Growing Pains

I've avoided this blog for some time now.  January 12th, to be exact.  The date of my last post.  At first it was because I felt I didn't need it.  I was so strong.  But then everything fell apart.  And then I didn't write because I was angry. And I didn't write because I was confused.  And I didn't write because things were ugly.

The other day I told a friend that writing to work through things in our lives gives our emotions and experiences a unique permanence.  That's what I was avoiding.  Permanence.  Having to someday revisit the phyiscally and emotionally draining experiences we were going through.  But now I'm ready.  Because, while they aren't fond memories, they, like the actual loss of our beautiful children, came with lessons learned and strength garnered.  And peace found.

But the process was very raw, and very ugly.  And very hard to admit.

I really debated over what to do after we lost Ada.  I spent several days getting conflicting information from the medical team at my doctor's office.  At first, I had options.  I could wait it out.  I could induce labor with a medication to speed up the process and deliver Ada's tiny body at home.  I could have an in-office procedure done.  Or I could do as I did with William and go in for a D&C.

I wanted to avoid the D&C if possible.  Last time, it was incredibly difficult emotionally to just go to sleep and wake up and have his body all of a sudden gone.  And I hate general anesthesia.

I spent a long time on the phone with a dear friend who had naturally miscarried her 10 week baby. She was unselfish enough to repoen that experience and beautifully revisit, in great detail, the physically and emotionally wrenching days she spent in that process.

I spent some time discussing the in-office procedure with the nurse at the office and debating the emotional scarring that might come with being awake for that experience.

And then, my actual doctor called, days after the nurse had discovered Ada was no longer there.  And she told me I was far enough along that the in-office was no longer an option and that she would prefer I do the D&C to reduce the risk of hemorraging.

So then there I was.  Sitting in the pre-op waiting to be wheeled back for surgery.  And then she was gone.

And I was okay with that.  I still felt as I had when we found out.  Peace.  Strength.  I knew everything would be okay.

Then, three days later, I woke up with excruciating pain.  Labor.  It was like labor.  And it lasted for hours.  Then I passed a huge clot, and it was over.  The doctor on call said it must just be the last bit of leftover blood from my D&C.

So I moved forward.  And then, two days later, it happened again. Agonizing pain, hours of labor, and another clot. And then days later, again, and again.

It was after that third episode that I heard it again--the animal cry.  The out of body experience of hearing myself wail with such deep grief that it scared me.  I hadn't heard it since the early days of losing William.  But what had brought it out of me this time was not the sorrow of losing Ada, but the incomprehensibility of what I was now going through.  I had made the choice to do the D&C.  I had already gone through the emotional pain of that.  And now here I was, a week later, going through exactly what I would have gone through had I miscarried on my own.  And every single clot I passed reminded me of what I no longer had.

All I wanted to do was start moving forward and start learning to live my new life as I now knew it, but I couldn't.  I was stuck.  How could I possibly find the joy in the loss of my little one, feel her with me, think about the beautiful experience it was to carry her for that short time, when the physical healing went on, and on, and on, reminding me only of the loss?

An ultrasound confirmed I still had several large clots left that my body was trying to get rid of, but couldn't.  My perplexed doctor gave me a prescription for the miscarriage-inducing medication I had so wanted to avoid before, and sent me away.

I left the office devestated. I felt there was no purpose to what I was going through.  At least with the pain of a miscarriage I knew that there was a child, however small, that came from it, and with the sorrow came a beautiful joy I would never forget.  But this?  This was for nothing.  She was already gone.

This was just hell.

I called my mom, and she caught a flight and came out that next morning to be with me through the process of taking the medication.

But it didn't work.  It did nothing.  The clots were still there.  It was time for another D&C.

I agonized over the decision.  I had tried everything already except for the in-office procedure.  And though I was terrified of being awake, I knew Ada was gone already, and that it was just blood, and that it would be okay.

The morning of the procedure, I woke up with my stomach churning.  We dropped our girls off with friends and made our way to the office.  I took the pre-op medication and sat to wait out the hour before the procedure was scheduled to begin.  But no matter which way I looked, there were pregnant women.  Beautiful pregnant women, with beautiful round stomachs, and beautiful healthy babies.  And in that moment, in the midst of my frustration and anger over our situation, I hated them all.  I had to get away.

We found a bench and squeezed our legs between it and the glass so we could face outside instead of the crowded waiting room.  It was a beautiful day.  We held hands and talked and laughed and ate trail mix from the vending machine as the minutes ticked by to the moment I was dreading.

And then it came.  I was shaking as they lead us into the room.  But I had a feeling, deep down, that this would be the end.

It was awful.  It was the most traumatic experience I've ever had.  But it was over.

Two days later, I passed one more painful clot attached to a large clump of tissue.  And that was it.  I could move on.

We took off for Disneyland the next week.  And as I walked in to the hotel to check in, knowing this trip was our week for healing, the uncontrollabe tears began.  It was over.  It was finally over.  And we had made it.  Seven weeks of hell, and we had made it.

I felt stronger.  I felt peace.  I felt relief.

And most of all, I felt Ada.