Ripping the Band-Aid off

My Mother asked me yesterday, “Are you ever gonna write an update on your blog?” At the time I realized it had been a while, and that in all honesty I was probably avoiding processing all we had been through recently by not writing. Sort of like… if it is not written and in black and white, then it didn’t really happen. Denial, it is a fun coping mechanism! LOL! Now, logging-on today, I cannot believe it has been almost a year since I last logged the happenings of the Lynn family!

Well I guess it is time to rip the band-aid off… here it goes.

Shortly after my big birthday conversations about starting “our” family started up. By October I was off the pill, on prenatal supplements and spending three months getting the pill out of my system. Three months later, on the dot, Mitch and I were pregnant! I could not do the traditional, wait until fourteen weeks to announce the good news, no, I told everyone! We were super excited! I downloaded this great tracker app and had my mom tracking the weeks with me. I started reading the bible for pregnancy “What to Expect When You Are Expecting,” and for fun, Jenny McCarthy’s “Belly Laughs: The Naked Truth about Pregnancy and Childbirth.” I was taking everything easy, eating super healthy, getting plenty of sleep and doing mild exercise; we took a romantic long weekend vacation and were just glowing in the joy of pregnancy. 

Just shy of eight weeks and while in the restroom at work, I had some brown bloody discharge after wiping. I frantically emailed my doctor, texted Mitch and Mom, and started googling the possibilities. While trying to breathe and find reassurance, I get a call from my doctor. She has me stop by the hospital and get my blood drawn. Tests that night reveal that my numbers are good and I am instructed on what to monitor and be alarmed about. I settle into the evening with comfort in the fact that all other trips to the restroom resulted in clean wipes.

Two days later the discharge is back and this time more bloody looking. Again I freak out. This time we get an ultrasound. There holding Mitch’s hand, we see our little precious soul for the first time. My heart starts to calm down, and I peacefully take in the image on the screen. Next, and to our surprise, she turns on the sound. Mitch’s hand tightens around mine as we listen to the heart beat. I am soaring! Falling super in love with this precious little cargo I am carrying, and that we have made. The doctor starts to move the ultrasound wand and hastily clicks away at the mouse and keyboard before announcing that the heartbeat is slower that she would like. My heart stops. “What does that mean?” She says nothing right away; instead she keeps at the wand and keyboard, snapping stills of my little one. I lay there completely numb. I know I have to have a vice grip around Mitch’s hand and I know I have to be shaking because the only thing I do feel is freezing, but we wait and watch her watch our screen, almost breathless. When she does finally start talking all I hear is “possibility of miscarriage.” More is said of course, and thankfully Mitch is there to absorb it all because my head is spinning and I am doing everything I can to keep the waterworks and ugly cry at bay. Somehow I manage to get dressed, in the car and behind the wheel. I follow Mitch to the hospital and in the sitting room, behind a large pair of dark sunglasses, the tears begin to flow. Mitch holds on tight and whispers something to me, and for the life of me I cannot tell you what he said, I just cannot hear or I cannot retain, or both. More blood is drawn and I try to contain the sobs that are creeping to the surface.

We make it home… honestly that still surprises me. The doctor calls later that evening, my numbers are still good, she wants me to take it easy and try to breathe, “it may all work out” she says just before our good-byes are made. The emotional rollercoaster has me exhausted, all I want to do is sleep and yet I cannot still myself or my mind long enough to really drift off.

The following morning I call in sick, still exhausted and now feeling icky due to the lack of sleep, I settle into the couch, blanket over lap, cat on lap, dogs on either side of me and clicker in hand. God please let there be some distraction worthy television to be had today, I need it! Mitch clicks away at his laptop sending off a few needed emails and closes down his office for the day to tend to me and my zombie like self. At 11am he insists I eat something and starts preparing a brunch for champions, though all I am able to eat is a dry piece of toast. That cat stirs and lies against my very full bladder sending me running for the bathroom, and there, like before, the news hits hard. Blood, lots of blood. Walking down the hallway, oddly calm, I ask Mitch to run to the market and get me some pads. I call and leave a message for my doctor and send an update text message to Mom. It’s not until Mitch has returned and scoops me up into his arms and into a super tight embrace that the sobs begin.

I did not know such heartache existed.

Hours later, more blood drawn, more prodding with an ultrasound wand and a full pelvic exam behind me, I leave the hospital clutching Mitch’s hand and a folder containing a prescription for morphine, grief counseling tips for sudden loss and information on a "spontaneous abortion." I am numb. All I have had to eat in 30 hours was one slice of toast, my tear ducts are completely dried up and I am suddenly hormonally fixated on the awfulness of the term “spontaneous abortion.” What imbecile would call what I have just been through a “spontaneous abortion?!?” Miscarriage yes, abortion…. Excuse my French here… but are you F&$KING KIDDING?!?? Only an cold hearted A$$HOLE who has never had a child let alone had a wife experience a miscarriage would call this loss a “spontaneous abortion!” But… enough of that, you get the picture, I really just needed an volatile outlet for my grief and that phrase provided for it excellently.

So, I make it through the weekend; comfort food, alcohol practically on tap, thanks to Mitch, and morphine helped, but now the reality is setting in as I wake to my alarm. Thankfully my doctor knew that reality was creeping up on me too quickly and faxed to our house a doctor’s slip for time off work. But of course I do have to get this word to my boss. The call was thankfully quick, my boss cannot handle tears, and I could not keep them at bay. Having to say it, having to actually say “I lost the baby, I am having a miscarriage,” made the whole tragedy oddly more real.

By Wednesday I was back at the office and back to my roles in life.

A month later I am sitting in my doctor’s office listening to her repeatedly reassure me that none of this is was my fault and how one in four pregnancies end this way, and hits me, no matter how incredible my support system is, or how frequently this happens in the world, I am alone.

Yesterday though, I read this article by Bethenny Frankel in Glamor Magazine, and realized with all the internal processing I had done, what I had not done was admit what happened. I mean yes, I had told my boss, and my parents were at the hospital with Mitch and I, but I had never really cried out… this happened to me. The sad this is, I started this blog to do things just like that, when it comes to matters of marriage, step-kids, ex-wives and just snapshots of the life of a blended family, I turned here to announce it, admit it, claim it and show any of you reading that you are not alone in your similar dealings with a blended family, but here I was keeping this secret. Bethenny is right, we women do not talk about this tragedy and here I was contributing to the silence.

So there it is, band-aid off, wound healed and scar exposed.

Thank you Bethenny for opening up this dialogue, and for those of you who have lost and for those of you reading this and going through a loss of your own… please know you are not alone.