Chesed

Monday February 21, 2011

By Michelle February 21, 2011 Uncategorized 30 Comments

You know that feeling when you hold your body like a pencil and jump off the diving board into a swimming pool and go down, down, down, down and just when you think you cannot go down anymore your feet touch the bottom and you bob toward the top?

I think I’ve gotten there. It doesn’t feel quite the same because unlike in the swimming pool when I climb madly back and break through the surface into sunlight and air, I have no energy to fight my way to the top. So I’ll float slowly. And learn how to breathe water for now. At least it finally feels as though I’m heading up.

I’m beginning to think that when they send you home with discharge papers that include parameters like, if you bleed more than this or your temperature goes above this, they should also include parameters for your spouse that say, “If your wife becomes emotionally dysfunctional beyond this point, do this.”

In all honesty, I thought that I had grieved the loss of our baby long before we ever got to the D&E. By the time we scheduled it, I was feeling such incredible feelings of relief at the thought of this long, horrible journey coming to an end and the prospect of actually feeling better physically that I actually did feel stronger physically and emotionally. The news I got on Friday was a huge shock. By that point I was so stretched emotionally I was at the “just tell me what to do and where to go next” point. The weekend went by in a blur.

Monday, the day I absolutely dreaded because surgery wasn’t til 4 and I had to be NPO from midnight on turned into a lightning flash when I got the call to come in early on my way home from taking the school children. I didn’t even have time to take Liam to his sitter and barely had time to shower. The next day my mom was here and I thought the worst was over. Physically I was weak and lightheaded. Emotionally, I was just so, so, so, so glad to have it all over.

And then came Wednesday afternoon about 3:00. I have no idea what happened. I just know that something inside of me snapped. And from then on, things went from bad to worse and then much, much worse. I was completely blindsided by a depression I never saw coming.

Before we found out about the molar, I was talking to a friend and I told her I’m going to be ok with this …. unless I get to my due date and for some reason we’ve been unable to get pregnant. I did not want to go back to the horrible darkness pre-Liam and I knew that while I’d learned some things, I would not cope well with that. And then when I first heard about the molar, I reasoned that I would still be ok. Yes, we’d have to wait forever; but at least I’d know that. It wouldn’t be about feelings of failure and why and the endless monthly roller coasters of hope and dashed dreams. And I would be ok.

But suddenly I wasn’t ok. Because all of a sudden I was face to face with memories and the knowledge of what moments in the next year were going to feel like all at one time. I knew what it was going to feel like the week I would likely have been pulling out maternity clothes. I knew what it was going to feel like when it got warm to stay … my mental marker of when I would be over the worst of my morning sickness. I knew what it was going to feel like when the fall baby clothes came out in stores. I knew what it was going to feel like when I pulled into the parking lot at Kroger and a dad walked out whistling with a bag of diapers in each hand. I knew what it was going to feel like when I got to my due date and looked at another newborn baby. I knew what it would feel like to hear another woman tell me she was pregnant and then watch her belly grow and she would have her baby and I would still not be pregnant. And all of a sudden I was consumed with grief so large I could not cope.

I could not tell myself to take it five minutes at a time. I could not tell myself anything. And every day grew horrendously worse. I went from being able to tell myself to walk. To fix the boys breakfast. To get the school children. To stop at the stop sign. To completely falling apart. Saturday morning I sat on the couch, unable to move. I could not lie down. I could not answer David’s questions except to shake my head. I could not even see clearly. I stared out the window at the lone house far in the distance and felt as though my brain and body were detached. And for several hours I stared and sobbed horrible, gut wrenching, body spasming cries by turns. I felt nothing. No sadness. No anger. No grief. Nothing. I did not know when I would start crying again or when it would stop. It just happened completely out of my control and I sat there and let it happen because there was nothing else to do. David would fly upstairs every time he heard it start and pull me over against him to hold me until it was done. And in between outbursts he would keep the boys occupied in the basement. Both of us helpless and clueless and me not even caring. I’d gone from wishing I would have died to thinking maybe I was dying.

Finally after about three hours it started to lift enough that I could move and go to bed. By mid-afternoon it broke. I realized my vision was clear and I could walk around and talk and think. Liam stabbed me through my heart when he walked over to where I was lying on the couch and said, “Me dee ‘ou in ‘ou eyes” and I realized it had probably been two days since I’d made eye contact with him. I was physically ill all day with what I thought was a GI bug and in retrospect think not. No one else got sick. I was home all week …where would I have picked up a virus? Liam had three spread out isolated incidents that we later realized were related to something he ate. When I started cramping in pain equivalent to labor Saturday night on top of all the diarrhea and vomiting we called the on call OB who said I may be reacting to the antibiotics. Seems a little severe and delayed for a drug reaction, but maybe. I think it was the hormonal cascade coupled with grief.

That night after I threw up for the last time, my head cleared enough for me to talk with David about all the things that were going through my head. I cried again … but this time they were reasonable, sad, trickly tears.

I haven’t cried since then. I know I will. But I hope and pray my feet really did touch bottom and we won’t have to go there again. David told me later he was completely freaked out. Can’t say that I blame him but at the time I was too clueless to realize it. Yesterday I talked with a friend and when I described what happened she said a friend of hers was warned after a hysterectomy that if that happens to call immediately because it means her hormone levels are dropping too fast. I didn’t have a hysterectomy. My hormone levels are supposed to drop. So I don’t know that they would have done anything anyway. How are you supposed to know the awful things that can happen? And if they will go away or if they won’t?

The friend I talked to yesterday is the same friend who told me her mom said, “treat your body as though you had a baby.” I was so glad she’d warned me. And when I hit the thick of it and felt a million times worse than I expected, I was even more thankful for all the friends who came alongside and said, “My miscarriage was much more traumatic to my body than any of my experiences in childbirth. It took me much longer to recover.” I doubt that it’s true across the board (I’ve heard some pretty awful childbirth stories), but it definitely is true for me and hearing from them has given me courage to believe that someday I will be well again. I’ve never had baby blues (I just have those all nine months of pregnancy); postpartum hormones were happy ones at my house. This feels like one crazy hormonal soup concoction that I hardly know how to deal with.

I’m still learning the hard way many times, but one thing I have learned. When my mom says, “you need to take care of yourself” it is the truth. That used to be my cue to grin and go past whatever limits she suggested to prove how strong I was. But just after I had Adam and did not listen to her suggestions, I got burned. And I realized that when you are the mom, there is no mom figure to pick up the pieces and take care of you if it falls apart. If we as moms do not take care of ourselves, we hurt ourselves and our families. So I’m resting instead of pushing. Cutting myself breaks instead of blaming myself for not being capable. Not feeling self-guilt or feeling stupid about what I’m not doing. And I know that sometime I’ll have to pick up the pieces of undoneness, but hopefully I will be strong and able to do it when it’s time.

For now, I am overwhelmed with gratefulness that I can actually see my boys and feel their sweetness again, that I can look at David’s eyes and feel his strength, that I can smile when Liam giggles, and that when the sun shines I can feel it instead of wearing a jacket when it’s 74 degrees.

This is the road to recovery. I can feel it. And when I recuperate from the five pounds I lost on Friday and Saturday I think I will truly feel it. Maybe today I will be strong enough to call for the pathology report.

30 thoughts on “Monday February 21, 2011”

  1. madisonsmom2

    My heart cries tears of grief for you!!! I remember some of those overwhelming feelings, just beyond anything you’ve ever felt. I have thought of you so so many times the last few weeks, prayed for you and still am. I’m glad you’re on the road to recovery and praying the light continues to shine.

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  2. lifeisadance

    My heart just hurt reading this… But I’m so glad you have some other people to talk with who have been in similar experiences ~ there’s something so comforting about identifying with other people in very painful circumstances… I don’t know what to say, but I keep thinking of you often and praying for you. Much love… ♥

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  3. qawzse789

    Once again Michelle, I hurt for all you’ve been through. I wish I could  have sat in your living room and walked with you through the pain. I wish I could have prepared you, but I always hope it will be different for someone else.

    I understand all too well, and I am so glad you are able to see and identify what is going on, even if you were blindsided.. Yes, you have to take care of yourself, and I don’t know what that makes us feel like we are wimpy , if we do that.. but you know we only have one self. 🙂

    Praying the light continues to shine.. be prepared for weird bumps in the road.. it doesn’t always mean you are headed downward again, but the bumps sure happen at inopportune times, like the dad in the Kroger parking lot.  Take care of yourself..

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  5. foreveranoatneygirl_n2Hisown

    just like others are saying; my heart just hurts for you in this Michelle!
    but, you know what stands out to me at the same time? your being able to process and your vocalizing the pain as you go thru this very hard time. while i have not walked the road you are on, i know that during some of my hardest times in life, i do not vocalize as you are doing…internalizing is my method of coping, and yet….i so admire and applaud you for being real, being open, letting the pain flow out, and letting the reality of your situation be felt.

    still praying for you…
    ♥~R

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  8. appalolly

    Rachel B. very well put into words what I was thinking and feeling as I read this post. Being a strong women doesn’t always mean putting on a brave face. In fact, I think it rarely means that. I see in you a strong woman!

    I am so grateful that you are starting to see the light and feel so bad that you have had to go through this horrible journey. I am glad you are giving yourself a break and taking things one day at a time and doing what you feel able to do.

    Your ability to verbalize all of this experience has helped me to understand more what someone in a situation similar to yours might be going through and has helped me to have a deeper sympathy.

    Here’s to continuing to feel better, my dear!

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  16. fruitloops115

    aw Michelle, what a ride! it sounds so so awful. To say “hang in there” sounds so trite but words are kinda failing me. I never knew miscarriage was such an hormonal rollercoaster, but it makes sense that it would be, esp. you with the molar thingy, your body was prly still nurturing that like a pg-nancy, right?

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  18. mlt10202002

    grief is a journey, full of unseen landmines.

    you have so many friends gathered all around you…our hearts are full of care and love. and we are lifting you up, with faith you will be Healed.

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  19. seekinHISwisdom

    so glad the sun is shining again Michelle. Been thinking of you a lot and wondering how difficult it all is. I can’t say I understand exactly, but I understand pain, loss, and dreams that are lost. I feel your pain and I pray the SON shines warmly on you touching your heart….as only He can.

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  20. quiet_hearts

    I am sorry.  I’ve been following your story but don’t ever have the right words to comment.  I still don’t.  But I love this post’s title and pray that you will be able to keep seeing hints of light.

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  21. MartinTreehouse

    I have been thinking about you a lot lately… I felt sick to my stomach when i read this because I have been blind sited with this kind of thing several times, more so when i lost twins between 16-17 weeks while my hubby was away at boot camp. I started falling apart after we were together several months later and lets just say it was a long rough year… I have so so much compassion welling up in my heart for you right now… it makes me just hurt all over. I’m glad you have the support of friends and your husband… I also agree with foreveranoatneygirl… I am praying for you tonight and weeping with you…

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  24. missderstine

    Michelle – thank you for writing your journey here even though you initially weren’t sure how much was appropriate to write. I really appreciate the way you can put words to what you are feeling. So far, for me, writing does not help me process but I wish to have in writing the stuff I am walking though. I am single, but am beginning to understand grief and depression more than I ever expected to. I am so blessed by your honest walking and writing as you live each day. Glad for you testimony of your honest walk with God too. And the absense of shame that I sense in your writings. Abundant blessings to you though the power of our Lord Jesus Christ.

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  27. DelLar

    Michelle,  When i here of others having a miscarriage, i cringe, and want to run right to there side, for the very reasons you described in your post…it is a ride like you never could imagine.  When I had mine someone explained it to me like picking an apple before it’s ripe, at the time it made so much sense.  Your hormones ripen as your pg progresses, but if “picked” to early it messes them all up.  I would agree that it took me longer to recover with my miss than when I had Taigen -in a different way.  My Dr was no help at all, I’m not sure if I’d have made it with out my nurse!  I think the Lord knew that I’d need her, she misscarried her first and had to have a D&C.  I’ve wondered allot why Drs don’t tell you how it really can be…the only thing i can figure out is that unless they’ve been through it themselves they don’t know about the otherside of it.  They see the physical healing and can understand that.  Allot of ladies probably don’t go to there Dr and replay the whole rollercoaster to them to help them see it either.  Continuing to remember you in Prayer… And along with the rest, Take it easy!  (((HUgs))) larinda

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