Well it’s been an utterly crappy weekend, yet life goes ticking on, requiring my attention and ensuring I haven’t time to mope (I had a good cry in the shower
and in bed most of last night and nearly in the supermarket today though – all very cathartic and healing) and Husby’s being an absolute brick.
I have lots of wonderful friends-and-relations offering support and shoulders to cry on but I’m just too busy. Which may be good or it may be bad. Either way I’m exhausted and wasn’t prepared for how physically draining a miscarriage would be.
I’ve had tiny spaces to consider the loss whilst drifting between frantic activity and bone-tired struggles (or collapsing for impromptu naps when really I should have been getting on with things). My week is full, my weekend is full, then I’m away for work experience for a fortnight. I figure I will have one free day to myself between now and November 24th. Which seems like not a lot of time and VERY much to do.
Back to miscarriage though.
When one of my close friends-and-relations suffered one, she was very upset by the literature given to her by the hospital which showed a Russian doll broken open and empty inside. She took umbrage.
I haven’t gone to any medical people (just doesn’t seem necessary, though if it does, I’ll be off like a shot) so haven’t been given any patronising literature. I’ve taken umbrage at the name. Miscarriage. The opposite of ‘safe carriage’. Miscarriage with the same beginning as mistake or mishap. As though the one doing the carriage-ing had accidentally done it wrong.
I know this isn’t the case, and that according to the majority of medical sources miscarriage in early pregnancy (anecdotally, particularly first pregnancy) is common. My understanding is that this usually occurs as a natural response to the implanted foetus being non-viable in some way – usually due to some odd ‘zipping’ of the two sets of DNA. Nothing to do with being poorly borne. No need to place inherent blame in the name of something so many women (and men) have to endure.
The other things I have read suggest taking time to grieve before trying again (though with the caveat that different people manage it differently and there is no ‘right’ way to cope). The problem is that we’re up against a deadline (highly necessary medical treatment in our near future means that Husby and I won’t be able to have natural children. Ever.) so the process is complicated by feeling torn – there just isn’t time to grieve properly (if ‘proper’ grieving is even defineable) because if we take the 2 cycles recommended for ‘the psyche to heal’, we’ll be getting close to out of time.
And we so want our own child. The thought that it might not be on the cards is…
…nope. There are no words. Can’t even begin to comprehend.
So after a little bittersweet moment this evening when a lovely looking couple wandered past me in the supermarket, he very tenderly carrying a tiny, tiny baby all snuggled in a precious blanket and I felt a massive pang in my heart and thoroughly like having a big waily meltdown on the floor (prevented by the proximity of Niece and Neff, who would undoubtedly have wanted to know why I was being so peculiar) I am trying very hard to look forward.
Like to tomorrow, when we attend an adoption information evening.
Like to the busy-ness I’m going to be involved in for the next few weeks.
Like to picking ourselves up and trying again.
Wish us luck.