Monthly Archives: May 2010

The Waiting: 6. It’s ok to say you’re sorry.

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College. 10ish years ago.

My boss (and head of the Sociology department) knew I wanted to go into Christian counseling, so he insisted that I be his Teaching Assistant for the Death and Dying course. I spent one semester sitting as a student, the three more semesters sitting there listening – and getting paid for it.

I’ve never forgotten what he said about couples who have miscarriages. At the time, I couldn’t wrap my mind around his words, but they sounded …right.

He said that, sometimes, losing a pregnancy is the same as losing a born child. This life already has an identity in the parents’ minds and hearts. They already have plans and maybe even a name. They may have a room decorated. Stuff ready. They may already love this child as parents do. Already bonded. Already have hopes and dreams for their future son or daughter.

But the rest of the world may not understand their pain. The rest of the world has yet to meet this child. Has yet to see it –  get to know it – hold it – bond with it. For the rest of the world, the child may not “exist” yet. So the rest of the world doesn’t grieve. The rest of the world hasn’t really experienced a loss.

I’m writing this one for “the rest of the world” – for those who have no idea what to say, but who want to somehow acknowledge the loss in a miscarriage.

There’s nothing that you can say to make it better or make sense. But you can say you’re sorry. You can say that you were looking forward to getting to know that little one. You can say that you have no idea what they’ve gone through, but you know it’s tough. And you can say that if there’s anything they need, they can let you know.

Is there anything else that you think should be said?

Part one: Before The Beginning
Part two: The Real Reason Why I Quit Seminary
Part three: Clomid
Part four: When Everything Changed
Part five: The Week

The Waiting: 5. The Week

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Sunday, June 29th, 2008

We called the midwife. How far along was I? “We just found out on Wednesday.” Was I on medication? “Yes, Clomid.”

She said Clomid sometimes causes cysts. She said it could be a cyst or tubal pregnancy – either way, we were going in for an emergency ultra sound. Drew called our pastor on the way to the hospital. Gave him about an hour’s notice that I wouldn’t be leading worship that Sunday. Thankfully, he didn’t ask questions.

After a few hours at the hospital, the doctor-on-call verified that it was a ruptured ovarian cyst. The baby was too small to be detected in the ultra sound, but everything should be ok.

So we went home.

I was completely unprepared for what came next, and I couldn’t stop it. Even though I would’ve given my life to protect the life inside me, my body had a different plan. And, when things went wrong, the receptionist at the Doctor’s office simply said “You may be miscarrying. Come in to test your hCG levels.” No one told me what was going to happen to my body. No one told me what to expect. Even though I could tell she didn’t want to talk to me, I’d call back again. I didn’t know what else to do. She’d say “Your hCG levels haven’t fallen yet, but you’re probably miscarrying. We won’t know until…” I went to the hospital four times in eight days, carrying a paper that said “Abortion threatened.” Why do they use that word? THAT word? I didn’t ask for this to happen to me. To us. To it.

I didn’t need those tests to tell me everything was NOT ok.

Monday was not ok.
Tuesday was not ok.
Wednesday was not ok.
Thursday was not ok.
And everyday after my hCG levels dwindled to the point of “Abortion confirmed.” By the time we received this news, the worst was nearly over.

I remember crying. A lot.
I remember blood. A lot.
I remember trash cans and toilets… and wondering.
I remember trying to walk, doubled-over from what I would later find out were contractions.
I remember naming that little life that we’d never know.
I remember sitting in a parking lot while hail and rain and wind shook the car as violently as my body shook that microscopic little life out of me.
I remember laying on my couch late one night, unable to sleep from the physical and emotional pain, rubbing my stomach: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”
I remember asking myself if the second round of Clomid did this. If I did this? IF I DID THIS???

I don’t remember talking to God.


Part one: Before The Beginning
Part two: The Real Reason Why I Quit Seminary
Part three: Clomid
Part four: When Everything Changed

The Waiting: 4. When Everything Changed

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Wednesday, June 25th, 2008

17 months of trying

Finishing round two of Clomid.

We were friends with another couple at seminary who was going through the same process as us. …only we’d been waiting much longer. That Wednesday, I sipped my mocha while she told me they’d just found out they were pregnant. Even in my genuine excitement, my mind quickly turned to my own circumstances.

I’d stopped at the pharmacy on my way to see her at Starbucks. Something was amiss with my period, and I thought maybe Clomid was doing something to my cycle. Or maybe it worked.

I took the test as soon as I got home.

Couldn’t believe it.

Drew came home as I waited for the second test to show…

Then, I sat on the couch and shook while Drew confirmed that the tests were positive.

Pregnant?

Pregnant!

Pregnant…

I shook for hours. Afraid. Excited. Shocked.

The next day, I woke up in love. I called my best friend just like I promised. She quickly asked how I felt about becoming a mom – if I was still in that place of not-knowing – of hesitating – or if I wanted this. This is what I told her: “I know the cliche where people say they don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl, they just want it to be healthy. Well, that’s exactly how I feel. I’m madly in love with this little life inside me, and I’d give mine to make sure that it was never harmed. Never hurt. That nothing bad ever happened to it. That’s all I want out of life.”

This was the moment I’d prayed for and feared for nearly 1 1/2 years.

I was a mom.

I cry today, right now, just typing those words. They feel as real and potent as they felt nearly two years ago.

(Part one: Before The Beginning)

(Part two: The Real Reason Why I Quit Seminary)

(Part three: Clomid)

The Waiting: 3. Clomid

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After about a year of trying, we did get checked out for infertility. (Did you know they won’t even look into that unless you’ve been sincerely trying for at least a year? And they will ask questions to make sure you know what it means to really be trying. TMI IMHO)

Anyway, our infertility testing happened about two years ago. Phase one: go through the proper procedures to check both of us out. We were fine (TMI IYHO? sorry).

No obvious reason why we couldn’t get pregnant.

Phase two: put the female of said infertile couple on Clomid. Doc said that most women who get pregnant on Clomid, do so within the first two months. If it doesn’t happen after that, then it probably won’t happen. In his words, “We don’t really know how it works, but sometimes it works.”

Ok.

And let me say something else about Clomid that the Doctor didn’t say, but that I’ve heard from numerous women who have received this treatment: this medication might cause you to lose your mind. If you find that you’re slipping into unaccountable anxiety, feelings of helplessness, fear, depression, feeling overwhelmed by everyday life, anxiety, fear, etc etc etc etc etc etc, don’t let the Doctor tell you that your just having a hard time with the process.

That.

Is.

Crap.

Anyway, back to the start of Clomid. We took our little prescription to the pharmacy, and proceeded accordingly.

Summer 2008.

We thought this would make everything better.

(Read part one: Before The Beginning)

(Read part two: The Real Reason Why I Quit Seminary)