I spoke to my husband again last night.  Bringing up this topic is so darn nerve-wracking for me because I know how much he hates it. 

He might not be the best at talking about this issue, but he’s given me a really wide berth so I could work out handling it on my own.  He’s taken Vince for much of the week so I could sleep off some of my depression.  He hadn’t really grumbled about the fact that I’ve taken to sleeping in Vince’s bed just so I can cuddle with him since I miss him during the day.  He hasn’t complained about the house looking like a tornado ran through, and he even ordered lunch when I didn’t feel like making anything.  He might not do well with the verbal part of this process for me, but he’s been great making up for that in other areas. 

But I did bring it up again last night because I want him to know that I named the baby.  He still bristles at the idea of pregnancy – he physically bristles.  But he didn’t say anything and probably swallowed the urge to huff and roll his eyes.  He let me talk in the hopes that I’d get it over with as quickly as possible.

I asked him if he was interested in knowing what I named her.  He said “No, not really, but if you want to tell me, go ahead.”

*Sigh*

That sort of reaction hurts because I can tell he doesn’t believe I was pregnant.  I could tell in his voice that he was simply humoring me by “hearing” her name. 

I ignored the annoyance in myself and just said, “Myla Therese.”

He said nothing.  I don’t even know why I bothered to wait for a reaction.  He stared ahead, not even at me, blank-faced.

So I asked, “Do you like it?”

He looked at me with a level glance and said, “No.”

I’m not surprised.  Myla isn’t a “normal” name.  John likes “normal.”

So I said, “Well, what don’t you like?”

He said, “I’m not going to play that game.  I don’t want to be naming anything.  If you want to do it, I’m not gonna say anything, but I don’t want to be involved.”

*Sigh again*

The name “Mia” popped into my head.  It’s similar to Myla and simple enough to be “normal.”  So I offered that.

He thought for a quick second before shooting that down, too.

How do you tell your husband you want his input because you don’t want him to dislike the one and only thing you can actually give to her?

*sigh, sigh, sigh*

The wall went up and he was done with the conversation before it’d even hit the 2 minute mark. 

What can I do?  Nothing.  And now I feel as though Myla can't be her first name because I don’t want there to be anything about her that her Daddy doesn’t like.  Does that make sense?

I don’t know.  I just don't know.  Frankly, I still go back and forth with my own sanity.  Was I pregnant?  Yes.  I believe I was.  But I don’t have proof.  I have nothing… now I don’t even have a name. 

I feel lost and angry and hurt and confused.  I absolutely hate this, and I don’t know what to do with myself.  What am I supposed to do with myself?  What do I do with any of this?

A friend suggested that maybe I’d just named an aborted baby.  There can’t be harm in that, she said.  But again, I get angry with myself for going down that road because I feel like I’m denying what actually happened.

I don’t know what to do with myself.  I really don’t.  This is such a messed up situation in my mind that I can’t fully wrap my head around it.  Maybe I am just crazy.  I’d like to think I’m too logical for that sort of delusion, but I guess the possibility is always present.

But the possibility of pregnancy is present, too, and it frustrates me to no end that I have no definitive evidence with which to convince John.  How do I explain the changes of my body without him writing them off as inconsequential?  

And that’s the point that really sticks me, I think.  I guess I don’t care if anyone else believes me or not.  I expect John to.  I want John to.  Denying his own child (or his wife’s mental stability) irks me to no end. 

But again – what am I to do?  What do I actually do to make any of this any better? 

*Sigh*

I just don’t know.

I hate this.  I really, really hate this.

You guys must think I complain a lot.  I wonder if you think I am constantly venting to random people about my personal life given how candid I am on this blog.

Truth is, I don't.  Most people are completely unaware of my current struggles.  My mom knows... three friends know... one coworker knows... and possibly a sibling or two depending on who my mom might've said something to.   Besides that, I've been completely mum on the entire subject.  

As I said before, I'd rather remain silent than cry.  Talking about this, when I'm not in full control of the conversation, will inevitably make me cry.  So I don't say anything and I pretend everything is perfectly fine.

That being said, I'm NOT perfectly fine.  I understand that, and I accept that.  I'm not a heaping mess of tears in the corner, either, though.  Right now, I feel like an actor going through the motions of life.  

It's not that I don't trust my family, friends or coworkers with what's going on.  It's just... how do you bring something like this up?  What's the point even if I do?  Pity?  No thank you.

So far, reactions thus far to my situation have been a mixed bag.

Some folks (my husband included) think I deluded myself into believing I was pregnant.
Some folks sorta roll their eyes and think I'm being a hypochondriac because even if it was an early miscarriage, it's not like it's a big deal or anything.
Finally, some folks (you readers included) have been kind and understanding.

Truthfully, I think I keep my mouth shut because most people I'd tell would likely fall into the first two categories.  The first two reactions to my situation are very, very hurtful, so I don't bother opening myself up for that sort of emotional suicide.

I don't really speak much on this topic at all which is why the brunt of my venting happens through this blog.

The reason I bring this up is because one of the friends who knows made a comment that made me stop in my tracks.  She's known me since college.  While we were talking, she asked how this weekend went and I said, "It went better than I expected, honestly."  She then said (and I'm physically cringing while writing this) "Yeah, I figured you were over everything from all the photos you posted."

I actually didn't know what to say. 

It's true that I'd posted photos of a birthday party I'd attended.  I had actually been contemplating NOT going on account of what had been going on, but my friend, Jay, was really looking forward to it.  Plus, I knew that my other friends, Frank and Megan, would be there, too, and I didn't want to bail last minute on the birthday girl.  

So I went.  I'm glad I did because I was very proud of how I handled myself.  It was like a test-run for how I could survive my own family or in-laws gathered together for whatever holiday comes up next.  I was determined not to be a downer for Jay, and I was determined not to let on that I was anything but the happiest match-maker in the country.

Photos are a part of who I am.  If I wasn't taking photos, my friends would've known something was wrong.  So take pictures I did, and I made sure they were happy ones.  

And truth be told, I did feel happy in some of them.  I did enjoy my time at the party meeting new people and catching up with old friends.  However, just because I appeared to be the pristine model of happiness does not mean nothing was hidden behind the smile. 

Those pictures didn't capture the moment I walked from the dance floor because the image of a brother dancing with his little sister  was too much for me.  They didn't capture the temporary fumbling for composure I had when one of the friends who does know asked how I was fairing.  They also didn't capture the five minutes I spent in the bathroom after being asked by a guest when my husband and I would be having more children.

I actually laugh thinking back at that adorable woman asking in a Polish accent, "But just one?  You're young, you're young.  Have many!"

So yes.  Of course I looked happy in those pictures.  I wasn't gonna go parade myself around with running mascara and a Mopey Mary complex.  I was what I needed to be, and I actually took pride in my ability to compartmentalize my emotions.  It made me feel stronger... ready for whatever family function I'd have in the upcoming months that might be a little tough.  

But no - just because I'm able to plaster a smile on my face at-will... just because I'm able to crack a joke or dance with a friend during a party... none of that means I'm "over everything."

What does that even mean, anyway???

Did she think I was no longer emotionally raw?  That maybe I'd finished grieving or that I'd finally convinced myself I wasn't pregnant to begin with?  Or maybe I had accepted my circumstances and she'd never have to wait for the next awkward time it came up in conversation?

I seriously had no idea.  So I asked.  I said, "What do you mean by 'over everything'?"

She said, "Oh, I didn't mean anything by it.  I meant that I figured you were okay with, ya know... what happened.  You looked happy."

Times like this, I wonder how Jesus remained sinless, because you just know He had similar experiences with Peter or the other apostles.

"I look happy, Peter?  That's what you've got?  I look happy?  You're supposed to be one of My best friends.  Did you really think I'd just "get over" losing My cousin, John?  Just because I'm enjoying a nice meal with you and these 5,000+ people doesn't mean I'm not still hurting for My cousin."


Oh sigh.  He not only remained sinless and didn't snark back at Peter, He went ahead and performed a miracle and fed a bunch of people - all while He mourned the passing of John the Baptist.  

I didn't snark back, but I was wounded.  I just pointed out that while I was happy for most of the party, there were moments of struggle that I'm sure will repeat in the coming weeks and months.  

So why am I share all of this?  Why am I posting about it?

Because I've come to realize the internet (and society in general) has woefully inadequate information on this particular situation.  No one knows how to talk about miscarriages - ESPECIALLY early ones.  No one knows what to say or how to handle their friends who might be going through such an emotional free-fall.  

So I'm going to document it as best I can.  I'm going to chronicle my journey in the hopes that it eventually helps someone, somewhere, struggling to either endure this situation, or looking to help a friend endure it.  

Plus, on a personal level, I just feel better typing. 

This weekend was a good weekend.  I’m utterly exhausted, but my mind and body needed to be bombarded in order to help me out of my depression a bit.

Friday found me miserable.  I woke up and my body had lost the last signs of pregnancy.  I was almost frantic, then, because I had nothing – NOTHING – left either within me or around me that spoke of my little one. 

I didn’t know what to do.  I was angry.  I was so, so angry.  I was terrified, too, because I knew I’d officially lost something I could never replace.  A friend of mine had said, “At least you didn’t deliver a still born.”  Another had said, “Be grateful you didn’t miscarry in your 6th or 7th month.”

I just… saying those sorts of things, while true, are SO incredibly hurtful.  It seems as if they were invalidating my emotions… invalidating my child.  “Meh… a few weeks in and it’s not a child anyway, so why the long face?”

I mean, would they say that to a mother who lost her child to cancer at 5 years old?  “Hey, lady, at least he wasn’t 18 or 32.  Then you’d’ve REALLY been upset.”

I’m pretty sure a mother is going to mourn her lost child regardless of the age that life is taken from her.  I admit it is likely much more traumatizing for mothers to endure stillbirth and late-term miscarriages, but making comparisons of any sort are just… they’re not helpful.  Just because my pain is not the same or as terrible does not mean my pain is not present.  It does not mean I can just wash my hands and forget.

Maybe that was my oversensitive heart reacting poorly, but I felt so hurt by those comments… so brushed aside by such tiny statements.  I wondered at how many other women were dealt such callous blows by folks trying to soothe broken hearts.

Argh.  So with those statements in mind, I was heartbroken and angry on Friday.  While it’s true I didn’t suffer the same heartbreak as a mother bearing a stillborn nor a mother who went through pregnancy long enough to prepare nurseries and quilts and research on schools, I also didn’t have the tangible evidence they carried of their child.  I have no ashes with which to place into an urn on a mantle.  I have no locks of hair to gently touch when I’m hurting.  I don’t even have a positive pregnancy test to hold as proof this miracle was granted to me.  I only have my faith and the same maternal instinct that confirmed I was carrying Vincent before doctors could find any evidence of him.

*Sigh*

So on my way home from work, I was angry and hurting and asking God why I couldn’t even be given some small piece of my child to hold onto.  I have nothing, and that really bothered me.  I wanted something – ANYTHING – to mark this little one’s passing.  But nothing – there was no response.

But silly me, God had heard my bitter diatribe before I’d even uttered it.  He understood that I’d have a longing in my soul for some physical memorial I could look upon with love while uttering a prayer of thanksgiving for His great gift.  He had arranged to send the Holy Spirit all the way to the opposite side of the country so that my intense sadness could be looked after.

Me: “I’m just not feeling very well.”

John:  “Why do you think you’re sick?  Did you catch Vincent’s stomach bug?”

I stopped myself from angrily retorting, No, John, I did not catch a stomach bug.  This is not a cold, this is not the flu, and it’s NOT my imagination.  This is our CHILD, and she is being unceremoniously taken away from me… from US.

Instead, I just shot him a look that shouted, C’mon, you’re not this dense, John.  To hit home the point, I said, “It’s only been a couple days, John.  I’m still bleeding, and I just don’t feel well.”

Immediately he took his hand from mine and recoiled into himself.  Here he was trying to have a fun, cute time talking about our upcoming “honeymoon” to the Bahamas, and there I go bringing up things he’d rather pretend didn’t exist. 

This is going to be a long, long road.  I just don’t know how to handle things right now.  I don’t know what to say or do, so I mostly remain silent.  For the most part, I think I’m okay.  I’m certainly sad when I think on my child, but I’m also buoyed by my faith that this child is happy and praying for us. 

That being said, I want to talk about this.  Problem is, I don’t want to talk about it with just anyone.  I want to talk to John, but John absolutely bristles at the thought.  The last time we spoke about this was Sunday night, and he was itching to be done with it throughout the brief moments we discussed things. 

In his mind, I am just wrong.  I’ve been so desperate for a child that I tricked myself into believing I was pregnant and got my period early.  All the other signs were just coping mechanisms.  In a nutshell, he closed himself off to the possibility that I was pregnant.

I’m not sure if he fully believes that or if it’s his way of coping with the possibility of a miscarriage.  He said the idea of a miss is upsetting, but he also says that since there’s no way to prove a child existed, I was probably just wrong.

I admit… I almost want to believe that because the thought is comforting.  I’m now going back and forth on whether or not I want to believe it was all in my head.  But I don’t believe it.  In the deepest part of my soul, I know I held a child. 

I’ve been yearning for children for YEARS.  Why, all of the sudden, would I start developing symptoms now?  What would have changed in the last month that would have suddenly set my psyche off balance enough to delude myself (and the physiology of my body) into believing I was pregnant… only to then suffer the heartache of losing that pregnancy within the month?

I just… no.  I don’t accept it.  I want to.  I really, REALLY want to, but the more I try to rationalize that as my situation, the more my heart revolts and says, “No.  You shall NOT ignore this gift you’ve been given.  You shall NOT forget the life you briefly held that now beckons you, through prayer, to Heaven.  This child was made through love in the Image of God.  You shall not write her off as some mistaken illusion.”

Chided by love, I’m back to square one.  I’m struggling to handle these feelings but I don’t know what to do with them.  At times, I’m perfectly calm.  I’m able to move about my day as if nothing has happened.  Other times, I need a moment to recollect myself in private… a tiny moment to remember what it is to breathe.

Roller coaster implies highs.  I don’t feel as though I have any highs.  Plateaus of “okay” might be more appropriate.  Plateaus of “okay” interspersed with dips in the road.  I don’t believe I’ve spiked down into depression, but the hurt and the sadness and the utter hopelessness of my situation does drag me down some dark alleys sometimes. 

I just keep chugging along, though.  I keep telling myself it’s normal to feel this way.  It’s normal to have bouts with these emotions throughout the day, especially given I’m still at ground zero. 

But sigh.  I just don’t know what or how to say things right now.  So I keep silent because I’d rather stay silent than cry.  I’d rather stay silent then go off on an angry tangent that only masks the guilt and feelings of failure that I have. 

Really, that’s all the anger is there for.  I’m not really angry.  I’m hurt.  Dear God, I am so, so hurt.  Sometimes I hate my heart for its ability to keep beating.  At least my lungs forget to breathe sometimes, but my heart...  What a nasty little contraption to keep on beating – thump after painful thump – when everything else within me wants to crawl into a corner and die. 

No… maybe that’s a touch dramatic.  I don’t want to die so much as leave this world to see my child.  To tell her that I love her and to let her, for even a moment, feel my fingers on her cheek. 

Cruel, cruel heart with your rhythmic taunting.  I’m grudgingly grateful that you are deaf to my soul’s plea for solace.  Keep marching, for though you don’t march for me, you march for Vincent.  Maybe that’s enough right now.  

Our Lady of Sorrows, pray for us.