At home. June 19th. It was traumatic mentally, emotionally, and physically. We cried some more. I’ll never forget the graphic images in my mind. And worse, the process doesn’t end immediately. It took over two weeks for the bleeding to stop, for my hormones to adjust to “non-pregnant” again. I mean, c’mon, according to my pee test at the doc’s, my body still thought I was pregnant the day I miscarried! I was 10 weeks pregnant, but the little tiny peanut my body was supposed to protect had stopped developing four weeks earlier.
More than the physical side effects, the emotional repercussion was far from explainable.
I kept being told, “You will never find a reason to why this happened.” But that didn’t change that I searched for one. Was it because I was initially depressed and shocked? Did my body just follow suit with those emotions? Was it because I got a 10 day long cold? Was it because something would have been wrong with the baby? Was it because I had been drinking before I knew I was pregnant? Sometimes some of those reasons seem very legitimate. Which doesn’t bring any resolve.
It felt so wrong to think about having a glass of wine because I was supposed to be pregnant. It felt so wrong to keep living life, like we were ignoring the loss of this precious unborn being.
I still get a twinge of guilt when I remember that I forgot I used to be pregnant.
I apologized to a friend who had a miscarriage a few years ago. I apologized for not being compassionate enough or more sympathetic to her. Her reply, “It’s okay. It’s hard to understand until you go through it.” And everybody says it. But she’s right. You could never possibly understand unless you’ve experienced it. Not like it’s some elite club. But, really, you can’t grasp it. At least I certainly couldn’t before this.
Quite the introduction huh?
