I am completely over the hospital. I was certain I had put it behind me for quite some time and then I landed myself there again over the weekend. I have truly never been the person that gets sick, the person who needs repeat medical attention, or any of that. However my track record over the last year is forcing me to admit I have in fact been that person of late for reasons totally out of my control. I'm not into it. I didn't even want to write this blog post because I felt like everyone was shouting "SHUT UP about a hospital already!" (because that's certainly what I've been shouting to myself), but then Jeremy helped me realize that it's a pretty universal and hopefully relatable phenomenon to be bored silly with the cycles we find ourselves in ...so I wrote it anyway.

After calling my primary care doctor and visiting an urgent care clinic in my neighborhood and having both physicians sternly urge me to go to the ER, I (very unwillingly) conceded. The symptoms I was having coupled with recent surgery, a genetic clotting disorder, and having been put on post surgical estrogen patch all were too indicative of a pulmonary embolism to ignore I was told. So I went. I did the blue jammy dress thing, I got poked in the arm not once, not twice, but thrice (I can already tell I am headed for arm bruises that would make even the most consummate heroin addict blush), I submitted to test after test to rule out pulmonary embolism and visualized the dollars and cents draining from our bank account with every one.

In the end, everything came out clear. They can't fully explain some of my symptoms, which is uncomfortable to sit with, but they were able to rule out the life threatening things they were worried about and that is a relief. The whole thing got me thinking once again about how it's not so easy to leave the reproductive trauma of the last year behind (as if i needed more reminders, but they just keep on coming). It tends to follow you around in the most annoying and unexpected of fashions (just like all of our baggage does). Everything links to everything.  That experience lives inside me emotionally as well as physically and so I never know when it is going to emerge and stir up some trouble. 

The Universe likes to remind us that we are never fully in the driver's seat even when we begin to feel that we are. This can make us feel very stuck as it did to me as I sat there in the ER feeling stripped of my autonomy, but it can also be freeing depending on how you look at it. We're not so very powerful. We can work hard to move forward, we can bring as much positivity as possible into our lives, we can fiercely love the ones that are dear to us, but ultimately we can't control much else. As I laid there in that ER bed, I thought to myself, as unpleasant and annoying as this is, I feel lucky to have people in my life are that are continuously willing to wade through these rough moments with me. I know my support system loves me and they know I love them (I probably make that overly clear at times), and right now, that's the best remedy I can think of. There are going to be moments where we inevitably get stuck in the same old garbage and then all there is to do is fall back on that foundation--the work, the positivity, the love--to pull us out again. 

It's not every day someone tells you they've had "fun" in your uterus. This was exactly the sentiment of my (slightly disconcertingly) chipper surgeon at my follow up appointment. She said, "This case was just so cool, I loved it!!". I told her I was glad to provide her with some excitement. I had hoped that an ultrasound would be done to visually confirm that all went well, but my doc wants to wait until I'm off the post-surgical hormones to get a clear view of how my body is handling the procedure. Everything seems to have gone well though. All signs point to a success (can we all collectively knock some wood though please because you know how the Universe likes to have a giggle at my expense). 

I asked my doctor, assuming we confirm that the surgery was successful, when she thought we could try to conceive again. She said she would be comfortable with it much sooner than I expected! I stared at her holding by breath waiting for the catch. This year has not prepared me for a plan that doesn't come with significant detours, caveats, and compromises.  So I also inquired if any special precautions would be taken when I get pregnant again with regards to my newly renovated uterus. She replied "Not really". She said that she would pretty much be "downgrading me" to a "normal pregnant person". The idea of being "downgraded" to any sort of normality (whatever that means...pretty sure that's not a thing, but still...) gave me full body chills. It gave me a kind of concrete feeling of hope. Then just as she gave-eth she took-eth away a little by reminding me that there wasn't actually any guarantee that the uterine septum was the reason I miscarried in first place, but that the best we could do was remove the potential obstacle and hope for the best with my next one.  The crazy part is, I actually do feel capable of hoping for the best right now. 

Nine months ago the idea of a version of myself who could see the bright side of this would have felt like a fantasy (or a joke). Maybe you're out there reading and you just miscarried for the first time and it feels like that version of you will truly never exist. I wanted to share this little chapter of my journey because I felt the same way at many (and I mean many) stages along the way. Maybe you're not at a point where you can let yourself feel hopeful yet. That's okay. I think that's part of it. Just try to take my word (or store it in the back of your mind for later) that this day exists for you in a future you perhaps can't see yet. That applies to whatever you happen to be going through that feels never-ending or is plaguing you. Everything on Earth changes, and that goes for the pain too. 

I'm still on a road that doesn't have a clear end. There are still ups and downs and scars that I am driving away with. There are definitely so many more unknowns than knowns, but the quality of the journey keeps altering so I guess I'll just keep on driving forward and see what's next. 

Well, friends here I am. I made it through surgery. I made it through my due date. I made it through. There was laughter, there was Percocet, there were surprisingly few tears, there were neurotic panic moments, and there was an outpouring of love from family and friends. When I woke up the day after my surgery I felt the most intense sense of relief. The septum was no longer making my uterus a hostile environment, the due date was no longer looming, I was breathing. 

The surgical experience felt as alien and sci-fi as I had imagined (with a fun side or post-traumatic flashes from my d&c). This time they marched myself and six other people (who all happened to be men I offhandedly observed) from the first triage area to the pre-op area. I had to unceremoniously say goodbye to Chris in the hallway. Being in a solemn line up of patients in matching gowns and grippy socks made me uneasy. There was a very lambs-being-led-to-slaughter vibe as we were herded down the comfortless hospital hallways. Upon arriving I was assigned a curtained-off pod where I sat in a chair covered in a sheet and reflexively started to cry. My fellow lambs all seemed to have a doctor immediately sit down with them but mine was nowhere to be found. I sat alone with numb tears rolling down my cheeks. An orthopedic surgeon who can only be described as looking like a classic "dude" walked by and peered into my pod on the way to his patient. "Oh don't cry", he quipped glibly, "it's not that bad". Um hey, buddy, I was actually supposed to be in here having a baby today and instead I'm having part of my body surgically removed so how bout you let me be the judge of how bad it is, kaykay? Thaaanks.

The rest proceeded as expected -- the merciful curtain of anesthetized darkness, waking up shivering uncontrollably and being packed with blankets by every nurse that passed, the coming back into your body in the surreal way that modern medicine allows. They let Chris come into the post anesthesia care unit briefly and he stroked my hair and told me that the doctor said it went well and reported that Joan Rivers had been taken to the hospital (or I may have just overheard that from a passing nurse... I was heavily sedated). When I was more awake I went to another recovery room where mom, dad, and Chris took turns coming to sit with me. A nurse brought me tea. I was given instructions & prescriptions and shakily got into a wheelchair that was ultimately rolled out to the car by Jeremy who stopped by in an old fashioned candy striper uniform (again, that part could have been the drugs) to verify with his own eyes that I was still alive. 

I don't remember the car trip at all, but I got home. I laid down on the sofa and realized : It was over. And everything felt... different. In some ways I think I was waiting for this day to see if my heart could actually handle it and then when it did it was pretty unceremonious. I had to surrender the better part of this year to doctors, to the workings of my body that were out of my control, to processing the worst emotional pain I've ever felt, but here I was on the other side. And the clearest feelings I could zero in on were relief and readiness. Readiness to reclaim myself. It felt pretty euphoric to recognize that that's all I had left to do.

I took a week off from posting a blog entry last week not because I was so terribly physically laid up, but because I didn't want to reconnect with this journey quite yet. The distance that I feeling was really refreshing. Now I've dipped back in and it feels so good to talk to all of you from this new place and perspective. This blog was always about the ways we find to keep breathing and laughing and moving through the hostile environments life sends us through and this is part of that. I can't say I have any idea what ever forward means from here, but I will keep you posted as I figure it out...

When I was in grad school I wrote my master's thesis on the "shadow side" of the bride role. One of the things I talked about was that when going through a big archetypal event (like marriage, or having a baby) people feel activated by their own relationship to the event and then entitled to share whatever opinions or thoughts may have occurred to them. It's always the other person's stuff thats being projected, but that doesn't make it any easier for the bride-to-be or mom-to-be who is already in a sensitive place. This definitely happens way less with regards to miscarriage because people don't really like to talk about it (slash are afraid to talk about it) as a general rule, but there have still been some real doozies in my experience. Sometimes they are actually hilarious. 

Last week I had a preoperative appointment at the hospital. They did a physical, asked me a lot of questions, had me fill out stacks and stacks of medical history forms, and drew a bunch of blood. The lady who drew my blood waited until it was just she and I in a tiny room and then began to chat with me. At first it was nice, she asked about what I did for a living and what surgery I was having and why. When I told her, her face got grave and she lowered her voice a bit and asked if I believed in ghosts and spirits. I instantly began looking around the room for the hidden camera and toward the medical supply closet out of which I assumed Ashton Kutcher would be popping momentarily.  I tried to be diplomatic and responded that I believe in spirit and energy and prayed that she didn't press me on the specific ghost issue.  She then proceeded to imply that maybe if I just relaxed I wouldn't have miscarried (incredibly helpful, thank you). Next she went on to tell me that because I am a therapist that perhaps the ghosts or bad energy of past clients are attached to me. I asked if she could point me in the direction of the nearest ghost cleansing facility. No, actually, I just nodded politely and did my best to wrap up the conversation. She instructed me that I should be particularly careful about hugging or touching people other than those who I am very close to because that is a surefire way to transfer energy and ghosts. I mean, I had no idea. Here i've been depositing ghosts all over town!  She also told me that she has a sense that as soon as I get pregnant again I should not work and I wondered if she was planning on bankrolling me for those 9 months.

This whole experience actually made me laugh, but I imagine if I had been in a slightly more fragile place it might have been pretty distressing. When I told my girlfriend afterwards she said, "I feel like this stuff only happens to you!". It may be true that the ...um... eclectic personalities of the world sense a certain kinship with me and feel comfortable unleashing the full power of their colorful belief systems. I guess I'm okay with that as long as I can keep reasonable boundaries. In a way I was grateful for this conversation, because in the midst of a week where pre-op hormones and stress were making it difficult for me to find the humor in it all, this lady swooped in with a diagnosis of ghosts on the uterus that I found too brilliant not to laugh about. Thank you, lady, I would have hugged you had we not already discussed the clear and present dangers of that. 

Today is going to be a short post because there are times in this process (and in life in general) where you don't know what to say. I've been honest about pretty much every other aspect of the journey and I want to be honest about this too. There are times when finding a fresh perspective just isn't easy.

In this two week stretch leading up to my surgery and would-be due date I'm feeling adrift (which is a nice way to say I've been a total mess of a zombie on the inside). I partially want to be coddled and partially want to be left alone. I partially want to talk because that's usually what makes me feel better, but I also don't want to (slash don't know how to) talk about it. The hermit lifestyle is seeming oddly appealing. This week is filled with pre-operative appointments. That means a lot of sitting in waiting rooms with medical record forms that require me to fill out : Number of pregnancies : 1. Number of live births: 0 (yeah, ok, I get it, thank you for hitting that point home, Universe). Yesterday I stared down at that very line and couldn't tell if I wanted to laugh or cry or just use the paper to throw away my gum. I honestly couldn't tell if I was bored by it or still freshly tormented by it.

I think we're allowed to have these moments. There are still so many in betweens and unknowns and things that can't be controlled that having it all sorted internally seems like a whole lot to ask. I was going to skip writing altogether this week, but I decided against that because I do want to say this : if you are out there not knowing how to put your finger on how you're feeling (no matter what happens to be going on in your life), I get that. I am working on giving myself a break. I am working on telling myself that there is no time limit on figuring it all out. I'm working on remembering that being lost is a crucial part of being found. I hope you can do that too. 

Since the very first days of being pregnant one date was set apart from all the rest. August 28th, 2014. My due date.

I've gone through phases with August 28th. First it was a beautiful shining jewel of a date that I longed for, then it was a date I tentatively circled in my planner, then it was a mark in my calendar that I hated myself for writing it in pen and not pencil, and then finally, finally, FINALLY it was a day I decided I would set aside to do something really special for myself. 

A little while after my miscarriage, my mom gave me a tiny gold ring engraved with 8-28-14 and a teeny heart as a way of honoring the experience as a whole. I remember when she gave it to me she said, "You don't have to wear it if it makes you sad, I just wanted you to have it". When I first received it I didn't know how I felt about it. However, as the days have gone by I look down at that tiny ring and it is such a strange kind of comfort. It reminds me that what happened to me was important enough to memorialize. It reminds me of the sadness, sure, but also the love that is around me. And on the days that ever being pregnant feels like just a dream, I look at it and remember it happened and that I lived and am living though all that came after.

As my thwarted due date draws nearer, however, I find all sorts of emotions being kicked up. Emotions that I thought I had fairly successfully resolved are back and fresh as a daisy. Suddenly I'm noticing every woman who looks like she's about to pop (would it sound paranoid if I said I feel like they're following me?). I have to hold myself back from manically grabbing each of them and asking : What would I be feeling right now?? Do you feel so, so lucky?? For this and other reasons that also point to me becoming ever-so-slightly unglued, I made a plan to reclaim my due date. I thought treating myself to a massage or a day trip or a fun evening with friends would be the right way to not give August 28th all the power. The Universe apparently had other plans for me that day. 

As I've shared in previous posts, post-miscarriage testing revealed a uterine anomaly that has to be surgically corrected. Due to insurance issues and Chris switching jobs I knew I had to do the surgery before September 1. And what was the only day that my doctor could perform the surgery, you ask? Why, 8-28-14, of course. I kid you not. I actually almost burst into a fit of laughter when the medical secretary told me. I think somewhere in the back of my mind I knew it would work out like this, because as we have learned, the Universe loves to have a bit of a chuckle at me. I hung up the phone with the secretary and felt that initial blast of dark humor dissolve to make way for the the weight of the world crashing down on me. The thought of opening my eyes in a hospital bed post surgically on the day that I theoretically would have been there to give birth just seemed so cruel (of course I'm not underestimating the silver lining of being benevolently knocked out by general anesthesia for a good portion of the day). 

I called in the High Counsel of Talking Becca Off a Ledge and conversations with them slowly helped me to begin to reframe August 28th. Perhaps one way or another my energy was meant to change that day. I'd like to believe that the powers-that-be had earmarked that day for some sort of Earth-shifting event and maybe it just isn't the one I expected or hoped for. To be honest, I have no clue how I am going to feel when I wake up on the 28th. I am sure I will be nervous and maybe a little sad, but I hope that in addition to that I can view the day as the start of something new. The last 9 months didn't conclude with a baby for me, but that gestational period instead brought forth connections, growth, insight, and new depths of emotion and empathy. It brought me thousands of chances to practice keeping my sense of humor in the darkest of times. It brought me a greater knowledge of the incredible support system I am lucky enough to have around me. It brought me all of you that tune in to read this blog every week (for which I am flooded with gratitude). August 28th was clearly always meant to be a charged day for me, but I think at this point I will be able to have a hand in how it unfolds and what it represents. Now when I look down at the date engraved on my ring I will not only think about this experience, what it taught me, and what it left me with, but I hope I will also see the date when a new chapter began. 

I've railed on in this blog against the unfairness of the fact that my life is still very much effected by both the financial and medical ramifications of the most heartbreaking experience of my life. On a daily basis credit card statements, hospital bills, follow up appointments, and insurance documents pull me back into the murky mire of a pain that I keep mistakenly thinking I've outrun (I never have been much of a runner). This post is less about the features of that particular beast though and more about the response I have had to have to the inevitability of its presence in my life. I have had to build an armor of information and health-care system knowledge even though it very much goes against my natural inclinations (I'm a lover, not a fighter, you know?). I have had to obtain this armor however, because it is very apparent that those who do not have said protective gear are pulled under and trampled over in this battlefield of reproductive disfunction and medical need. 

I am not a numbers person. I never have been. I got by in math class until I graduated high school and then let my math brain go into early retirement. When the bill comes at dinner I hand it to someone else to divvy up. I throw my pay stubs in an envelope and with little to no thought (until its time to panic at tax time). I forget to look at price tags and then have zero ability to quickly add up in my mind how much things are worth to determine if I'm being overcharged. So, when it comes to navigating deductibles and insurance coverage that same numbing of my synapsis always seems to occur. I can hear the insurance representative speaking in what seems to be a reasonable tone seemingly laying out a logical progression of thoughts, but her words are not translating into my language. It can feel belittling and I often feel the need to interrupt the representative and suggest that perhaps she ought to speak to a grown up about this rather than myself (then I remember I am one of those). So the first part of the armor has been wrapping my brain around deductibles, co-insurance, EOBs, COBRA, and all manner of other acronyms I never had reason to know before. I've had to demystify this process for myself and take ownership over it. I've had to remind myself that no one expects me to be an expert on everything (except myself apparently). It has been my new strategy to remind myself that informed deferment to the people that actually are experts on this stuff is okay.

The next part of the armor has everything to do with self-advocacy as it pertains to my medical plan. It's strange that this should be difficult for me as a big part of my job at the hospital was being a patient advocate and encouraging patients to advocate for themselves. However, when it comes to my own life it feels quite a bit more complicated. I get paranoid. I do not like to be a bother. I don't like the idea of being the patient about whom the medical secretary secretly rolls her eyes. However, I am finding that if I don't keep track of the intricacies of my own medical needs and follow up on them with the doctors myself, they will often go unaddressed. Sometimes this takes multiple calls, call backs, emails, and, hey, sometimes it takes tracking down a physicians vacation home and staking out in the backyard overnight (kidding. don't be frightened). 

I think self-advocacy is key in many medical specialties, but there is an added layer that I am beginning to uncover when it comes to reproductive endocrinology.  The more I am in this world and speak to other women who are as well, the more my theory is backed up. No physician or nurse or secretary would ever admit this, but there is a certain underlying attitude toward women who require reproductive support. I'm not suggesting this energy is created maliciously. It's indirect and never acted on, but it exists. It's palpable. It's a certain gentle implication of desperation, a nod toward the archetype of the neurotic woman with biological clock ticking , a hint of blaming deep-seated and justified emotions on simply being "hormonal". A certain degree of this exists, but you know what else exists and trumps all that? The questions that I need to get answered. If it takes persistence and fortitude to get those answers -- I've decided I am ready to go to battle.  

So what I am turning over in my mind today is how to be this empowered warrior in a strange land unapologetically. I am finding that the more of my genuine self I bring to the process, the more I am treated with humanity. I have had to rise above the paranoia about being "that patient" and reframe it for myself that I am the hero of my own healthcare plan. I've had to remind myself that when I was on the other side of this, I never thought patients with a lot of questions were a bother, I thought they were engaged. I felt for them. I wanted to help all the more. This is battle none of us signed up for, but we were drafted into it and now our best strategy is bravery, heart, knowledge, and hope.

In the world of infertility and pregnancy loss there are many strange and unexpected circumstances in which I never dreamed I would find myself. In fact, I was blissfully ignorant to an entire world that so many women inhabit. Now I am oh so initiated and let me tell you : it's weird. It's so very, very weird, friends.

The other day I had to go for an HSG--in case you don't know, it's this test where they shoot you up with dye under an X-Ray and see what's cooking in your uterus and fallopian tubes. I was told it was incredibly uncomfortable by several trustworthy sources (no, not just google) and so I was nervous. The details of the procedure were fairly uneventful--first take a pregnancy test (because they just like to rub it in, I guess), change into another hideous sacky hospital gown, assume a compromising position in an exam room, and have something decidedly not fun done to your insides. The physical discomfort was reduced by taking a bit more than the recommended dose of Advil beforehand (disclaimer : I'm not a doctor, I'm not a drug pusher, and I am in no way recommending going against whatever medical advice your doc gives you, but when my "sources" suggested I go to town on the ibuprofen, I did, and for me, it seemed to help). The good news was that my fallopian tubes are in great shape (in case you were losing sleep over that) with no sign of the blockage that the MRI had originally suggested. Which brings me back to this bizarre world in which I live where I utter sentences like "At least now I only have to have surgery on my uterus". But hey, one less surgical intervention? I'll take it.

The takeaway from this experience had very little to do with the actual medical details, however, and more to do with taking new steps on my continuing quest to find ways to decrease the emotional discomfort. The thing I was left turning over in my mind was the idea of how to merge this odd world (a world of tests, discovering "egg reserves" are a thing, cryptic acronyms, ovulation, surgical interventions, and the depressing purgatory vibe of old waiting-room magazines) with the world I have (for the most part) comfortably been navigating up until this point.  How do I integrate this bizarre new world that has been thrust upon me with my pre-miscarriage life? How does it become just part of business-as-usual without feeling like it is stealing a little bit of my soul? 

Here's a piece that I am adding to the puzzle of the particular predicament of integrating the two worlds : it has to do with the way the day of my HSG appointment rolled out. Chris just started a new job so he couldn't leave to accompany me to the appointment as he usually would. Mom offered to fly in, but it's really not that big of a deal and so that felt unnecessary, so everyone's favorite series regular, my best friend and platonic life partner, Jeremy, was up to the plate (that dear man has a special place in Heaven where they erase all the knowledge of my uterus that has been forced upon him over the last 6 months à la Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind). The day turned out to be not nearly as miserable as I had anticipated. I had visions of the collective sadness and sense memory of returning to the building where I had my D&C crashing down on me hard, but it didn't really go that way. I am just now putting together why that might have been so I can recreate it in the future. Here's what I can deduce... 

One of the keys to bringing these conflicting worlds together is to actually just go ahead and physically mash them together even if it feels unnatural at first. I didn't set aside a day just for the energy of appointment. I could have. If I had left a little more room to wallow, believe me, I would have. Instead I met Jer for coffee in the morning as we do eight billion times a week, we grabbed a bite, we laughed at the serious-looking nurse who I feared would not be able to tolerate my sass-mouth in the exam room (she turned out to be excessively lovely), we marveled at the inexplicably and heart-wrenchingly beautiful United Colors of Benetton ad that were the secretaries at the hospital Radiology Department (clearly sourced from Central Casting), I told the doctor a funny story while she sent my uterus into unpleasant contractions, and we followed it all up with strawberry frozen yogurt with rainbow sprinkles. Afterwards, Jeremy put my drowsy butt into a cab back home and instead of the slow-motion cry I expected to have while feeling like a zombie ransacked of all my sparkle, I just felt like a slightly more tired, achy version of me.  

In short, I was just myself in a weird situation instead of letting the situation shift me off my usual trajectory into weird energy. Trust me, I know it is SO not easy to find laughter and normalcy in these decidedly abnormal circumstances. I know that being in medical environments such as these can start to feel disconcertingly similar to an Invasion of the Body Snactchers scenario. There have been plenty of times I've sat in a waiting room desperately wanting to separate myself from the other downtrodden uteri present. I've wanted desperately to scream, "Just so everyone knows--I'm not like all these other women! This isn't my life! I just took a wrong turn!" However, I think a key to unlocking this whole thing may be working toward a certain acceptance that these experiences are more an innocuous part of my world and less an interloper determined to wreck my entire existence as I know it. I'm not suggesting I should brush over honoring the magnitude of the physical and emotional trauma, but I also don't have to give it all the power. I do not have to be a pod person version of myself in this storyline. I am not "That Reproductively Challenged girl". I am messy, ridiculous, optimistic, silly, emotional, sarcastic, mush-ball Becca who happens to be making a special guest appearance in the Valley of the Infertile. It is a landscape I hope to not walk forever, but as long as I am here I will continue to look for ways to claim ownership of my stay. 

When I was diagnosed with a jankity uterus (to use the medical term) I was referred to a reproductive endocrinologist/surgeon who I was told would discuss my options moving forward. Being the Type-A gal I've always been, I called immediately to schedule my appointment and get the show on the road. I was given an appointment ... two months from the date I called.  Now, maybe that's reasonable in the world of Waiting For A Manhattan Specialist Who is Really Good at Her Job but it is just NOT reasonable for Very Impatient and Anxious Foiled Mama with Eight Thousand Questions. So at first, I was a bit disheartened, but then before long I gave into the fact that the next step was simply waiting for my appointment to arrive. I love my OB and this was the surgeon that she highly recommended so I decided it was worth the wait. I got comfortable with the whole waiting thing. I took weekend trips, I had cocktails with friends where the conversation did not revolve around my tragic reproductive system, I did a lot of writing, I started remembering that I am actually pretty valuable and even fun as a person separate from all the difficulties of the last six months. 

Then the day came. The day of my long-awaited appointment. It seemed surreal that after all the anticipation, all the ignoring, all the adjusting, all the distancing, all the moving forward, all the reclaiming of my role as a wife/friend/daughter/sister, it was now time to plunge back into the role of the patient. By the time the day came I was completely dreading what I had been praying would speed toward me just a few weeks earlier (I'm just so very hard to please, aren't I?). By the time the appointment came around I wasn't even sure what I wanted anymore. I knew I wanted a baby in the ever-present aching way that I had become accustomed to, but climbing another mountain toward said baby seemed more than I could wrap my head around. Just when I had let my hyper vigilant mommy shield down, it was time to go back into battle. I met a dear friend (the one who has been through all this garbage too) at a cafe before the appointment and broke down in tears the second she sat down. "You're just going to let the doctor give you information" she told me and it helped calm me down. Sitting down and gathering information. Alright. That seemed civilized. I could do that.

The appointment did begin in a quite civilized manner but gained speed like a tornado and ended up whipping us into an all-consuming vortex. I went in prepared simply to talk about surgery to correct my uterine septum and left with knowledge of a potential blocked fallopian tube, an appointment for a (quite uncomfortable, i'm told) HSG test, and down 12 vials of blood which were waiting to be analyzed for everything from genetic markers for disease to insufficient ovulation. All of a sudden we were scheduling a sperm analysis and bandying around terms like In Vitro Fertilization if X, Y, and Z happened to go wrong. Whoa whoa whoa whoa WHOA!!!!! I thought. I just barely wrapped my mind around this whole having to have surgery for a separated uterus thing! It was clear we were not in Kansas anymore. 

I left the appointment feeling flooded with the very information I thought would be comforting. My only life raft was the systematic plan that the doctor had laid out. The plan is complex and filled with PS's, Also's, and caveats (I won't bore you with those), but I tried to boil all the elements down to the very bare minimum : 1. do the HSG to make sure my fallopian tubes don't need intervention, 2. schedule uterine surgery, 3. recover, and 4. try again. Being the natural born worrier that I am I scoured the plan for actionable items. What can I do to make this go smoother, quicker, more successfully?? And then it hit me. There is NOTHING I can do. All I can do is put myself in the right hands (check), have a basic, but not neurotic level of information to be an informed self-advocate (check, for the most part, although some of this stuff has made me seriously doubt my understanding of the human body), and show up when I have an appointment (have you seen my planner?! check!!). 

It turns out the biggest actionable item on my part is reminding myself that no amount of googling, or fretting, or obsessing will change the plan. For better or for worse, this is the situation that I am in and now I just have to continue checking off boxes until that baby is in my arms. There will be plenty to do then I hear. Ideally I will get to a point where I can even luxuriate in the feeling of everything being out of my hands. I'm shooting for a very zen, Buddha take the wheel approach to this one. 

The interesting part that perhaps some of you can relate to, is that in the midst of all these things that I cannot control, there are a great number of things I actually can control that feel insurmountable (or simply uninteresting) in the face of all the medical commotion. For example, I could be developing a really on-point workout plan to lose the last of that post-miscarriage depression weight, I could be writing these blog posts well in advance instead of scrambling at the last minute, I could be kicking my private practice into hyper-drive. However, focusing on the things I can't control keeps stealing focus from those I can. Call it being human, call it just being ME, but I think finding a way to switch this imbalance of allocated energy is a big part of the work of moving forward. There is a fresh frontier of gray area between being gentle with myself and letting myself off the hook that I continue to butt up against and weed-whack through.  I'll keep on finding ways to transfer my desire to take control to those things I actually can control and as I do you better believe I'll continue to report back from the frontline. 

Here's a fun little bonus to an already less-than-delightful experience : miscarrying is expensive.  This is a part of the equation that never occurred to me until quite deep into the recovery process because I had a few other things on my mind. I promised to dig into the good, the bad, and the ugly on this blog and this definitely falls somewhere in there.

Now, I am sure this particular experience varies from person to person based on your insurance situation and whether or not you live in a place with universal healthcare (jealous!), but for me personally there was a cruel financial wallop to deal with on top of the emotional one.  There were many moments of staring dumbfoundedly (thats not a word) at astronomical medical bills and thinking of how much I would rather be spending thousands of dollars on cribs, strollers, tiny glitter shoes, and that French giraffe squeaky toy that all the trendy city babies seem to enjoy gnawing upon so very much. This frustration culminated with me (ever-so-slightly) losing my cool with a less than sympathetic insurance company representative and exclaiming, "Believe me!! If I could return this experience for a refund, I WOULD!!"

The fact of the matter is, no matter how financially troubled the bills made us in our day to day lives, we still were able to recognize (most of the time) that money is just money and it ebbs and flows and is ultimately not the most important thing. The actual dollars and cents were merely the vehicle for some much more stealthily disguised emotional hits. Medical bills became the physical representation of the lasting effects of an emotional trauma from which we were trying to distance ourselves. To see it all boil down to medical codes and corresponding price tags was painful. The harsh frankness of my hopes and dreams being referred to as "products of conception" and coded as a "missed abortion" made it hard to make peace with shelling out cash.  The lasting financial effects gave the trauma an exciting new means of haunting us all the more.

More than any of this however, was the way medical bills becomes the universal scapegoat within my relationship. When it felt inappropriate or difficult to express the grief and anger toward this experience or each other, it was much more comfortable to rail against the insurance companies, the waning savings account, and our neglected budget. We became so tense about managing our finances that it was clear at times we were just desperate to replace one stress with another more seemingly conventional and manageable one. Just like we had to reconcile allowing this experience to be part of us as individuals and a couple, we also had to reconcile allowing it to be part of the way we lived our lives for the time being. I think money is an example of the undoubtedly multitudinous commonplace things that get scapegoated in the emotional battlefield of surviving miscarriage. Riding through those moments is the true work of moving ever forward.

It was a combination of time, reflection, and open conversation that got us through this phase. I guess the best we can hope to do is practice being more aware of when our rage and sorrow is being displaced and then focus back in on the important things like communication and connection with our loved ones. For me personally, I had to make a conscious effort to be gentle with myself. I allowed myself to recognize that this was simply a time where it is impossible to have full control over many areas of my life, both large and small. Miscarriage comes with an unimaginably steep emotional price, but learning acceptance and pathways to peace in the face of that price is the kind of hard-earned life lesson that can't be bought.