The recovery time after finding out about the miscarriage
included more ups and downs, both physical and emotional. People find out about miscarriages in
different ways – either you start to experience the terrifying symptoms of one
or you find out during a doctor’s appointment that the pregnancy is no longer
viable, as we did. Neither is easy. For us, the path involved lots of waiting. More. Freaking. Waiting. But this time we were waiting for the thing
we had hoped would not happen. As
much as I didn’t want it to be true, I also wanted the miscarriage to happen so
I could stop dreading it and just move on already. When people would ask how I was doing, I would
often reply with something like, “I’ll be okay when this is all over.” I really
believed that would be true. My vision was narrow, and all I wanted to do was
to put this in the rearview mirror. And so, we began praying for the thing we
had for so long been praying against.
Since I had been on meds (progesterone) to maintain the
pregnancy, it seemed my body was taking longer to recognize that it did not
need to keep sustaining it. When it was clear I wasn’t showing any “progress”
towards a natural miscarriage, my doctor suggested I take pills to induce it.
While I did want it all to be over, that felt funny. I asked for one more
ultrasound to again confirm there was no heartbeat. While I knew it wasn’t a recommended medical
intervention, for me, it was a mental health intervention. After all we’d done
to try to make this pregnancy happen, I couldn’t take active steps to end it
without being absolutely sure it was over.
Said ultrasound confirmed what I knew it would, and that day
I picked up a prescription for the pills that would “induce” a
miscarriage. Seth and I settled in with
a movie (Redbox appears to be the official sponsor of our infertility journey)
and waited, hoping they would “work”.
Without being too graphic, they did, and I spent most of that night
curled up on the bathroom floor. However, one dose wasn’t enough, and over the
course of the next few days my doctor had to prescribe two more doses of the
meds. I just. wanted. it. to. be.
over. To make matters more emotionally
complicated, it was the last week for students at school, and I really wanted to
be there with students and teachers. The real icing on the cake was that I was
slated to lead a two-day training in front of 120+ people the following week. I
know there is no convenient time to have a miscarriage, but in in the middle of
a PowerPoint with over a hundred people watching really wouldn’t be my first
choice.
When people asked how I was doing through this time, my
repeated response was, “I’ll be okay once it’s all over.” I was so ready to move forward (read: run
away) from it all that I really believed this. I really believed that I would
breathe a sigh of relief and redirect my attention to something else. I was,
however, several shades of totally wrong.
The night after it was over, Seth and I took the dog for a walk to a
park near our house. We strolled to a part of the park with less people, and without
warning, I just plopped down in the grass and cried. And cried. And then
couldn’t stop crying. Seth sat down next to me and was quiet for awhile, until
he said softly, “Babe, I know this is really hard… but remember, at least now
we know we can get pregnant.” And
without thinking, from a visceral, childlike, deep-in-my-bones place, I
exclaimed, “But I wanted that one!”
Even though it had “only” been three weeks since I’d found out we were pregnant,
I already felt bonded to this little being inside me. And in that moment, although abstractly I
absolutely did want to get pregnant again, I found myself turning away from the
idea of another baby – I was still mourning the lost of our first. While we
hadn’t even heard a heartbeat, the baby still had an identity. He or she was a
January birthday close to Seth’s. He or she was one of the names we had started
talking about (even though we knew it was way too early for us to do so.) He or
she was our last “shot in the dark” we almost didn’t do because we were
convinced it wouldn’t work. He or she was the videos of friends we’d taken of
friends screaming and throwing their hands in the air when they found out we
were pregnant.
While there was still a lot of mourning to do, over the
following weeks, things did get better bit by bit. There were parts that were
hard. Not being able to do the baby announcements we had been dreaming up when
we went to see family in Michigan and Georgia – that was hard. Still getting
the “Your baby is the size of a pumpernickel seed!” emails from the baby apps
until I figured out how to “report a loss” – that was hard. And then the random
sparks of sadness that would pop up unannounced – those were hard. But slowly,
we did move forward. It’s still sad, and we still mourn that loss. But a few
weeks later, after a period of healing, we had to decide – would we try again?
While originally we had decided that this would be our last
treatment cycle (if IUIs are going to work for you, they typically work after
3-4 rounds – we were on our seventh) our doctor gained renewed confidence that
it was still worth more cycles if we were up for it. It didn’t take much thought to say yes. We’re tired, for sure. We’re tired of the ups
and downs, the many doctors appointments, the emotional exhaustion, the
planning of work schedules around fertile days (this was entirely weird for me
at first; now it just seems normal. What? You mean everyone doesn’t avoid
planning important meetings when they’re ovulating?) But I guess we just feel
like there is still some steam left in us.
It worked once – it could work
again.
I have heard many stories of people who struggled with
infertility talking about the moment they just knew they were done. They
describe it as an emotional wall they could not climb over nor push
through. We aren’t there quite yet.
Sometimes the wall feels close, like I’m walking through a dark room with my
hands outstretched. But I trust that we’ll know when or if that time comes. For
now, we focus on the next right thing. And for us, right now, the next right
thing is to start again. So we did.
I recently walked into the clinic for the eighth time. It is
getting to the point that I’m so familiar with the routine that I want to ask
if I will save a few bucks by doing it myself.
Truth be told, this last time I actually complimented the nurse on her
technique: “Wow! Hardly any cramping at all that time. I think it’s the best
one I’ve had so far! Nice work!” (I am never not a teacher – you can always
count on me to ensure that ample amounts of positive reinforcement are being
provided.) I also couldn’t resist a smart aleck comment and asked her if she
had any special healing crystals for lady parts. So, you know, things are
pretty much back to normal around here.
And, so, we climb back on the horse again. While we have several metaphorical saddle
sores to deal with, we do know this routine.
And so, we just continue to do the next right thing.
