Grief, My Reproductive Nightmare

Second Verse, Same As The First.

If you’ve clicked over from Facebook – this is the post I wrote after my last miscarriage in September of 2012. We decided after that to stop trying to have more children because my heart couldn’t take anymore loss.

Two interesting notes.
1) I’ve never had two consecutive baby-producing pregnancies.
2) I’ve written “We had a miscarriage” blog entries four times before “live baby check” appointments and ended up not needing them. The one time I didn’t do that because I was home with a sick kid? I need it.

Yep. So, today I had what repeat-aborters like to call a “Live Baby Check” appointment. I’ve had several of these, as you know. But this one? Showed no live baby.

When I got to the doctor the ultrasound tech was the one who I had last time I had a miscarriage. I thought, “Well, if I’m going to get bad news, I’d rather it be from her.” It’s sad when you’ve had enough bad ultrasounds that you ranked the techs as who’s the best to get the bad news from.

I knew immediately. You know when they don’t tell you “There’s the heartbeat!” that it’s bad. But then when she says, “I’m going to get the doctor so he can see how big the hematoma has gotten,” you just start crying. Which I did. Because I’m not a miscarriage virgin. I know the drill. Baby didn’t measure anywhere close to what it should be and there was no heartbeat. Evidently the hematoma just kept getting bigger and the poor guy didn’t have a chance.

I’m heartbroken. Obviously. But I’m also very robotic about it. Even 5 years from my last one, I still go right into autopilot mode. Walking around with the thought in the forefront, “I have a dead baby inside of me,” but that thought not actually touching the surface of my heart. It’s there, clear on my mind. DEAD BABY. But my heart is automatically separated from this fact. Like it was every time before. I’m surprised I still remember how to do that.

Evidently having a miscarriage is like riding a bike. You never forget how to do it.

I go in Wednesday for a D&C. And I just pray that my body doesn’t decide to take care of things itself between now and then. I’ve done that before, miscarriage this far along on my own, and there are few things worse than that. At least the D&C is a clear end without me in hysterics on the floor of my bathroom.

I keep apologizing to everyone. I’m devastated that E has to break the news to his friends. I feel like I should have to do that since it’s my crappy body that can’t sustain a pregnancy. I hate that my husband is heartbroken. I keep telling everyone, “I’m sorry,” and I know that’s stupid. But it’s just another thing I do on autopilot. Apologize for my shitty reproductive system. Most of the time with the shitty periods it just affects ME, but when it comes to pregnancies, it affects everyone.

So I’ll say it once to get it off my chest: I’m sorry to you all too. I’m sorry we all got our hopes up. I don’t feel bitter. I don’t feel angry. I’m just sad. And while my brain is not really connected to my heart right now, so that I can still function normally for my family, I can still feel the pain in my heart. It hurts through my toes and into the tips of my hair. If I let it get too close to the surface I can’t breathe.

So I push it down and just wait a bit. I just have to get through Wednesday. Then I can process the grief in bits at a time.

And drink several beers in between each bit.

92 thoughts on “Second Verse, Same As The First.”

  1. My heart is breaking for you. Truly. I remember drinking a giant coffee after the disappointing live baby check. I hated that coffee so much.
    Sending you all of the healing thoughts I can muster.

  2. Im crying reading your words. I was cheering for you do hard. I’m so sorry, Kim. But you don’t need to apologize to us.

  3. I am really, really sorry. And this is not the right time, perhaps, to be discussing writing, but there were quite a few parts in there where you found perfect words, like bullet-to-heart words.

  4. The sorrys need to come from us. Not from you to us. 🙁 You didn’t do anything wrong. I wish there was more I could say to help. Instead, I will say I am sorry.

  5. Kim,
    I am so sorry. I know your heart is breaking. You shouldn’t apologize to anyone. Hugs to you and your family.

  6. Aw Zoot…im so very sorry to read this. Crying tears for you and your family. My thoughts are with you and your family!

  7. Kim, I’m so sad that you’re going through a miscarriage again. You were brave to tell all of us that the baby was there, regardless of the outcome, we’re all here for support. Keeping you and family in my thoughts.

  8. Oh Kim, I am so so sorry. No one should have to go through this. I hope that its only uphill from here.

  9. I am shedding a few tears for you…which I know is kinda strange for a stranger to do, but having ridden the RPL bicycle myself, I know that you know that I know that you know, you know? FUCK, is all I can really say. Fuck RPL. I am so sorry; we’ll be here to abide with you, however you ride it out (beer is definitely a favorite way of mine as well), and however long and whatever path it takes. Sending love, will be thinking of you often.

  10. Kim, I am just so sorry. I’ve been there, and it sucks and it just . . . it sucks. It’s the worst bicycle ever, as Amalah noted. The worst.

    You have nothing to be sorry about, though obviously you know that. I typically felt overwhelmingly embarrassed after each one, as though I should have known better than to be hopeful, and everyone around me knew it. They didn’t, of course, and it was never the case that someone felt that way about me. But it sucks that not only does miscarriage happen, but there’s this horrid shame-spiral that gets going right around the time you’re at your most vulnerable.

    So much love to you. I wish this didn’t have to happen. You’re brilliant and beautiful and I adore you.

  11. I am so very sorry Kim. I know the pain and I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone. I do have you to thank for that article you have posted before that helped me heal.

  12. Ugh. I’m so sorry to read this. I will be thinking of you and hoping all goes as well as it can on Wednesday.

  13. Pardon my french but fuck fuckity fuck fuck. I was really hoping baby and you would beat the odds. I’m sorry, Zoots.

  14. I am so sad for you and your family. I was really hoping for an uneventful pregnancy for you…

  15. Dammit. Sorry, but that is the first thing that came to my mind. I so wanted this to work for you and your family. I am so sorry and am thinking of you and hoping for an easy(ish) Wednesday as possible.

  16. I know there’s nothing I can say to make it better, but I want you to know I’m thinking of you, and I’m so sorry for your loss.

  17. I’m so sorry. I’ve been rooting for this so hard, even though it has been scary and precarious since day 1. Hematomas are jerks. Internet hugs to you and your family.

  18. Well, shit. I don’t have the words. I wish I did. But I wanted you to know I am here wishing I had words for you and trying to figure out how to send you platonic, non-creepy love through teh internets. I wish your family didn’t have to go through this, again, but I’m glad you’re not going it alone.

  19. You have nothing to apologise for!

    I am so so so sorry lovely – I wish my arms were long enough to give you a hug from here.

  20. *Big big hugs* To you, To Donnie, and to E. And to everyone else that’s affected. But Mostly to you, Donnie and to E. <3

  21. I’m so sorry. I know there is not much to say that can make this better but I hope it helps to know that you have people all over thinking about you and sending prayers and good thoughts your way. Thank you for sharing your very personal journey with us. Hugs

  22. I’m sorry. And I don’t think coping with beer at a time like this is unhealthy at all. Some things are justified. Thinking of you and your family.

  23. Drink your heart out, then go for a long run. There is nothing I can say that will help, but maybe the answer is in salt water, right? Sweat, tears, and the ocean? So maybe a long swim?

  24. I’ve been consistently checking your site for updates and was wishing to the universe this wouldn’t be the outcome. I’m so sorry for your loss and you have the support of your corner of the internet. Good thoughts, wishes, and moments are being sent your way from Indiana. I just wish hugs could be sent via the intertubes.

  25. I was so sad to read this yesterday. I wanted to hug you very badly, which is pretty weird for me, cause I’m not a hugger. I’m a chronic apologizer, too, but don’t be sorry to make any of US sad. We’re sad FOR you, not BECAUSE of you.

    It really just sucks. I wish you didn’t have to go through this at all, let alone so many times.

  26. I just saw this post. Crap. I am so sad for you–I was caught up in the excitement of a new baby Zoot, too. So just crap. I hope everything goes okay (as okay as it can) tomorrow. Love you.

  27. It took me a very long time understand that with miscarriage, I’m not the only one who is losing something.The first ones were all about me. This last one it finally clicked that other people lost something, too.

    (This does not make the process easier, but is more a commentary on how long it takes me to grasp basic concepts)

    Anyway, God, I am just so, so sorry.

  28. I’m so sorry, sister. That’s what we all are, you know… sisters. We’re here to hold each other up when it’s too hard to stand on our own. We’re all here, holding you up, holding you close.

  29. Kim – i’m sorry…. you drink all the beers you want and do what you need to do right now. No sorrys necessary or required. I don’t know you in real-life but i love your blog and have been thinking about you constantly. This really sucks.

  30. So sorry Kim. Autopilot is always how I coped too…then a private meltdown and try to move on. I hate that you have to deal with this and hope you find the least damaging way (for you) to get through it.

  31. Oh Kim I’m so terribly sorry. I had my first miscarriage last Christmas and I just can’t express my sorrow enough.

  32. I’m so, so sorry Kim–having been away from the computer for a while, I was hoping not to see this entry :(. You just do what you need to do to cope, beer or no. Sending good vibes for you and family through the interwebs….

  33. Long time reader, occasional commenter, repeat miscarrier here. I am so sorry to hear this. My deepest sympathies to all.

  34. My heart hurts for all of you. I’ve written and erased so many comments here, because I just can’t find the right words. Instead, I’ll just say you and your family are in my thoughts and prayers.

  35. I’m so sorry. I’ve felt, “it’s my crappy body that can’t sustain a pregnancy” but never felt like it was safe to say that. I want to tell you that you’re wrong to feel that way, but there are no wrong feelings. I send you all the healing you can handle.

    I’m sorry.

  36. Oh wow, I’m sorry.
    I’m sorry that I am that shitty person who’s body CAN sustain a pregnancy and am still not happy enough.

    I think about you a lot.

Leave a Reply