So, it happened again. I was pregnant and then I wasn't.
It was early this time. The pregnancy probably never got past the first little cluster of cells. It wasn't a fetus yet, barely an embryo, but the pain of the loss is still sharp enough to open every old wound and leave me feeling hopeless and defeated.
I hadn't told anyone about the pregnancy yet. It was so early, and to tell you the truth, all I wanted to do was protect it from the world. I felt like if I shared it than it would be vulnerable to any and all vibes and influences outside of our little bubble. I try to be a practical person, but deep in my heart I do believe that our fears, feelings, and thoughts affect our reality. I believe in mojo - in the power or prayer and the danger of an evil eye.
It's silly. It's superstitious. But beneath the layer of logic and sense that guides me through most days lives a paranoid little forest-worshipper wearing a tin foil hat. She's the one who picks up glass keychains in voodoo shops every time she visits New Orleans. She's the one who knocks on wood, tucks charms around her house, and stubbornly keeps an old box of spell supplies hidden under the bed - just in case.
Even now my crazy head is spinning with the idea that even putting it out there that I was trying to conceive again had somehow doomed this baby. My tin foil witch is telling me that I shared too much, bragged and boasted and puffed out my chest and this is fate's way of stepping in to deflate me. Who was I to think that I could decide what would happen with my body?
After it started to go, I forced myself to send an email to my parents and sisters. I felt like that was the safe thing to do. Isolation can be dangerous when it comes to grief and I am someone's mother. I can't afford to let go completely. After that I put my son to bed, wandered out to the couch and started sobbing. My husband came out from the bedroom and said that he was sorry this had to happen. He asked what I wanted and I told him the truth.
It wasn't even that I wanted this pregnancy. I did, of course, but what I really wanted - what I still can't let go of, is my baby. The baby that should already be here with me instead of suddenly passing away last year. That's what I want. And that is what I can never, ever have.
Sometimes when I see families with multiple kids I get so angry - so jealous and bitter and sad. Why do they get to have that and I don't?
And it's not just the miscarriages. It's everything - from money to resources to timing and even dumb, stupid luck that feels out of my reach. The truth is that we can't afford to have fertility treatments. We don't have the money for that and having that money is not on the horizon. God gave me a pregnancy without the treatments, but then he took it back. Why?
Stress is another thing I vehemently blame for this loss. More anger. I often feel like I've lost control of my life completely, and on top of my stupid crappy body and the possibility of evil-eye I blame all of that stress for losing this baby. It took me the better part of a year to get pregnant again on my own, and then I couldn't stay pregnant. Why?
Then he asked me if I wanted to watch a movie and take my mind off things.
No, I didn't.
Did I want to call my best friend - the only person besides my husband who I had confided in?
No, I didn't.
Did I want something to eat?
No. Not really.
My sisters texted me. My best friend texted me. Did I want to talk about it?
No. No. No.
The truth is, I hate talking about it. Writing about it can feel cathartic - like a cheap way to make up for the fact that I can't even afford therapy - but talking about it is different. Talking about it is awful.
I don't want to re-live my pain. I don't want to feel my guts ripped out again and again by remembering what it was like to lose a baby at 12 weeks. I don't want to compare stories or hear about another person's experience. I don't want to be reminded about how it could be worse and how the next person had an even more horrible time than I did. I don't want to listen to people tell me why they think it will be OK or how they think I should look at it.
I just don't. And it's not just right now. I consistently don't.
When I am forced to talk about it my heart races and I get dizzy and adrenaline pumps through my veins telling me to run far far away. I'd rather lock those memories in a steel box and sink them to the bottom of the ocean than ever talk about it again.
I don't want to talk about it because the truth is that I don't care how anyone else feels about what happened to me. All I care about is whether or not it will ever get any better and no one can tell me that.
So to my friends and loved ones, no, I don't want to talk to you about it.
But I will accept your prayers, and your vibes, and your lucky charms, witch's spells, mojo, voodoo, etc.
I will accept your love and your hope.
I will even accept your silence.
And I will get over myself and share in your joy when life showers you with babies and love and happiness - because it's not you, lucky fertile mothers, that I'm angry at, or your beautiful kids.
I'm mad at God or fate or whoever it is, and I'm mad at myself, and I'm mad at my situation.
I don't know what's next, but I have a feeling I'm going to have a lot to get off my chest for the next little while. With that in mind I've brought back this Mary Makes Babies blog so that I'll have a dedicated space to share all of this overly emo material. Feel free to follow by rss or email if you want to.