Sunday, March 1, 2015
The Mindf*ck That Was My Miscarriage-Part I
It’s been a while my loyal readers so I thought I’d come back with a bang…so to speak. As you may have gleaned from the title, I ended the year on a low note but I finally feel like I want to talk about the whole experience, because the way we deal with pregnancy and the loss of pregnancy ‘round these parts leaves a lot to be desired.
First off, let me preface this by saying, I’m fine. I’m actually doing really well. I’m in a pretty good head space all things considered. And thank you for your concern. These are all statements I’ve gotten really good at saying, because I’ve been saying them ad nauseam for two months, to soothe the worries of my aural audience because dear readers, I have been talking about this. A lot!
Let’s rewind to four months ago, mid-October, when I first started to notice that my boobs were on fire. That was a sign. Now my husband and I have been trying for a few months, having spent more than half of our first year as husband and wife in two separate countries so despite my age, I wasn’t exactly panicked that it didn’t happen right away. Your odds go up exponentially with proximity so once we were in the same state and OMG, the same bed, we made it happen. I knew two days after what should have been the start of my period but for the sake of due diligence, I headed off to the drug store to pick up confirmation in the form of a $12 urinary litmus test.
I wandered that store for well over half an hour, retracing my steps, back and forth the sexual aids aisle, the feminine products aisle, the makeup aisle, the candy aisle (I was pregnant after all), upstairs and downstairs but to no avail. At last, having exhausted my ideas, I headed to the pharmacy counter and asked where they might be hiding the pregnancy tests. A nervous young woman explained that they were kept behind the pharmacy counter, next to the hard core drugs and the meth lab known as Sudafed. Confused, I queried at the reasoning for such a decision. After all, I am in a major metropolitan, liberal city in the arts district, not some backwater district full of politicians who don’t know the difference between the digestive tract and the reproductive system. She could offer no reason nor would the manager speak with me. Now understand, I am a happily remarried, confident, able-bodied, independent woman with an incredibly supportive husband and family, with no fears or trepidations about discovering I am with child. However, even I had reservations about proudly strolling up the pharmacy counter and loudly declaring to an anonymous audience my assurance that I was most likely knocked up; a fact I wouldn’t reveal to my own family for another two months. I couldn’t imagine some poor girl, scared out of her wits already trying to muster the courage to timidly ask permission to confirm what she already feared. Trust me, the condoms, lubricants and other sexual aides were all out prominently displayed on the shelves, next to the treatments for UTIs and Yeast Infections. It is hard to not feel judged and I was pretty high up on my high horse. Needless to say, I registered my complaint, paid my money and headed home, little brown bag in hand.
I waited until the next day so I could utilize that most magical elixir, the elusive early morning stream. I found my most graceful yoga pose and let it flow, aiming my stream with the accuracy of a fighter pilot into that little well of prognostication. Use the force Luke. I put the stick aside, set the timer, wiped off the seat and washed my pee soaked hands because my fighter pilot was apparently still flying on a learners permit and by the time I returned, BAM, I was pregnant. I thought for sure it would be a minute or two to register or that it would appear slowly like Brigadoon from the mist, but it was a matter of seconds. Holy crap, I must be super uber pregnant!
The next few weeks alternately flew by and went at a snail’s pace, depending upon whether I was fighting the urge to tell my family or throw up. Luckily, I didn’t have much in the way of morning sickness, other than the occasional bit of nausea and my nearly constant fiery hell knockers that would not be contained by any artifice known to man. Wearing a sports bra became my nightly ritual and my husband in his zeal to celebrate our upcoming bliss was learning the necessity of tenderness approaching me like a cornered baby tiger. And then there were… the “baby rages”…
To Be Continued