My miscarriage is not isolation.
Others have lost their children too but small headstones are not cocktail party topics. It is a secret club with keys of sorrow and blood, slippery like eels from behind a stone.
Down the hall I stomp like an elephant unaware of its size.
The questions people ask are never the right ones. In fact, I hear no words from people I love or do not.
Ideas slip away wrapped in heartache and slither through the sweaty aching fingers of a life lived with the notion of something missing.
Brought to attention only when a slip of the tongue or a catch of phrase alerts the would-be mother of a common experience.
What Miscarriage Actually Does to Your Life
Eyes open in the dark, I believe at first I wet the bed. I creep out into the hall to not wake her father.
The bathroom light reveals the red stickiness. The toilet takes the blood gush with the remains, 10 weeks old.
The light wakes him and he sits at my knees sobbing. No tears for me. Instead, I am concerned about the mattress and the integrity of the plastic protective cover similar to my grandmother’s couch in the fake living room.
There is so much wrong.
I didn’t know then I was in a fake marriage.
The day before I lost her I sat at a conference table rereading the same grant words five times for kids she will never meet. It is my fault. The next day I went to work to turn in the paperwork. The pain moved aside because to not go would mean failure in 2 areas of life within 24 hours.
Is There a Life After Loosing a Child?
I wake at 2:17 am. I attempt breathing exercises in a comfortable position. The time ticks closer to my waking requirement of work and life to be lived in the light. I reframe and compartmentalize.
What if there had been no stress? What if I had eaten more? What if I had drank more water? What if I was excited and not upset when I saw the line on the test 10 weeks before? What if I could go back? What if my favorite flowers were not delivered?
“Why no name?” he kept asking.
“How should I know?” was my answer even though I did.
Secrets were delivered to my door even after I made a deal with the universe. The flowers came up at marriage counseling as well as the miscarriage. All of it was my fault so I was to choose a therapist within a 24 hour window per his insistence. An appointment confirmation email arrived 2 hours later. I had sat on her two cushion couch where no love was anymore and played their game.
My game was calculating what words to choose carefully as I sat on the ugly brown and pink flowers. In my mind, high school sweethearts have resilience. How did it get so bad?
The Ugly Truth About People’s Choice to You
She told me I cared too much about what he thought.
She was wrong. I didn’t care enough now. I didn’t want him to touch me, let alone talk to me.
Everything about him annoyed me — his choice of music and the fact he only ate plain meat and potatoes. It was so much more than the baby being lost. Pretending to have a life with someone is exhausting.
She chose his side and called two days later with her syrupy voice oozing with persuasion to come back. The sessions only accomplished a hate of the therapist and him.
There is still no forgiveness for his choice to take the therapist’s words over mine. There is no forgiveness for his continued years of therapy with her in spite of my hate and therefore yielding no reward. No forgiveness for her words coming out of his mouth in my car last year in regard to boundaries.
Pushing him into the street beyond the boundary of the car door would have been satisfying. I do wonder what would have happened if I had been honest on the ugly loveseat?
Writer, Wife, Force of nature, Curriculum Coach, Mother of 4, coffee drinker, daydreamer of Minnesota, Conjurer of words.