"When a child loses his parent, they are called an orphan. When a spouse loses her or his partner, they are called a widow or widower. When parents lose their child, there isn't a word to describe them. This month recognizes the loss so many parents experience across the United States and around the world. It is also meant to inform and provide resources for parents who have lost children due to miscarriage, ectopic pregnancy, molar pregnancy, stillbirths, birth defects, SIDS, and other causes." - President Ronald Reagan, 1988
Until recently, I wasn't even aware there was an official "Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance" month or day. Now of course I can't let it go by without posting something. The good news is that our situation rarely upsets me anymore; it's just become a fact of our lives. We have each other and the dog and three personal saints, and we're happy. I do credit the dog with cheering us up until we can acquire children by other means. However, the next best thing to fur therapy is music.
Over the years, I've been compiling a playlist of songs about loss which helped get me through some tough times. Some are sadder than others, but I thought I'd highlight a few of the best ones today. Someday I'll post a comprehensive list.
1. Daughtry, "Gone Too Soon"
2. Plumb, "I Want You Here"
3. RyanDan, "Tears of an Angel"
4. Canadian Tenors, "Watching Over Me" (because we don't want to end on a downer)
We were celebrating the beginning of our mutual vacation last night with a longer than normal marathon of "CSI: NY," which resembles "Bones" and "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit" enough to be much less annoying than "CSI: Miami." Anyhow, it seems we watched one episode too many, and we ended up going to bed depressed.
The episode in question featured a plot device I've seen before, the mentally unstable housewife who has failed to have children of her own and resorts to stealing them out of other pregnant women.
Why do I always have to be type-cast as the crazy person? Is the public perception of women like me really becoming so suspicious? We've all noticed the growing tendency of the populace at large to assume all veterans are ticking PTSD time-bombs. Apparently aspiring mothers who are for whatever reason unable to produce like normal women are supposed to develop a dangerous and slightly psychotic obsession with getting a child, any child from anywhere.
Which isn't to say it hasn't happened, and just goes to show the depth of feeling and strength of the instincts involved. I am all for bringing miscarriage back into the social consciousness, because no matter how early or how physically painless it might be, it still messes us up emotionally. We might be less stereotypically crazy if we weren't so repressed.
I've mentioned it before, but secret first trimesters should not be socially mandatory. Why did that become the norm? Is it just to spare our friends and neighbors the awkwardness of hearing about miscarriage and not knowing what to say? It might be awkward for them, but it's life-changing for me, so they can just deal with it. Real friends will want to know what's going on in our lives regardless, good or bad.
Maybe we just need some kind of acknowledgement that there may be something other than a pastel-colored paradise on the other side of a positive pregnancy test. Maybe it will be nothing but emergency rooms, IVs and blood tests. Maybe it will be days on end of sitting as still as possible and praying there won't be any bleeding. Maybe it will be chronic disappointment and a special colander under the bathroom sink. Maybe you'll end up right back where you started with nothing to show for it but a ragged scar, hospital invoices and a bottle of oxycodone. We aren't allowed to even mention it, because somehow it's considered bad taste. But, seriously, every woman should consider the possibility and have a plan so she won't be broadsided the way we were the first time.
If we'd had a plan, maybe we would have been coherent enough to ask for Alexis' body rather than letting him/her be thrown out with the medical waste. Maybe we would have known about conditional baptism in case of miscarriage. Maybe we would not have felt so completely alone and defective.
This last time we were joking darkly that we'd only really start freaking out if the unthinkable happened and we actually ended up with an infant. We were just starting to get hopeful when it all fell apart, and then we wondered why we had ever expected anything different. I received my soulless paperwork diagnosing miscarriage in the mail the same day as the congratulatory pastel packet from Johns Hopkins covered pictures with happy pregnant women. The former went into the medical file, the latter into the shredder. For a brief shining moment, I was a member of the happily pregnant club, but once I inevitably miscarry I'm supposed to retire quietly to grieve in the privacy of my own home so as not to rain on anybody else's pregnancy parade.
That could just be my perception, but it's hard to shake. Fortunately many of my friends, not all of whom have experienced miscarriage for themselves, manage to not be obnoxious to me while they are pregnant. Better, they don't seem to mind me talking about it. It needs to be talked about.
When I was sending our wedding invitations, I did not imagine that almost four years later we would still be living the extended honeymoon phase, pet-parents to a toy poodle. This was not the plan. If anything, I have learned to have alternative plans, or at least to expect the unexpected and plan for the unplanned.
Here's another quick musical tidbit. During my morning prayers a few days ago I was mentally regretting that I didn't have any music that could remind me of the kids without reducing me to tears. My Pandora station spit this out. Who says God doesn't use the Internet?
Yesterday I attended the baptism of Michael Joseph, our first godchild. Unfortunately, Dave had to miss it, but we had a good friend stand as proxy. It was a gathering of the usual suspects, other young families of Christendom's class of 2008. Thankfully, I found I wasn't nearly as bothered by it as I would have been six months ago.
At this point, more than a year removed from losing Little Dave, I'm probably about as over it as I ever will be. The last few weeks in particular have been much better, all things considered. Everyone's personal tragedy has a social expiration date, after which one really shouldn't keep nagging Facebook about it, or look for ways to bring it up in conversation. The world has moved on, even if I feel like I physically haven't. Being alone has really brought it all to the forefront lately. If you've seen the movie, "Into Great Silence," that's what it's like around our apartment, and not in a good way. I got married because I was no good at the contemplative life. Yet, here I am.
They say you never think it will be you. I know I never did. My life had been picture perfect vanilla until two years ago. I had a lovely childhood with no serious injuries, illnesses, or setbacks, cruised through school, went to college, met a great guy who is so much like me he could be a long lost twin, and was engaged a year after graduation. We did have some suspicion that the matter of children could be dicey just because of certain aspects of our medical history, but we didn't let it dampen our spirits too much. We were married in January and pregnant by Easter, but then all our expectations began to crumble rapidly.
I had been looking forward to those kids for years. I remember a specific trash bag commercial I saw during those weeks while I was waiting to follow Dave to California after the wedding. I was sure Dave would be an excellent father and make adorable children, probably even cuter than that kid.
Needless to say, my expectations of my life have changed significantly. At this point, taking all my medical setbacks into consideration along with our hypothetical genetic issues and my apparent inability to carry to term, I am resigned to the fact that we'll never actually be able to raise those adorable children we were supposed to have. At least, not any that are biologically our own. Some people just knock harder when that door refuses to open. I tend to take the hint and accept the rejection before we waste a lot of money or I really hurt myself trying.
I have no problem whatsoever with adopting. That's currently the five-year plan. What actually still bothers me - more so while he's not around to tell me I'm being stupid for thinking it - is that Dave deserved to have his own family. I feel like the defective one in this relationship. He was wonderful throughout the whole ordeal, but he never asked for all this. Of course, no one does, but I was mortified, particularly because the timing could not have been worse for him, BOTH times. I married him to be a help and support, not an invalid who can't stay out of the hospital or muster up enough strength to feed herself. Part of what has scared me away from deliberately attempting another pregnancy is the thought that the black icing on the cake would be for me to die of uterine rupture and leave him completely high and dry. I can't even bear the thought. I've already failed him often enough.
In the meantime, most of our friends have budding families with all the traditional milestones, baptisms, first teeth, first steps, first birthdays. Their blogs and Facebook pages are full of happy pictures and updates. It can be extremely bittersweet. I've invested a lot of mental effort into trying to feel blessed to have two saints rather than merely deprived of viable offspring, and some days are better than others.
In order to move on and be functional we almost have to forget, but we really don't want to forget anything because we already have little enough to remember, and the only memories we have are of hospitals and heartbreak. I feel guilty when I forget. It seems particularly hard while there aren't any other children demanding my attention. Instinctively I feel like I should spend time with them now and then, but what that has basically amounted to up to this point is sitting on the couch and thinking about what we could have been doing.
One lesson I have learned, or at least finally come to accept, is that none of us is entitled to anything in this life. Their normal may not be our normal. Our normal is not what we thought it would be, but we are expected to make something of it, and in the end it will be for the best. Eventually it will be like cheese. For almost a year I went dairy free and felt painfully deprived each time I saw a pizza. But after several months I just accepted that cheese was only for other people and that I would have to be happy with something else. Eventually I forgot what cheese tasted like.
Meanwhile, I'm trying to pull it together to be the tough Navy wife with nerves of steel who can handle anything. I refuse to fail at anything else, because that would just be lame. So long as I have some meaningful human contact at least once a week, I'll stay sane. I actually don't know exactly how long Dave has been gone. I don't remember, and I haven't kept track. It's easier that way, since I don't know when he'll be back.
In any case, being alone has given me the chance to confront all my issues and pull my life back together for its own sake. My life is still awesome, even with all it's apparent flaws. I haven't been permanently traumatized, and the only substance I have ever abused is chocolate. I'm determined to get this show back on the road despite the detour. I haven't quite achieved the goal of domestic warrior demigoddess, but just you wait.
Yesterday was Baby Alexis' official due date, although he/she would probably have been earlier, more of a Christmas baby. Left this world on June 25, 2010, at 12 weeks and 3 days.
Baby #2 hit 12 weeks and 3 days on Gaudete Sunday, otherwise known as the pink Sunday of Advent. It seemed like more than a coincidence. Still hoping and praying.
