In the days following my d&c my body was completely unfamiliar to me. I was so distended I felt like my uterus entered a room 4 feet before I did. The very fact that I could feel my uterus (a body part that up to this point I really only had a theoretical knowledge of) was unsettling to say the least. I felt my organs shifting and settling in the absolute most bizarre way. I couldn’t get into a comfortable position no matter what I did and when I laughed it was like sandpaper scraping against my raw insides. This was certainly not what I was prepared for when the doctor said the recovery “will feel like the tail-end of a period”. For those of you that don’t know, there is literally no planet where the end of a period feels like that. And for those of you that do know, you can back me up. I talked to my girlfriend who had been through this before and she said “oh yeah, my body felt normal again in about a month”. A MONTH??!! This was a cruel level of D&C related humor for which I was NOT prepped. 

In the meantime I tried to keep things business as usual. However it was becoming increasingly clear that I hadn’t the slightest idea what usual was anymore. One night, four days after my surgery, I made plans to have dinner in the city with Jeremy and a couple other friends. An hour before I had to get on the train I started to feel like someone was jabbing my uterus with an icepick. Pleasant. When I begrudgingly told Jer how I was feeling, he responded with a very understanding, “Don’t push yourself!”. Don’t push yourself. I’d heard it so much lately. In part I wanted to listen to it, but another part of me was prepared to do any amount of pushing necessary just to feel like a normal person who does normal things. The flaw in this logic was, of course, these weren't normal circumstances. And worse than that, it was seeming abundantly possible that there wasn't any “normal” to begin with. And for argument's sake lets just say there was a "normal", well, I certainly wasn't going back there. My hormones were free-falling, I was crampy, I was often sad, I’d get weird pains out of nowhere and was entirely indignant about all of the above. I kept thinking : this experience took my baby dreams-- did it also have to sap my energy, my physical comfort, AND my ability to function appropriately in my world??!

So, I decided to trek my stabby uterus to the train anyway. I had to. As I made my way through the Meatpacking District I felt like the first earthling to land on Jupiter. I walked past two bearded guys smoking cigarettes in standard issue hipster uniform, a girl in sky-high heels laughing shrilly, a cute couple walking huddled close together against the chilly February air. I observed each of them distantly like a scientific researcher studying a specimen and not like a fellow member of the human race. Were these creatures happy I wondered? How must it feel to laugh in a way that isn’t met with a corresponding wallop of pain? I mentally slapped myself, shrugged off the jewel-encrusted mantle of self pity, and turned up my music to drown out my thoughts as I trucked my achy self toward the restaurant. The dinner was fine. Nice even. Low lighting and a couple strong cocktails helped. But engaging socially felt a bit like working a muscle that had atrophied. Talking about normal things like iPhone malfunctions and gym anecdotes felt clunky and insincere, while simultaneously wildly comforting. I wondered if I seemed normal from the outside or like some creepily vacant pod person. I made a mental note to ask Jeremy later, but I don’t think I ever did.

After dinner the group decided to go bowling. Now, this is something I would not generally do under normal circumstances (isn't it cute how I've created this myth that my life used to be "normal" ...ha!) so the fact that I happily went along speaks to the depth of my desperation to trick myself into believing that I was fine. There was a little version of me inside my head saying “just go home! you’re in pain! no one cares but you! why are you doing this!!??”, but there was also a counterpart that was already luxuriating in the crisp air and playful conversation as we walked toward the bowling alley too much to listen. As I was playing (badly), the neon lights and Top 40 Hits almost entirely drowned out that little naysaying voice. I drank beer and leaned comfortably against Jer gossiping and giggling while waiting for our turns.

I put myself into a cab at the end of the night and felt physically wretched, but blissfully calm about it. Looking back I recognize that day as the start of a big shift for me. I realized I had to let go of this concept that one day things would be as they were. Instead it was up to me to keep putting myself into situations that no longer felt quite familiar...until they were again.  This has by no means been simple. When things start to feel better emotionally my body would remind me that they were not and when my body began to heal my emotions would take a turn pulling the old "not so fast". I think this is an aspect of healing from any loss or trauma that no one tells you about : healing is not linear and your body and soul will heal at different rates. This day also got me thinking about seeking to find a balance between taking care of myself and pushing to seek a new normal. It's a frustrating push and pull, but it also might be the ticket forward. 

This is the story of the day of my D&C surgery. It takes place on Valentines Day (for an added dash of romance to an already charmingly romantic situation). This story can only be told in a stream of consciousness, dream-like jumble because that is how it unfolded for me. 

The smell of antiseptic flooded my nostrils as I checked into the same day surgery suite. I was given a bag of hospital-issued clothes. There was a poster on the wall indicating the steps of how to strip off your outside self and morph into a pale blue and green-pajamaed zombie person. Step 1: Gown with opening in back,  Step 2 : Pajama pants with opening in front, Step 3 : Robe opening to front, and so on. I even followed the directions to put on the little rubber-bottomed socks. I usually know how to put on socks without direction, but today the Universe had tilted.

I sat in the waiting room with mom on one side of me and Chris on the other. No makeup. Glasses and no contacts. The pink IV cathedar in my hand was the most Valentines-y part of my day. I answered the nurse's questions with precision and as much charm as I could muster. I guess on some level I felt like if I couldn't carry a pregnancy to term properly the least I could do is be the perfect little patient. My surgery was postponed of course and my stomach started aching from nerves and from having to fast since the night before. An indiscriminate amount of time past under the fluorescent lights of the yellowed waiting room. 

Somehow I ended up in front of an elevator where I had to hug mom and Chris goodbye and proceed with nurse. I felt like I was shipping off on some bizarre space mission. I had to surrender my glasses. I asked if I could please wear them into the OR, but was told I couldn’t. My vision is terrible and walking though the hospital hallways toward the operating room without glasses added to the surreal nightmarish quality of the situation. I couldn't tell people’s facial expressions clearly so it gave the eerie sense that I was surround by indifferent specters. 

I entered the blurry operating room and was asked to sign a paper that I couldn't fully read. I was assured it was just more of the same. More of the same. Then I was left to stand in the middle of the OR as the four medical staff went about their tasks. The nurse prepped some instruments. The anesthesiologist took some notes and adjusted a vial of some sort. Various other amorphous shadows busied themselves as I stood there melting into invisibility. That was the first moment that I broke down. Big, hot tears streamed down my face as I tried to make sense of how I got here and how unfair it all was. I noticed the stirrups that my legs would soon be in and I was hit by a flash of recognition of how many people would shortly see me in an extremely compromising position. I forcibly pushed that out of my mind. I stood there feeling tiny and alone. 

The medical team eventually turned their attention back to me and helped me onto the operating table. I stared up at the suspended spaceship lights. My doctor walked into the room. The single best part of this experience has been this doctor. She is absolutely a treasure and I believe the Universe sent her to me as a much-appreciated break from a pretty rough year. She stood next to me and touched my elbow telling me she would take good care of me. Tears flowed freely into my ears. I have seen a thousand pediatric inductions while working as a Child Life therapist at the hospital, but never saw the surgeon be the one to comfort the patient in quite this way. I remember saying “this is just so sad” and she said she knew it was.

The anesthesiologist was then efficiently sticking leeds on my chest and saying, “I know, I know but you’re young, you have that gift, a lot of people don’t”. I remember thinking “that might not even matter”, but in the moment I was willing to grasp onto any even half-hearted effort to comfort me. Next, and I honestly could not make this stuff up, Magical Mystery Tour started playing on the tinny speaker they had in the corner. “The Magical Mystery Tour is coming to take you away” played as they pushed my meds and take me away it did into an ever-so-welcome narcotic-induced sleep. 

I woke from what felt like the most sound, comfortable sleep of my life. My eyes glazed in soft focus in the general direction of my doctor who stood at my side and said a single underwater sentence to me. In hindsight she must have said more, but I don’t remember. Nor do I remember how I got into a wheel chair and wheeled to recovery. Nor do I remember the time that passed while I was hooked up to fluids. In my next moment of awareness Chris and Mom were by my side.

I opened my bleary eyes and felt...empty. Empty in a way I hadn't entirely realized I was full. The connection I had experienced to a deep and miraculous physical understanding of motherhood had been severed. I was alone again in my body. Lonely in my body. 

They monitored me for a couple hours and then I was told I could return to my normal activities in a few days. What the heck were my “normal” activities? I couldn't recall. 

There was, of course, a certain feeling of relief that it was over. The burden of waiting for something tragic and painful to happen was lifted. There was a sense that all that was left to do was move forward. A sense that something beautiful might be around the corner; something I would cherish all the more because of this experience. But there was also an insidious darkness that began to descend as the effects of the drugs lifted. It filled the spaces that were empty and lured me into a blinding fog of fear when I least expected it. There were no roadmaps out of this murky landscape and no one who could assure me that I was not the only one who had ever been here--a lone explorer in unchartered territory. 

I hope if you’re reading this from within the fog (or know someone who is) that this story can serve as a humble sign post. Keep moving forward. The atmosphere shifts. 

A sweet friend sent this along to me last month and I wanted to pay it forward to all of you ...

It's from a great blog called *the longest shortest time*. They asked their online community of mamas to share songs they found healing when coping with miscarriage or infertility : 

click here to have a listen

For me, a long drive with the windows down and the music up is always endlessly healing. The urban equivalent of that is to put my earphones in and take a long wander through the city and watch the neighborhoods change around me as I work out whatever thoughts and emotions are plaguing me. 

My own personal miscarriage coping playlist on Spotify is called 
"Songs for a Post Apocalyptic World"  --and boy have I given that sucker some wear over the last few months. 

There are two phases of my playlist : Phase One for when I need to just marinate in & feel my feelings (ok fine, some may call that indulging in a bit of a wallow) and Phase Two for when I need to stomp the pavement like a dang warrior...and it's a constant tug of war between the two isn't it?

A few favs from Phase 1 of my personal playlist include: 
Unf*cktheworld : Angel Olsen  (has been on solid repeat for me. WARNING: May cause full on crying in subway stations  and drug stores across the city)
Truth : Alexander 
I'm In Here : Sia
Ride : Lana Del Ray (special nod to the lyric "I'm tired of feeling like i'm f*@king crazy")
Keep Breathing : Ingrid Michaelson (I think i'm just a sucker for cello accompaniment...that'd be my beautiful little sister the cellist's doing)
Blood : The Middle East (again, with the possible public weeping)

 

Twelve days after I was told that their was no more heartbeat thrumming away inside of me, there were still no signs of natural miscarriage. My pregnancy symptoms were beginning to abate ever-so-slightly, but the knowledge that I was still carrying around two gestational sacs and a non-viable embryo was beginning to feel like a heavy burden with no end in sight. After you miscarry, there is often a choice to make that few people talk about which is strange considering the prevalence of the experience (but I suppose also not strange considering how little all of this is spoken about). It seems cruel, but after the saddest moment of my life, I had to decide if I would wait indefinitely for my body to begin the process of miscarrying, take a medicine that would cause me to painfully contract and miscarry at home, or go under anesthesia for the surgical route.  After speaking to my OB about the risks of natural and medically induced twin miscarriage I made the decision to go with the surgical route and scheduled a D&C. I hated every second of making that decision, but the doctor recommended it for me and I also felt it gave me the best chance of moving forward physically and emotionally. 

As I perused endless websites and message boards about what to expect before, after, and during a D&C, I kept coming across the term “rainbow baby”. At first, I took a knee-jerk liking to this term due to my natural affinity for and fierce allegiance to gay culture. I learned however that in the “online miscarriage world” (to which my first response, if i’m honest, was: “please kill me that I’m part of this”), it actually refers to a baby conceived following a loss. I shied away from the cheesiness of the term in that context initially, but as I read more about it I found myself completely moved in spite of myself. As a drama therapist (read: metaphor junkie), I suppose it should not come as a surprise that it began to really appeal to me. I love the idea that a rainbow doesn’t erase the pain and destruction of the storm, but rather is evidence that something beautiful and light can emerge after the darkness. In a perfect world I will end up with a little double rainbow baby (and i don’t mean more twins--just a darling little homosexual son to soothe my heart with his winning tiny fashion sense and delightfully sarcastic world views).

As an added bonus to finding out I had miscarried, I was told that there was evidence I had a uterine septum--a condition that would make future, continued miscarriages an inevitability without surgical intervention. This fact took the liberty of snatching away the last shreds of positivity I had been gripping for dear life. Every time someone would say, “you’re young, you’ll get pregnant again” or “people are often more fertile after a miscarriage” I would think, “yeah, but it's going to be a bit more complicated than that for me”. I suppose I could have been much more hopeful than that, but I was just not in a “glass half full” place at the time.

However, despite my newfound (and in hindsight, temporary…or at least not consistent) negativity, I set the idea of a rainbow baby on a shelf of very precious and private hopes for the future and decided on some deep hidden level I would move forward toward this magical little unicorn.

(gotta keep laughing through the rain…)

Silence is not comfortable for me in terms of emotional distress (could you tell yet?). I’m a sharer by nature and the concept of “keeping things quiet” until after the first trimester felt (and still feels)  bogus even after experiencing the very crushing pain that “rule” was put in place to safeguard against. Who does that rule protect anyway? So many well-meaning people have said in an attempt to comfort, “This is why people don’t talk about their pregnancy until the second trimester, it’s so common”. Fragile as it may be, the first trimester threw my entire body and mind into utter tumult. I was forming a life inside me, the volume of my blood flow multiplied, my very chemical makeup was shifting, and I felt entirely different and sick and scared and utterly magnificent. Why wouldn’t I want to share one of the most significant things that has ever happened to me, and even more so, why would I want to create a social environment where I had no one to confide in when it was all taken away? The pain of miscarriage feels so isolating as it is, why set yourself up to be alone on that island of grief? That’s just me. To me, miscarrying is heart-shattering regardless of who knows and I have taken great comfort in the words of solace from those I love. 

If I am to momentarily remove myself from the emotional impact of this experience (ha! like that's easy) and take a look at the manner in which all my friends and family have reacted and responded to my news, a really fascinating trend emerges. I found that the way people responded to my heartbreak and the way they expressed their love perfectly reflected their personalities and their unique way of being in a relationship. Maybe it was just my therapeutic orientation talking, but I thought it was wildly interesting, and more so, extremely comforting.

I got a sense as soon as I began to share the news that some were more tentative than others mostly due to not knowing the “right thing to say”. I was completely touched when my mom mentioned that she had even done some research on the most helpful things to say to someone who has lost a pregnancy. The thing of it is, I never cared one bit what people said, I just cared that they acknowledged it and took the time and bravery to say anything at all. Well, okay, honestly, that sounds very magnanimous of me, but if you want real-talk (which is what I promised you getting into this thing) there were a few responses that were hard to handle. The hardest was, “Well, you can try again!”. Now, I completely understand the kind motivations behind this statement. I really do. People are trying to tap into a sense of hope and a positive orientation toward the future when they focus on the idea trying again soon. Very “ever forward” of them. In part, it’s true, we will try again and there is a certain comfort in the fact that it’s not like we get only one shot at this. However, something about hearing it following a painful loss is hard to swallow because it brushes over the gnawing pain of the loss itself. The first time someone said it to me it took me aback like a sharp slap to the face. If someone’s husband was struck by a bus and tragically killed no one would dream of saying, “Well, you can get out there in the dating pool and try to find someone else to marry real soon, honey”. Just because I never held this baby in my arms and it never grew fully inside me, the dream of this child was no less real. It was that very real dream that died when that heartbeat stopped. 

Even though there were varying degrees of helpfulness as far as comforting responses went, I held no ill will toward anyone who made a sincere attempt to comfort me no matter what they said. I would absolutely prefer a simple “that really sucks, man” to silence. Pity was not what I was after, validation was. I fully recognize that a part of the silence that exists is due to people wanting to respect privacy boundaries and not wanting to upset the would-be mother in question. I am not trying to imply that the "not talking about it" is malicious in any way, but no matter the intentions, the silence does exist and can feel quite isolating. I know for me, that silence started to mess with my head in a moment where I was already so emotionally labile. In one of the many articles I poured over during the days following my loss I read a piece on theglobeandmail.com that referred to miscarriage as “polite society’s last taboo”. This polite silence can feel alienating which brings me back to being grateful for my decision not to "keep things quiet" with my nearest and dearest. The varied responses of my friends and family were proof that I was surrounded by a diverse network of emotional specialties that I could draw upon in this my darkest of hours. The thing about the post-apocalyptic version of Me was that there was never any predicting how I would feel at any given moment. None of the old rules applied. Because of this transformation, having a wide variety of perspectives and styles was profoundly comforting. 

There was my mom who felt my pain almost as keenly as I did and it was clear in many ways her pain was doubled--the loss of a grandchild and the empathy toward the emotional turmoil of her eldest born. Her reaction was perfectly reflective of her special brand of maternal--she seemed to magically know the things to say that got to the deepest, sometimes most painful root of the whole thing. Also, in true My Mom fashion, I could tell she was reigning in her own emotional response to try to make it easier on me. She sent care package on care package and offered to fly in whenever I said the word. She was extremely sensitive to my needs and understood the loss as the death that it was in a way that was comforting and validating. To be honest, sometimes the level to which she understood the depth of my pain was hard to handle because it was too truthful a reflection of what I felt in times when I only wanted to flee from those feelings. It was at times hard to be made to stare into a mirror that I was already constantly chained in front of. However, I would not have it any other way, just like I would not change a single one of my friend’s or family’s responses. They were all perfect and beautiful to me because they were honest and real.

When I told my best friend he had the understated response of someone who knows what is in your heart without having to say the words aloud (this process made me question a lot, but never how blessed with friends and family I am). However he also somehow managed to swindle me into engaging in a totally absurd and hilarious conversation about a mutual friend (actual topic edited for social discretion purposes, sorry). I found myself laughing and reconnecting with my natural sardonic state in a time when absolutely everything else felt numb. This was my relationship with Jeremy to a tee. We could make each other laugh through the inevitable heat-death of the universe and this was the closest I had ever personally been. Jeremy was there to remind me, almost against my will, that I was still in there somewhere under the mummified layers of pain. To ask someone who does not have a uterus and has no interest in getting anywhere near a uterus to understand and respond to this unavoidably uteruscentric issue was clearly a tall order. I am sure there was part of him that wanted to run a billion miles per hour in the opposite direction, but his response of love, sensitivity, and presence cut with distracting humor was a perfect reflection of his personal context and personality.   

There were certain friends and family members (they happened to all be female in my case) that just openly wept when I told them. I had a momentary flash to switch into therapist mode and comfort them when this happened, but then I cut myself a break and just stayed quiet and let it happen. It hurt to see and hear my pain reflected, but also it felt oddly wonderful and validating that I had people in my life that cared so deeply for me that they felt my sorrow in their own hearts in a way that could only be reflected in pure, raw emotion. The wonderful ladies who responded this way happened to be especially emotionally driven and authentic as people and so their responses could not have fit them more perfectly. They live from a more emotionally connected place and their way of expressing their sympathy and solidarity was no different. 

There were also the responses of a dear friend and also a cousin who had been through this before. Their responses, understandably, came from the thoughtful lens of having experienced their own process and a myriad of their own friends’ reactions to it. They provided detail and containing structure and holding. They were survival guides for me and proof that I would live to see a new reality emerge one day. It was fitting that these two ladies happen to be two of the most organized, Super-Moms I know, so again, their personalities were reflected perfectly in the way they responded to my news.  Additionally, there were my wonderfully fun friends who offered lovely distractions and family-oriented friends who offered hugs and wholesome comfort. There were results-oriented friends who focused on solutions and magical friends (you know who you are, witchy woman), who offered beautiful suggestions of rituals to mark this experience.

The bottom line is, had I not chosen to share my experience with the people I did, I know that I would have spent a much larger percentage of time feeling profoundly alone. Let's face it, no one really loves talking about miscarriage, but my advice to anyone going through it would be to talk, talk, talk. The concept of keeping it quiet only sets you up to feel isolated and that is not a fertile ground for healing. This revelation has made me feel a moral imperative to share my story. Whenever I did, I found so many women seemed to feel permission to share their own story (that really there was no reason for them to suppress in the first place). Are there women who are just waiting for an excuse to share the worst thing thats ever happened to them? Do they know they don’t need one? 

Hello all! Today I give the floor to my hubby, because if there is silence regarding miscarriage where the mother is concerned there is ever MORE when it comes to the would-be papa (or non-pregnant partner) and i’m sure many of you who are going through/went through this are/were at times dying to get a better sense of how this experience is for your partner…. take it away, Chris....

The husband perspective, huh? I hesitate to write this, because doing so opens the flood gates to many sad and difficult emotions--some of which maybe Becca will never fully understand and others that I personally thought (or wished) had begun to fade. Perhaps like many men I wish to suppress them. Let me start by saying I have not seen such bravery in anyone since Becca began this blog. It has allowed me to reprocess what has happened in a way I probably would not have otherwise.

Throughout this hurricane of events I found myself in a state of constant damage control--carefully positioned, available, and often constrained to viewing Becca’s pain through her eyes. I understand now that I will never fully comprehend her pain, nor physically feel what she went through. What I do accept as fact is that her pain--physical and emotional--is something that will always be a part of us. For me, I quickly began to let go of the lingering sadness for survival purposes. I had to let go of the fact that I was about to become a father. I had to let go of the promise I made that Becca could be a stay at home mom while we raise our children. I had to let go of something I allowed myself to see as absolute truth. The truth that we were pregnant. This is a truth that Becca has not, and maybe will never fully let go. And if I’m totally honest, maybe neither will I. 

My perspective on all of this is based largely around responsibility. I feel a responsibility to be there for her. A duty to understand what she is going through. I feel charged by the powers that be to care for her. I am a man. This is what I am “supposed” to do. Love, Honor, and Cherish. I love Becca and I cherish her, but maybe most importantly, I honor her. When I think of the word honor, I immediately flash to the stories and times of King Arthur, castles, and ladies-in-waiting. My mind goes to a time when honor meant chivalry and fearlessness. So in this vein, I began to assess the damage. Calculate the risk. Devise precisely the right words in an attempt to make Becca feel better : "It will be ok.” "We will try again.” “I love you so much, this is not your fault.” These were words generated based on things I knew she was feeling. Words I knew to say because she told me that’s how she felt. So why didn’t these words help? I was being supportive. I was listening and definitely trying to understand. I found it impossible to be the antithesis to her grief. I'm trying to figure out how to grieve too.

I wanted her to understand me too, but often my worries seemed much more concrete than hers. Here is a direct list of my concerns that maybe other husbands would relate to :

1-When will Becca feel better? 
So, I googled. And was delivered an endless list of side effects and risks. Symptoms : Pain. Cramping. Bleeding. Scarring. So much concrete information.  I was forced to recognize that learning about when these symptoms would resolve was not actually answering when my wife would feel better!! At this point I must throw in a very important NOTE to other partners in this position : do not read every topic/forum on the internet related to D&C together. You’ll find yourself in a endless cycle of what ifs and worry. Trust me, I know. Please reference the phrases such as : “It will be ok”, "Let’s wait to hear what the doctor says” and “Don’t worry, it’s only a 1 in 600 chance”.

2- How much is the deductible on my insurance?
This applies to my American readers (high deductible insurance premiums, I know you hear me). My wife is in physical pain and we're both in emotional pain after a surgery that we obviously didn't want to have and I'm looking at $5,700-10,000 deductible on top of the crazy rates already paid into our health plan monthly. This is a tough one to swallow. Of course I don't want to be worrying about this stuff at a moment like this, but it’s what I do, and someone has to.  It seems it would have never been a point of stress if the bills resulted in a beautiful baby.

3-Why is Becca Crying? 
I am just trying to discuss logical, factual things!!! Hormones. Right, I won’t forget. Sorry.

4-How do I encourage Becca to move on? 
Should I suggest work as a distraction? Should I push her to find something to do? No. She knows what to do. She just wants you to love her. For an action-focused person this is sometimes hard to remember.

5-Where do we go from here????
Well, I’m not sure about this one, but I do thank our family and those that have given words of encouragement and support throughout this difficult time. It has helped a lot. 

If anything, this experience has given me a new understanding of the word HONOR. The picture of what honor and chivalry is has evolved in my mind. It is no longer about galloping up on a white horse and fixing everything with a few swipes of a broadsword. Honoring has come to mean a constant give and take, it means a balance, a partnership. It sometimes means putting a need to process and express above a need to fix. In other words, to honor means the willingness to compromise and even sacrifice. It means honoring the fact that we have different processes of coping, but we will respect that and support each other the best we can anyway. Honoring also means giving myself time to grieve and process and focus on my own needs for the overall health of our relationship. We both need time to figure out what our new normal will be, but I know we will get through this together. We have a love that will never be broken. (I am always and forever here for you, Becca).