I'm starting this blog as a way to help myself cope with the loss of my daughter. I don't know how many posts I'll end up writing or who will end up reading it. However it has become pretty clear to me that I need to create some sort of outlet to deal with the pain and I've found it difficult to find support online for my particular situation. Because I took a medical emergency leave I'm currently uninsured and unable to go to a therapist. I was given Zoloft, which I took for a few weeks until it basically turned me into a vegetable chained to my couch with no appetite for anything but Netflix, sleep and boxed wine. Not exactly the best way to properly mourn my daughter and certainly not the road to finding peace and happiness.
Nobody really likes to talk about miscarriage, understandably. This is why most couples wait until they hit the twelve week mark before sharing the news...at this point the odds that the child will be lost are overwhelmingly slim. When I lost Luca at 19 weeks and five days, the statistics tell me there was roughly a 0.5% chance of that happening. When you have a 99.5% chance that the greatest thing you have ever hoped for is going to happen it might as well be 999.5%. It's pretty inconceivable at that point that you could be that one unfortunate, faceless, nameless statistical woman. It seems impossible. It basically is impossible.
During my medical leave I pretty much became agoraphobic. Aside from family and very close friends, it's incredibly difficult to face acquaintances and coworkers. Nobody knows what to say and you don't even know what you want them to say. There are days when you can cope with the basic "I'm so sorry" and then five minutes later the same simple sentence will derail you completely. You become a raw nerve, an emotional liability. The elephant in the room. Probably more in your own mind, but it is still very real. It feels like everyone is walking in glass and it is exhausting.
One thing I would like people to know is there is no right thing to say. It is just that fucking awful. If you say "I'm so sorry" and I cry, it's ok. If I don't that's ok too. I know every woman is different but for me the worst is when people that know me well enough say nothing at all. The elephant in the room just gets bigger. Fortunately, this period of time does eventually end.
Now, I'm going to get into some pretty sad material at this point: exactly what happened. I'm not going to include gory details (there weren't really that many). While part of me is saying surely nobody really wants to read this, a bigger part of me needs to just get it the hell out.
I went to the hospital on Monday, June 3rd. I was off that day just relaxing at home watching some French movie about a pregnant woman and her amazing motherhood transformation. I ate some pasta. Without realizing it, I at some point had put my cell phone on top of my belly and it just stayed there. It made me smile. The previous Friday we found out that we were having a little girl. Her name was Luca. We were both hoping for a daughter. I really felt she was the first miracle I had ever known.
And then I noticed something was off. A strange pressure that wasn't there before. No pain, no blood, just a pressure that no amount of googling could explain. I called my doctor, sent Pat a text and drove myself to Toby hospital, white knuckled and in complete silence.
In the ER, I was examined by a doctor who's name I can't remember. And he could find nothing. Which made me panic. My OBGYN was called in. They couldn't see my cervix. At some point I had started dilating. What they were seeing was the amniotic sac where it very much should not be.
Although I had known something was off, it had not occurred to me up until this very point that I might lose my daughter. I was ordered to remain still, laying down as the doctor arranged for me to be transferred to Women and Infants in Providence. My doctor informed me that I might be the 0.5%. He noted that he hated giving news like this. I didn't care what he liked or hated and could feel nothing but white hot fear. I was shaking all over so badly it felt more like violent spasms. And I worried that the fear would harm her.
Through the entire ambulance ride I continued in this state. The well meaning paramedic talked to me about some things I didn't want to talk about. He asked me her name. I sobbed and told him, Luca.
When I arrived in Providence, Pat was there. They examined me and came to the conclusion that I would be a good candidate for an emergency cerclage. They would give me a spinal, sew me back up, and she would be safe again. I agreed. If they had told me they were going to cut all of my limbs off to save her, I would have agreed. Without anasthesia, even.
They hooked me up to a machine for a few hours to make sure I wasn't having contractions. I stared at the screen, hating the time it was taking, following every little electronic wave and bump. Desperate, hoping, praying. Hours later, they brought me to the OR. I was given a miracle of a drug to calm me down, but I was conscious. I felt heavy, the air felt thin. I remember the wildly uncomfortable feeling of getting a spinal. I remember being tilted back and feeling my body moved around. I remember forgetting my words and trying to say "I'm going to fall backwards" but only Japanese would come out. They didn't hear it anyway. But I clearly remember hearing them say "it's not going to work", and the rush of tears involuntarily rolling down my face. I whispered her name, over and over again.
I was taken to a private delivery room. They explained that they couldn't perform the surgery as the amniotic sac wouldn't budge. It would have burst. It was impossible. My only choice is to wait and see if it might on its own.
I wait. I eat, for her. I have to ask for a prenatal vitamin, and it makes me angry. I waited for what I think was about 24 hours. My concept of time during this period is non-existent. I don't even remember what I did...I might have watched tv. I cried often. Pat went home to get some things. He came back. I asked to be examined again, to see if there might be any change, a chance. And there was none.
After 24 hours, the doctor informed me of that. My baby was never going to survive, and if I kept up the waiting, I would likely get an infection that could potentially result in never being able to have children again.
At this point, they hooked me up to an ultrasound machine. I saw her there, still alive. Kicking, moving about. And I saw her heart beat for the last time. The little white and gray flicker that was the embodiment of every last ounce of my joy, my own life. I wondered if she knew somehow about all of this, I wondered if she felt safe. I wondered if she would feel pain and I couldn't bear the thought. This moment, seeing my daughter alive for what I knew was the last time was without question the single most painful moment I have ever, or will ever experience in this lifetime.
The doctor reminds me that I am not terminating this pregnancy. It is terminating itself. These words mean little to nothing to me. The outcome is the same. And I know that when she goes, a giant piece of me goes with her. I know that I will never be the same.
I opted to be induced, which was a difficult decision. Part of me longed desperately to just be knocked out for any period of time. In the end I am very glad that I chose this route. Pat stayed with me the whole time. They offered me an epidural but with the discomfort of the previous days spinal, I turned it down. I was given morphine, which only worked until the contractions cut right through them. The entire process only took a few hours.
When she was born, there was no cry. They took her to the other side of the room where they cleaned her up behind a curtain. Everybody was quiet. A nurse weighed her. I think she said 6 point something ounces. They wrapped her in a little pink blanket and gave her to me.
I held her too small body in my arms. I touched her cheek with my fingertip. I couldn't believe she had blonde hair, and little blonde eyebrows. Her tiny shoulder was bruised from the delivery. I prayed and hoped above else that she felt no pain. They took her footprints and asked if I wanted a picture of me holding her.
At the time, it seemed like a horrific suggestion, that I might want to go back and look upon that photo some day. I declined, but they took pictures of her wrapped in her blanket, pictures of her little feet. It is hospital procedure in case the mother changes her mind, they keep these pictures on file.
I was transferred to a recovery room, where they brought her to me again the next morning. They had given her a little white bonnet. Even in all her blankets, she was ice cold. I hated that no amount of touch could warm her up. Pat held her as well. A chaplain came in and blessed her. We decided her middle name should be Violet. I changed my mind and asked to keep the pictures they took of her. They gave them to me in a box with her pink blanket. I held her for the last time, and then I went home.
During all of this, I had assumed that after a certain period of time the pain would fade to some extent, just like every other pain I have ever known in my life, heartbreak or what have you. However, I'm beginning to realize that it is impossible for the experience of losing a child to hurt any less, at any point, ever. It is more about learning how to live along side of that. It is simply too traumatic an experience to ever lose color or impact in your mind.
I do hope that there will be at least one woman who can find this blog and be comforted by my story. I'd like to help someone else know that they're not the only 0.5%.
