A Miscarriage

I don’t remember taking the test, but I do remember knowing that I was pregnant very early, before I was even six weeks along. My first born was about fifteen months old, I was on birth control pills, and my ex husband was on cocaine. I did not want to be pregnant, but the world never gives you what you want, only what you need.

I remember one night sitting out in the garage, alone. Crying. I did a lot of that during our marriage. I don’t have any memories of my ex being around too much at this time because he never was. He was always working, so I was left to deal with the realization that we were bringing another child into this world, all alone. 

I was wrapped in grief and fear, crumbled on the cold concrete floor and I remember hitting myself in the stomach. One time. Was it hard enough to do damage? To this day, I wonder.

 It was still too early on in the pregnancy to be seen by my OBGYN, but I already knew the first question I was going to ask. I don’t think I had a conversation with my ex about abortion. I know that he and his Catholicism would have been against it.

Apparently, my gynecologist was against it too, because when I inquired about it at my pregnancy confirmation appointment, I was told they do not perform them. Told this only after I heard the heartbeat pounding away in my abdomen for the first time. I was around six weeks pregnant and devastated. This was far from my first experience with carrying a child, which was planned and as perfect as could be.

Somewhere between my sixth and eighth week, a nasty stomach virus swept through our family, and I became violently ill, vomiting with a fever. I remember at one point throwing up in the kitchen sink, my body wretching in agony. I felt a gush of fluid fill my panties. I knew before I looked what color it would be. Some bleeding can be normal in the beginning of a pregnancy, but I instinctively knew this was not. 

It was confirmed at my nine week appointment on an ultrasound, with my ex husband and son in attendance. I still have the picture they printed out for me. The only remnants of an existence are locked away in my fireproof safe. An indeterminate clump of human cells whose head did not form correctly and no longer had a heart beat was floating around in my womb. 

The first thing my doctor said when I had dressed and came into his office was that this was not my fault. I am quite sure this is his go to phrase for such an occasion. How did he know it wasn’t my fault? Just the other week we had discussed terminating it. I had wished it away. If nothing else, I had wished it away and now it was gone. I was supposed to be a grieving mother, but I was numb. 

What is ironic is that the medicine they gave me to help the miscarriage along without surgery is what is known as the abortion pill. I wanted an abortion, and now, technically I had it.

When my doctor was writing the prescription, he warned me that some pharmacists may refuse to fill the script for religious reasons. As I sat in CVS later that day waiting for it to be filled, I stared at the pharmacist, silently daring him to deny me my medicine. I had a dead fetus in my uterus and everyone in that drug store was going to know it if it came down to that. Luckily, I was given the medicine with no issues. 

I made arrangements to insert the pill when I did not have my son with me and I spent the entire day in bed, bleeding and cramping. My body dispelling what was never meant to be. I made a point not to look too hard in the bloody toilet. I imagined a disfigured face staring up at me from the porcelain bowl. After a day or so of this. I thought the pill had done its job and we just went on with our lives. I was surprised at how little emotion I was feeling, it made me feel guilty that I wasn’t devastated by what had happened.

Then one morning I awoke to the real cramping. The real bleeding. It was forceful and unrelentless. As always, my ex was nowhere to be found. I called my mother as I was sitting on the toilet with the door open so that I could see my son watching cartoons. She convinced me to call an ambulance and told me she would be right over to take care of my son.

The firemen showed up first and helped keep my son occupied until my mom could get there. She and the ambulance showed up at about the same time. I remember walking out to the ambulance myself, hunched over in pain. 

The paramedic asked me if I had a pad on, as if a pad was going to stop the life from flowing out of me. I am surprised my eyes didn’t roll hard enough to fall out the back of my head. 

There was no urgency once I got into the Emergency department. They checked me in and left me alone, bleeding all over the hospital bed. At one point I had to ring the nurse to get help going to the bathroom across the hall. A river of blood ran down my leg and onto the floor and for the first time, I saw a look of concern on the nurse’s face. 

About this time, my ex husband finally showed up. I remember him sitting to my left, but he did not say much. He was probably too high to deal with what was going on emotionally at the time. We just sat in silence. The doctor finally came in and took one look and said “Here it is, I’ve got it” and with a pair of forceps, he swiftly removed the deceased fetus that didn’t seem to want to let go of my birth canal.

He placed the remains in one of those pink kidney shaped emesis basins that are used for nausea patients. He placed it on the counter with a white washcloth over it. I remember staring at the white towel and thinking about looking at what was inside. I didn’t look and I don’t even know what happened to the remains after that.  

The next thing I remember is the nurse coming in as they were wheeling me away for surgery. My ex made a comment about how white I was turning. I was hemorrhaging and losing a ton of blood. “Here’s your morphine, honey” were the last words I heard as I lost consciousness. Post-op,  I remember the doctor coming into my room cheerily and saying, “We almost lost you.” I hadn’t realized how dangerous my situation had been until that moment.

The headache I had after returning home was mind numbing. I was really in a fog for the following weeks. I remember going back to work too early and not having the physical or mental energy to complete the shift. I ended up outside on the stairs in tears and not knowing who I was crying for. Was I feeling sorry for myself or for the life that didn’t get a chance? 

To this day, I still feel guilt about my miscarriage. It is not sadness. It is guilt for not feeling as bad as I should. I have had four children inside of me, but only three made it into my life. I have to think there is a reason for it all. The one that is not here already knows and is just waiting for the rest of us to catch up. 

                                                           

                                                            

                                                               05/10/2008

                                               “The One That Will Never Be”

You were the one that will never be

Never revealed if you were a he or a she

You were our baby we will never see

A fleeting surprise in so many ways

My body carried you too few days

I could have loved to have been your friend

I will surely remember you until my end

Your beautiful life I will never see

You were the one that will never be