Before you keep reading, I want you to know this post talks about pregnancy loss. If this is a sensitive topic for you, please take care.
March started on high note with Holly’s birthday. On the first of the month, we had her first big party. There were lots of friends, lots of cake, and a festive mood throughout. I loved seeing her sweet, knowing smile as she stepped behind the cake, assuming the role of birthday girl for everyone to sing to. My big girl, my pride and joy.
That day seems like a lifetime ago. Remember when parties were a thing? While coronavirus was in the news, we didn’t even think of canceling. It didn’t seem to be a big threat yet. That would change so quickly in the coming weeks, and I am thankful we got to celebrate in such a big way before having to close ourselves off.
I thought the second week of March was going to bring more joy. I went to the doctor for an initial ultrasound, at around 8 weeks pregnant. People generally have to wait that long to be seen so that a heartbeat can be detected, and many miscarriages will happen by that point. Some people say they have no idea how common pregnancy loss is. But I felt the opposite, hyperaware and unable to get the stats out of my head. I made it to appointment day without any signs of things gone wrong, so I hoped by seeing the ultrasound my fears would be allayed. Instead they were confirmed. Searching in silence, the doctor said things didn’t look good. I could come back the following week but I should also stock up on some super absorbency pads and ibuprofen.
Curtis and I took the rest of the day off. We had a nice meal, and bought some flowers. We didn't have much to say. I waited, basically expecting to bleed out at any moment. A day passed, then another. Nothing happened. I still felt morning sickness and fatigue, but blood tests confirmed what I already knew: the pregnancy was not viable. An entire week went by with no change. I just wanted to get the inevitable over with, but it was out of my control. There are safe, routine options to manage miscarriage, including medication or surgery, but neither were offered to me. The doctors wouldn't say it until pressed, but these were considered "nonessential" services. I didn't want to be a burden to the health system, but I also wanted my needs to be heard. I ended up pleading on the phone before my doctor relented and prescribed me the medication to expel the pregnancy. Due to a shortage of masks I'm guessing, the pharmacist stood so far away from me at the counter, I basically had to yell “I’m having a miscarriage!” when she asked why I had been prescribed this medication. Throughout this process, I just wanted some tenderness. The staff needed to protect their life. I get the calculus, and I'm not judging, but every indignity just left me feeling beat.
Aside from my dealings with a strained health care system, it was actually kind of convenient to go through this personal health issue during a time when everyone was told to work from home and not show up in public. It allowed me to avoid questions about my whereabouts and to stay on my couch in sweats all day long. I didn’t feel ashamed to talk about it. I just didn’t know what to say yet. Being in limbo was awkward emotionally and linguistically. Should I say I miscarried or was waiting to miscarry? I am pregnant or was pregnant? I did tell my boss, my family, and some friends, the ones I was already in contact with. It was hard to get the right words out, but I will never forget the love and kindness people showed me during this time.
While I was waiting to miscarry, I got invited to interview for a job I really wanted, one that would have been a great step up for me professionally. I couldn’t think of worse timing. I imagined bleeding all over the chair, doubling over in pain without warning. I begged Mother Nature to let the pregnancy pass before the big day. It didn’t, but the public health officer intervened instead. With the growing health crisis, in-person meetings were discouraged, so the interview was held over the phone. I usually interview well, but I was very anxious and the tenor of my voice revealed that no doubt. I cut myself some slack; at least I tried. I got a second interview, which went much better. But on the last day of March I found out I didn’t get it.
The thing about having a rough time during a pandemic is that the old cliche “at least you’re still alive” actually feels quite pertinent. Every day I see my privilege so clearly. Curtis and I are both still employed, we are sheltered in a safe and comfortable home, and we are healthy. I'm cherishing the extra time I can spend with Holly as this sweet age. Seeing all the ways in which people are fighting for their lives right now, I have felt little room for grief about possibilities that never came to be. The reality of my life is everything I could ask for. In February when I got the positive pregnancy test, and I saw the job come up, I told Curtis if the baby and the position both came through, I would feel like I was flying too close to the sun.
No sunburn to worry about now. I’m firmly planted on the ground. I feel okay, truly. I accept the message of the universe that this is not a time for change. When I am with Holly and Curtis I feel whole, and I feel lucky to have a place where I know I belong. I know there will be more opportunities to seize.
With all that said, I am writing the first draft of this on my phone late at night with tears in my eyes. Before the sun comes up on April and before another day of "preschool at home" begins, I just need a moment to be sad, to catch my breath after this marathon month.
I'm sharing all this for several reasons. In general, I am committed to destigmatizing experiences that shouldn't be stigmatized. I also want people to know this is part of our family story now. (Hopefully it will give me a reprieve from the "are you having another baby?" questions I've gotten nonstop for four years.) I mostly just want to be honest about how I'm experiencing this moment in time, when we are all struggling in some way. There is a pervasive sense of grief we all share. Within the universal experience though is our own story-- our own response, our own pain, our own silver linings, and a million moments that make us human. It's worth acknowledging and worth remembering.
March started on high note with Holly’s birthday. On the first of the month, we had her first big party. There were lots of friends, lots of cake, and a festive mood throughout. I loved seeing her sweet, knowing smile as she stepped behind the cake, assuming the role of birthday girl for everyone to sing to. My big girl, my pride and joy.
That day seems like a lifetime ago. Remember when parties were a thing? While coronavirus was in the news, we didn’t even think of canceling. It didn’t seem to be a big threat yet. That would change so quickly in the coming weeks, and I am thankful we got to celebrate in such a big way before having to close ourselves off.
I thought the second week of March was going to bring more joy. I went to the doctor for an initial ultrasound, at around 8 weeks pregnant. People generally have to wait that long to be seen so that a heartbeat can be detected, and many miscarriages will happen by that point. Some people say they have no idea how common pregnancy loss is. But I felt the opposite, hyperaware and unable to get the stats out of my head. I made it to appointment day without any signs of things gone wrong, so I hoped by seeing the ultrasound my fears would be allayed. Instead they were confirmed. Searching in silence, the doctor said things didn’t look good. I could come back the following week but I should also stock up on some super absorbency pads and ibuprofen.
Curtis and I took the rest of the day off. We had a nice meal, and bought some flowers. We didn't have much to say. I waited, basically expecting to bleed out at any moment. A day passed, then another. Nothing happened. I still felt morning sickness and fatigue, but blood tests confirmed what I already knew: the pregnancy was not viable. An entire week went by with no change. I just wanted to get the inevitable over with, but it was out of my control. There are safe, routine options to manage miscarriage, including medication or surgery, but neither were offered to me. The doctors wouldn't say it until pressed, but these were considered "nonessential" services. I didn't want to be a burden to the health system, but I also wanted my needs to be heard. I ended up pleading on the phone before my doctor relented and prescribed me the medication to expel the pregnancy. Due to a shortage of masks I'm guessing, the pharmacist stood so far away from me at the counter, I basically had to yell “I’m having a miscarriage!” when she asked why I had been prescribed this medication. Throughout this process, I just wanted some tenderness. The staff needed to protect their life. I get the calculus, and I'm not judging, but every indignity just left me feeling beat.
Aside from my dealings with a strained health care system, it was actually kind of convenient to go through this personal health issue during a time when everyone was told to work from home and not show up in public. It allowed me to avoid questions about my whereabouts and to stay on my couch in sweats all day long. I didn’t feel ashamed to talk about it. I just didn’t know what to say yet. Being in limbo was awkward emotionally and linguistically. Should I say I miscarried or was waiting to miscarry? I am pregnant or was pregnant? I did tell my boss, my family, and some friends, the ones I was already in contact with. It was hard to get the right words out, but I will never forget the love and kindness people showed me during this time.
While I was waiting to miscarry, I got invited to interview for a job I really wanted, one that would have been a great step up for me professionally. I couldn’t think of worse timing. I imagined bleeding all over the chair, doubling over in pain without warning. I begged Mother Nature to let the pregnancy pass before the big day. It didn’t, but the public health officer intervened instead. With the growing health crisis, in-person meetings were discouraged, so the interview was held over the phone. I usually interview well, but I was very anxious and the tenor of my voice revealed that no doubt. I cut myself some slack; at least I tried. I got a second interview, which went much better. But on the last day of March I found out I didn’t get it.
The thing about having a rough time during a pandemic is that the old cliche “at least you’re still alive” actually feels quite pertinent. Every day I see my privilege so clearly. Curtis and I are both still employed, we are sheltered in a safe and comfortable home, and we are healthy. I'm cherishing the extra time I can spend with Holly as this sweet age. Seeing all the ways in which people are fighting for their lives right now, I have felt little room for grief about possibilities that never came to be. The reality of my life is everything I could ask for. In February when I got the positive pregnancy test, and I saw the job come up, I told Curtis if the baby and the position both came through, I would feel like I was flying too close to the sun.
No sunburn to worry about now. I’m firmly planted on the ground. I feel okay, truly. I accept the message of the universe that this is not a time for change. When I am with Holly and Curtis I feel whole, and I feel lucky to have a place where I know I belong. I know there will be more opportunities to seize.
With all that said, I am writing the first draft of this on my phone late at night with tears in my eyes. Before the sun comes up on April and before another day of "preschool at home" begins, I just need a moment to be sad, to catch my breath after this marathon month.
I'm sharing all this for several reasons. In general, I am committed to destigmatizing experiences that shouldn't be stigmatized. I also want people to know this is part of our family story now. (Hopefully it will give me a reprieve from the "are you having another baby?" questions I've gotten nonstop for four years.) I mostly just want to be honest about how I'm experiencing this moment in time, when we are all struggling in some way. There is a pervasive sense of grief we all share. Within the universal experience though is our own story-- our own response, our own pain, our own silver linings, and a million moments that make us human. It's worth acknowledging and worth remembering.
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