Oct 15, 2013

It was real.

On the 13th of October, one week ago today, I officially had a miscarriage. It's a very long and emotionally-taxing story, but it involved the emergency room, lots and lots of blood loss, passing out, staying overnight at the hospital, having low blood pressure, coming scarily close to needing a blood transfusion, getting a D&C and finally getting released and spending the entire week at home recooperating and trying to get my body back to normal (it's still not). I could finally say that the chapter of my miscarriage was being closed...or so I thought it was supposed to work. My heart hasn't exactly agreed. I thought I was at a place that I felt okay with finally having a miscarriage. A week and a half ago, when my body started showing the tell-tale signs that I was miscarrying, I thought that it was a step in the right direction after being diagnosed with a blighted ovum to be able to move on. Let's be honest though, as a mother, how can you just "move on?"  I can't.

I thought the most logical thing for me to do would be to make a painting to help me heal. So I started looking up ideas on Pinterest and Etsy. That's when I started to feel really guilty. Every painting or piece of remembrance jewelry I came across represented the hurt of a woman that lost an actual baby. Quotes about carrying a baby in their womb, but now in their heart. Or about how their baby was now with Jesus. How could I say the same? I technically never had a baby. I had a fertilized egg that never developed into a fetus. How could I say that my pain was the same as what these women were going through? They had experienced true miscarriages or still births. What right did I have to mourn the loss of my pregnancy--my baby that actually never was? 

I actually went on like this for several days. Feeling guilty for feeling so much pain and grief. Until I realized that my loss was just the same.  I saw this quote on Pinterest that changed my outlook: "There is no greater agony than carrying an untold story inside of you." As my sister, who is so wise beyond her years, very appropriately put--it was a baby to me.  I may not have carried an actual baby. Instead, I carried hope. I carried around the thought for an entire month that I was going to be a mother again. I carried the thought that I was making Avery a sibling. I carried the thought that this could be the grandson my dad had been waiting for. With my diagnosis and miscarriage, all of that was taken away from me--leaving me with an untold story. No, I didn't lose an actual baby. I lost a dream, the thought of another child, the idea that I would have an infant, or even twins, come April. It still hurts when someone announces that they're pregnant. It still hurts when a well-meaning stranger asks Marty and I when we're going to make Avery a big sister. It still hurts---so indescribably bad--to look down at my stomach and know that a month ago, I was pregnant. Now I'm not. Now I'm empty--literally, physically and most importantly, emotionally.  I don't think I'll ever be able to put into words how much this hurts. Or how much it's affected the way I look at everyday things--commercials, conversations about pregnancy or having other children.  I'm terrified to think about getting pregnant again. I'm terrified this might happen again. I honestly don't think that my heart can take it. I'm scared to even think about our "timeline" of having children now. I think (or at least I hope) its a natural feeling, for me to feel the need to get pregnant again soon...to "replace" this pain and this failed pregnancy. But Marty's on a different page. And I honestly feel like I need the time to heal before I even attempt to go through this again. So I've decided. This miscarriage--baby or not--has completely changed my life.  And I think have every right to feel that pain and loss. October 13, 2013 will not be a day I'll soon forget--and I won't feel guilty about it either. 

Update: I have decided that I'm going to paint something. I really think it'll help me come to terms with everything. Painting always makes me feel better, no matter what the problem may be. Help me decide on a sketch? I'm thinking this will end up being on a fairly small canvas that I can lean up on my bedside table or somewhere similar. 

This quote just tugs at my heart strings. It's from the book, "The Velveteen Rabbit" and it kind of perfectly describes how I feel. Despite medical terms, this pregnancy was very real to me. 

This is my most favorite Bible verse. I have to repeat it to myself often. I also like the symbolism of the balloon. I feel like a piece of my heart has left me. 

I'm also open to suggestions. To quotes, to Bible verses, to designs. I want this to be not only symbolic, but to be a healing piece for me. I don't want to look at it and be depressed. I want to look at it and be reminded that I won't ever be the same, but I will eventually be okay. Help me?


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