Recovery: day 22

Last night I spoke to a friend of mine, the same one I talked about in this post. We don't communicate often, but she sent me an email the other day to see how things were going. Because she has endured 7 failed IVF cycles and 6 unsuccessful pregnancies, I told her about my miscarriage. She and her husband decided to stop trying a few years ago and live without children. However, as she said, that decision doesn't automatically eliminate the sting of each new pregnancy announcement or make not having a baby in her arms any less painful. It doesn't mean she's able to fill that void with something else. It was a conversation that was not without tears, but offered some healing.

From where she stands now, she has a lot of insight into her fertility journey. She's careful with what she says because she knows this process is my own and doesn't want to influence that. But what she did say, made so much sense. She listened compassionately, she validated my feelings, and more than anything, she understood.

One of the things we talked about was my struggle with the ultra sound images that keep me awake at night. How badly they hurt and how I feel like all the monitoring and watching my baby grow has made healing so much harder. She paused and confirmed that is how she had felt each time she miscarried too. But then went on to say that she feels differently about it now. That those images are the only things that she has to hang on to. They are the only tangible reminders of the babies she loved so much. And instead of trying to not remember, she embraces each pregnancy that she had. Because even though they were fleeting, those were her children.

I sat with this all night.

And my friend is right. I'm glad I have those images to return to. Whether they be the ones burned into my memory or the ones I have tucked into my desk drawer. It's true they cause me pain now, but they are the only things that I have. And after all of this, I am thankful for my baby. She taught me what it feels like to be pregnant. She showed me what it was to love someone I'd never even met. And that, yes, I want to continue fight to be a mother. She was worth the pain I'm feeling. Even if she can't be here with me now.

I also took the advice that many of you left me- that I find a way to honor this pregnancy. Something, in addition to the photos, to hold on to. I spent a lot of time thinking about this and finally settled on a necklace. It wasn't easy to find, but when I did- I immediately felt it. It's an egg shaped piece of sea glass wrapped in a tangle of wire. With her zodiac sign being Pisces, it reminds me of the ocean, the waters that I live by, and where the fish swim. It's unique, and beautiful, and will be a constant reminder of the little one I never got to hold in my arms, but that will forever be in my heart.

PICTURE REMOVED

I am still raw. I still hurt every day. But I'm mending. And maybe gaining a little perspective along the way.

Recovery: day 20

In the week since I last posted, the moments where I feel ok are getting longer. I know that it takes time and it's normal to have so many ups and downs- but going through it, feeling every minute of it it, is harder than those words sound. Before infertility and loss I never met a roller coaster I didn't love. I want off this one.

Sass touched on something in her post today that I've been thinking about a lot lately. The link between memories and place. How just being somewhere or seeing something can turn you upside down. To have those old memories come smashing back seemingly out of nowhere.

Last week I had my post-op checkup. Sitting quietly in the waiting room of my RE's office I was overwhelmed with memories. I have experienced the highest moments of my life there. And the lowest. The disparity between the two is daunting. It's amazing that one place can hold so much. So much that it's hard to filter through those feelings logically.

Last weekend I found myself at the local pharmacy. I needed a new headband because my dog mistook my old one for something good to eat. The store was crowded so I walked along the parimeter trying to make my way over to where I needed to be. Without realizing it until I was there, the family planning section attacked me. A place I'd spent so much time and money in the past, but also where I bought my last HPT. I was in a good mood until then.

Yesterday my husband and I went swimming in the ocean. Summer is officially over and we had the beach to ourselves. It felt good to have the sun touch my skin again. To let the waves crash over me. To taste the salt on my lips. The water was cold but exhilarating. And then a shocking realization flooded over me; the last time we were there, I was pregnant.

Today I'm going out with an old friend after work. One that I'd lost track of for the last 13 years. Through chance and good luck, we found ourselves living in the same city again- thousands of miles from where we'd parted. When we reunited last month, I attempted to blame the hot weather and long car ride home for my inability to drink the wine she had so neatly set on the table. It didn't work and she quickly guessed the real reason. So later today as we are sitting out in the sun, chatting easily like we always do, the wine that I sip will be bitter.

We are rooted in our sense of place. It's where memories are stored. The events from last week to time that has not even happened yet, paralyze me. I know my wounds are still fresh, but will the emotions ever be less poignant?

Recovery: day 12

The bleeding has finally stopped, the fighting with my husband has (mostly) subsided, and I'm left in a strange place of needing to move forward yet unwilling to do so. The anger hasn't gone anywhere. Though now it's turned mostly inward. My self worth its latest victim.

I'm due for a perfunctory checkup on Thursday to see my battle scarred ute and stagnant ovaries. Oh joy.

I've been struggling with the miracles of technology lately. Without the images of our growing baby blasted from the ultrasound machine each week, I wouldn't see her so vividly every time I close my eyes. Without all that monitoring I don't think I'd be so bloody attached. Attached some, yes of course. But not as much as I am now. I saw her. I saw her alive and I saw her dead. And in a few days I'll see where she was supposed to be, all cuddled up and growing strong.

My mom suffered 3 miscarriages in her quest for my sister, me, and a sibling that never survived. All early before 8 weeks. However, she said that when she thinks back to those times she only remembers the physical pain of the babies passing. And then nothing else. Is that because time has healed her wounds or is it because she doesn't have any images to return to? I'm afraid to let go because that baby was more than a blip on the screen. She was my tiny 8-week old daughter.