I lost the baby. It’s kind of sounds like I forgot where I put it. But then if you say the baby died people are bound to look at you like you got no heart. There’s no winning I suppose. When I felt the first cramps I knew it was starting. It was the beginning of the end. Again. The life that had been growing within me for the last two months was finally accepting defeat. Again. Antiphospholipid Syndrome 3 – Baby 1. It had been warning me for a while and I had tried but perhaps I didn’t try hard enough. Who knows. The polite thing to say would be to reassure me there was nothing I could have done. But who knows. This doesnt live over me haunting me, but there will always be those quiet questions that creep in unexpected. After all I didn’t push the doctor to give me the meds I knew I needed. I settled for the advice contrary to what I knew was best and here we are. I took a double dose. Along with every other tablet I could think of that might help. It didn’t. Perhaps I should have been more persistent. That first cramp confirmed the doubts I’d been having for over two weeks though.
I didn’t give up right away. I went back to bed and convinced myself it was just a stomach ache and everything would be fine in the morning. Bright red blood and stomach cramps don’t lie though. I knew. I just didn’t want to know until the morning. Things are easier to deal with when the sun is out.
The first big gush of blood came right through my sleep. In my dream I was rushing to the toilet because I knew something was about to happen I just didn’t know what and as I felt the warm liquid rush down my legs I opened my eyes and memories of what I had discovered only hours ago came back to me. I jumped out of bed still half asleep and half fumbled half rushed to the loo but it was too late. Stained sheets is the least of your problems at a time like that though.
The sadness was tinged with a sort of relief. For the last three weeks I read story after story on miscarriages and threatened miscarriages and I had felt their heartache, shared their pain and I want to reach through my computer and hug all these faceless people because they all sound like such truly wonderful people who didn’t deserve to go through something like this, but sometimes life is unfair. And as I sit there on the toilet with the reality of what is happening sinking in and the sensation of what is happening to the child I have been trying for all year, I feel closer to a heartless bitch than a grieving mother. I don’t cry. My heart doesn’t break. I don’t get a lump in my throat. Yes there is so much sadness but there’s also sad relief.
Relief that the scale has finally tipped and I can get out of the nightmare that has been waiting in the balance and living life moment by moment, only so thankful for each moment that there’s no pain and I know the life is still growing. Relief that I have another chance to do it properly from the start. Relief that I am free from the invisible prison I have put myself in for the last few weeks too scared to do anything because then I might risk the pregnancy. Relief that I am free from the guilt I feel every time I do try do something. Standing too long by the sink. Carrying my child up the stairs because she is tired and she doesn’t understand why mommy can’t carry her anymore. Indulging myself in my favorite pastime of rearranging the furniture. Going for my run. Walking around too much. The guilt. The heavy guilt that weighs on my shoulders. The questions. The doubts. Surely if I really wanted this baby I would be happy to just lye in bed all day for 9 months. Is any sacrifice too big. Surely. Surely I would have been more persistent and made sure I got the right attention rather than being compliant and not causing a fuss. Surely. That morning I felt freedom and for a time the freedom is bigger than the sadness. The sadness is still there, and it will always be there but the freedom is stronger. For now.
Perhaps it will not always be this way. Perhaps when I’ve had my full of freedom, my full of running and pushing and carrying to my hearts desire, perhaps then the sadness will seep through and remind me of the hopes and dreams and happiness that I had planned for the lost life. Dreams that will never be realized. Perhaps then I will dwell on what I thought his face would look like or whose eyes she would have. Whose hair. Whose nose. Whose feet.
I have read stories of women who plant rose bushes in honor of their lost children and I think that that is a beautiful sentiment and although our lifestyle doesn’t allow me to care for an actual rose bush I can plant them in my heart, 3 beautiful lollipop rose bushes with the most gorgeous red roses that bloom effortlessly all year long. And then there’s our Lily, our fighter. The one who made it against the odds and she really does bloom all year long and fill our lives with her beauty and joy and she makes sure there’s never a dull moment.