**Heads-Up: This post contains references to (not pictures of) God, sex and blood. If you are easily offended, I will direct you here.**
This post title was originally going to be called “Surviving a Miscarriage.” I opted against it so there would be no confusion. Although, I am reminded that Charlie Kelly, from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, is an “abortion survivor.”
July 25, 2013. It happened without warning. It was rough. We were 12 weeks, 2 days along.
We got married May 7. We immediately conceived. We knew what we wanted. It took 19 days to get a positive on a pregnancy test and I was ecstatic. July 25, that joy ended.
After it happened, so many people called/emailed/texted to say they were sorry. Strangers were apologizing. I found out that coworkers and bosses had experienced a miscarriage. I connected with people and found things out I’d never known about the people I’d been working with for almost 2 years.
But, no one talks about it. No one just offers up that information. You don’t hear about it until it happens to you.
It’s no wonder why they don’t talk. Because it’s rough.
I thought nothing of it when mine began. Just normal “spotting” associated with pregnancy. Danny freaked out. I went to work and called the doctor to schedule an appointment. By the time I got to the doctor’s office, I had already lost our child.
The whole time I was pregnant, Danny wouldn’t let me do anything I was accustomed to doing around the house. We would take walks, but I wasn’t allowed to clean or work in the yard. I’ll admit, I tried. I felt immortal and a bit of dust got in my lungs, which put me in the emergency room. After paying a $350 copay, I wasn’t risking that anymore. Danny gladly took care of all the house/yard work (Did I mention how lucky I am to have this man?). I got tired of being useless and found a recipe for homemade glass cleaner. All natural, no chemicals, safe. At least, I could clean the windows and tables.
We thought we had been doing everything right. We’d been trying to eat the right food. We cut out caffeine. We drank endless glasses of water. I quit smoking. I bought a boat-load of baby stuff. Started sewing bibs and burp cloths.
I had all the ideas and wants any new mother has. I didn’t want the baby consuming formula, so I bought a $90 breast pump. I refused to splurge on disposable diapers so I bought cloth diapers (even tried to sew a few – didn’t work – it looked like a baby bikini. Could you imagine gooey baby poo seeping out of that? Eww). I vowed not to let our baby eat junk food. There were several conversations between Danny and myself on what discipline measures we would take (of course, we’ve had that conversation for years).
Since May 26, our world had been consumed with all things baby. I read books on teaching the baby sign language. I read BabyWise. I have spent years judging others’ parenting skills, so I was about to be the best damn parent anyone had seen.
A miscarriage puts all that into perspective.
I arrived at the doctor’s office an hour after I called them. I bled. There’s not much else to say. I bled until they took me back to surgery to perform a D&C. It was humiliating. I was bleeding through my clothes. All these beautiful, pregnant women were there for a normal OB visit. And I was losing our baby right in front of them. I was angry.
Danny’s stomach easily turns at the sight of blood. We’ve argued for many years that he would be in the delivery room when I had our children. There was a gross, albeit effective, ultimatum: You are in the delivery room during childbirth or I forever get to fart freely without any judgment from you.
This tested Danny’s stomach. He passed with flying colors. He didn’t show a hint of sickness. You know when the wedding vow “For better or worse,” yeah, it was the worst. And, he was right beside me. He was in the restroom with me while I tried to clean myself up. He held me. He cried with me. It was horrible.
We got a sonogram to confirm that our baby wasn’t in there anymore. That was the toughest. I had grown accustomed to the sound of our baby’s heartbeat at the doctor’s office. To hear silence was unbearable. I hyperventilated until the anesthesiologist came in to prep me for the surgery.
After the surgery was over, the doctor sent us home. Same day – outpatient procedure. That’s cool, ’cause I did not want to pay for a stay in there and they didn’t have my shows. Plus, how was Danny going to fit in that twin bed they put me in?
We woke up July 25 as about-to-be-parents. We went to bed just a married couple. The baby was there, we enjoyed 3 months of it and it was gone.
Two weeks passed (during which, sex was prohibited). Being unable to connect with my husband in that way after something so traumatic was trying in itself.
We went back to the doctor. She told us to wait three months before trying to conceive. We wouldn’t want to increase the risk of this happening again.
I don’t want a replacement baby. It’s just sad that my worst fears came true. I never got a chance to know the person who was growing inside of me.
Danny and I decided we would start trying again in January. I told Danny we would just pretend we were teenagers. Evidently, they have no problem conceiving. Four seasons, really?
After it happened, all I could say was, “It’s strengthened our faith in God.” I am not the person to push God on anyone and I don’t claim to be a saint. I’m definitely no representation for Christianity. I cuss. A lot. I also pray. I know I will answer for my mistakes.
It was as if God was saying, “Chill out, Lauren. I’ve got everything under control.” I’ve always said it to myself, but after this, realized I had never given up control and let Him handle it. I have now.