I wrote the below in 2017 after my first miscarriage. It seems a fitting place to start, as it was that first pregnancy that sparked the creation of this blog and its name, even if it sat dormant for years after. I have edited slightly for clarity and clean-up, but it is mostly as it was written at the time, when I was raw and processing and uncertain and in pain. Now, four years later, I would tell the story differently, I’m sure — softer and less frantic, perhaps. But that version of the story, the version that is reflection rather than current reality, will wait for now.
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I want a kid. I have never felt completely committed to growing one myself per se, but the DIY method has an appealing simplicity and also doesn’t cost a fortune and so we decided to go about trying to make one. Or, more accurately, we went about not not trying to make one.
When suddenly I was unbearably tired at 8:00pm, oddly nauseated at all hours, and just generally feeling a bit under the weather, one might guess that I would jump straight to “pregnant.” But one would be wrong. One would not, it might seem, understand the difference between trying to get pregnant and not *not* trying.
Eventually I peed on the stick and with that little plus sign staring back on me, I immediately reached for the other stick. When a second stick confirmed what all suddenly made a lot of sense, I immediately screamed for Phil. He ran upstairs with the speed of a man who has learned the shrill, “Your damn cat puked on something I like and you better come address this shit immediately” shout of his partner, only to find me standing in the dining room, pee sticks in hand.
“Wait, are we not happy? Weren’t we trying to get pregnant,” he said slowly, upon my thrusting of the sticks in his face.
“We were not not trying,” I gulped, tears streaming down my face. “But we were supposed to get the puppy first! I was going to lose some weight! And we don’t have those sticky things that make rugs not slide around!” I was now sobbing fully, heaving the words out desperately. I wanted to be pregnant. I wanted to have a kid. I just wanted those things in, let’s say, three to six months.
Five weeks later, when the nurse called and started to talk about my options, whether I wanted to schedule a D & C or just wait it out, I cried the same way — desperate and gasping for air. I sat on my livingroom floor and heaved back forth, sobbing without control or constraint. But I didn’t know that would happen yet, didn’t yet anticipate the sting of loss and instead I grappled with the weight of uncertainty. I was still dull and numb, processing my lack of glee.
A few days later, when my anxiety still lingered, I did what so many others before me have done: I asked Google. I settled on “34 planned pregnancy huge mistake help?”as the ask, thinking to myself, “Maybe I will cross stitch it on a pillow one day”. It was all so absurd and funny, really.
But you know what? It helped. Turns out, lots of women Google that question, or write it on some pregnancy board. It was helpful to know that being scared was okay. That being unsure was okay. And it kept being helpful when, after moving from the realm of the internet to the more known world, friends admitted that they hadn’t been sure either, that they hated being pregnant, that it was terrifying and they didn’t squeal or jump up and down, even though they had planned the whole thing or wanted the baby.
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I want a kid. I also like my life. I have a weird, unexpected, and completely unreplicatable job doing work that I love and believe in. It is hard and tiring and often involves long days and late nights. I like my life outside of my jobs. Adjusting to living with another adult human whom I love and who does, frankly, almost all of the dishes and laundry almost all of the time has been hard enough. I liked living alone. I was really good at living alone. Sharing is hard!
I want a kid. I also want a bunch of things that are not compatible with having a kid. Like not having a kid. Or having a kid, but being able to still do everything I do now, but more and better and never with sticky jam hands grabbing me! I am told this is not possible.
Point being, I do want a kid. But it is scary. The second those plus signs appeared, I was jolted from fuzzy theoretical baby land to the very scary reality: life wouldn’t be the same. That scared me.
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Four weeks after the plus signs showed up, nine weeks into being pregnant, a nurse told us that the radiologist had not found a heartbeat or seen a fetal pole. That the gestational sac was measuring at only 6 weeks and 2 days. That I should go to my appointment next weeks, things might turn around, but that they might not.
Those days between knowing a not — that weekend of “maybe” — was one of hardest I can remember.
I had not taken easily to pregnancy. I had not squealed and jumped. I had worked hard to be okay with this change, this change that I wanted but was so afraid of. I had worked every day to remind myself that I wanted this, that it was scary, but that it was going to be okay. I had worked to want this pregnancy that I ostensibly wanted to begin with.
I could, in my calmest moments, feel okay about miscarriage. We could try again. It is common. We would get the puppy and then have the baby. Isn’t that what I had wanted anyway? It could be okay.
Those calm moments were rare though. Mostly, I cried and asked the internet for answers, I read all the stories there were to read — everyone who has gotten the same news or similar who had everything turn out okay, everyone who has gotten the same news or similar and had everything not. I cried. I watched Buffy. Phil made me food and rubbed my feet.
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By the time the nurse called to say my HcG levels had dropped, I already knew. In my gut, I knew. I had been tired for weeks. Fall asleep at 8pm tired. But that night, I wasn’t. It was 9pm and I wasn’t tired. When we went in for the appointment the next day, they confirmed. There had been minimal growth. The nurses came in and out. No one seemed to read a chart, so each midwife chirped merrily, “What are you here for today?” while I muttered again and again, “Miscarriage.” We talked about options. I scheduled a D&C for the next week.
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A month. That is all the time I spent knowing that I was pregnant. Just a month. But I knew I was pregnant. I felt pregnant. I experienced pregnancy. For a month. And then it was gone. Then I wasn’t anymore, and there wasn’t a baby. There was just nothing. And I went back to work and went back to life and it should have all been the same but it wasn’t. It isn’t. It isn’t the same.
Having a miscarriage is, undoubtedly, different for each person who goes through it. It is common. It is common. It is common.
I am writing this because it is common and common things whispered only in the dark are not that helpful.
It is common.
I am still processing. It is hard to make sense of, this cruel trick of the body. It creates a tremendous amount of dissonance. I am sad and yet, I have more energy. I physically feel better. I am less tired, less nauseated. I am sad, but also hopeful. It was work, wanting this pregnancy. But now, now I feel more sure. I want this. Which makes having it taken away that much more painful. I had it. And now I don’t. I’m scared I won’t be able to get pregnant again. I’m scared I will get pregnant again. I am scared I will have another miscarriage. I am scared I won’t have another miscarriage and will have a baby. I feel guilty whenever I feel scared of having a baby because I remember how sad I am to not be having one. I am grateful to others who have shared their stories and their truths, hopeful that in sharing mine, I will maybe find a bit more peace in adding to the cry: it is common.
The Belly Fish 