (now few and far between) laugh. Other times, she'll strike at them violently while she's in a tearful fit of dismay, scattering them back into total disarray.
That woman is me.
Angela: 27 years old. Blonde hair, green eyes, in an adoring long distance relationship, 2 small dogs, living in Northern California.
If you've found this blog while scouring the internet in the wee hours of the morning, nursing a broken heart or your worst nightmare as a mother materialized....know that you are not alone. I am here, aching just like you and literally thousands of other women are/have/will be.
Many things in this life are indeed "Sad But True". But it doesn't mean we have to like it. Take it with a grain of salt. Get the hell over it. No, there is a reason we feel so unjustified when bad things happen.
Because it fucking sucks.
If any of you reading this, or any future entry of mine, feels any sense of relation or thinks "Me, too." even once....then baring the rawest insides and emotions of myself as I experience my first brush with motherhood come to an abrupt and confusing end will be completely worth it. Regardless of whether you tell me that my story has affected you or not. You are as welcome to observe this silently as you are to share your thoughts.
Putting it out there when there are so many limited resources on a startlingly common yet stigmatic subject: priceless.
xoxo
Angela
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)