Bittersweet Mother’s Day

It is a little after 11 p.m., Central Time.  Mother’s Day was today.  I was so blessed to spend it at my mother’s home, with my mom, my sister, my husband, and my precious daughter.  But I was so sad and felt so alone in my sadness.

I spent Mother’s Day weekend grieving the loss of my pregnancy.

I tested on Wednesday.  Day 32 of my cycle.  The timing seemed right.  My breasts were aching and my nipples were constantly everted.  I did not have any of my usually lower back pain.  I kept trying to put off testing because I was convinced I was being overly optimistic.  Yet, when my husband took me to lunch, we spent the whole meal debating names.  And I convinced him we should swing by the store and pick up a test.

And that test told me what I knew in my heart of hearts.  A second – albeit, a little faint – pink line appeared.

I was in such shock.  I suddenly wasn’t ready to be excited.  I started making mental preparations for how long I could keep this news to myself.  Keep it my own little joy.  And of course, I tell my good friends right away.  And I told my intended doula.  Because I’m terrible with surprises… And because I wanted someone to help me be excited, to be excited with me, to be ready for me when the inevitable fear-mongering Maternal-Fetal Specialists become involved, to be ready when I have to look at the budget, to be ready when I have to deal with the stress of not having any paid time off available to me from work, to be ready when my anxiety and pregnancy collide…

And I started getting excited.  I mean distractedly so.  I was making a spreadsheet to figure out how to pay for my doula, new carseats, and cloth diapers.  I had already decided that I was going to get a special sling or wrap just for this baby.  I was mentally drafting conversations to friends asking for baby items I had lent out to be returned.  I made a fucking registry at Amazon.com.  I made a registry.  Seriously.  Barely 5 weeks pregnant.

And at just about 2 p.m. on Saturday, with only a few miles to go from our destination, I felt my body shift.  I felt the tightening cramps that usually come with my period.  My husband had to make a pit stop but I stayed in the car, convinced that I just didn’t want to deal with the seedy gas station – surely it was just my tired tailbone bothering me from the long drive.  But I arrived at my mom’s and needed to go to the bathroom.  And there it was.  The truth.  Bright red truth all over.

So I called for a change of pants, shed my tear, hugged my stoic husband, and went forth to spend the next day and a half with my family.  And, yes, I think my mom suspected, but I chose not to acknowledge, and even to avoid any statement that might confirm any suspicions.

It was day 35.  The “baby” wasn’t a baby yet.  My uterus had tried to help that little embryo, implanted in my endometrium, to grow.  My baby maybe even had a little umbilical cord.  But something was wrong – me or baby, it doesn’t matter which – and this child that I started to conjure will never be in my arms.  My body decided to shed that little embryo and start again.

This isn’t my first miscarriage.  I’ve had at least two other “chemical pregnancies” since the birth of my daughter.  And another miscarriage before her birth.

These are the things I feel right now:

I feel numb.  Instead of being numb as I was initially with the shock of a confirmation, I’m numb with an emptiness.  Beaten down by a twist of fate that would surround me these last few days with an awareness of all the round bellies, swollen breasts and precious children that are not mine at this moment.

I’m embarrassed that I got so excited and told people.  And now I have to intimate to those same people that, no, I’m not pregnant – not anymore.

And I’m anxious because I have to deal with their reactions to that.  As much as I needed the validation to be excited, I don’t know if I am ready to be validated in grief, or strong enough to stand up if someone invalidates my grief.

I’m sad that my husband, who is the opposite of excitable, is either hurting or a jerk, but is not in a capacity to be with me in my space.

I’m lonely because I didn’t want to ruin anyone’s Mother’s Day with what feels like such a pathetic piece of news.

All I can do right now is rest.  Tomorrow I’ll decide how I feel then.

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