I've miscarried three times.
The first time, I barely knew about it. I know I've mentioned this and I'm repeating myself, but, it's how I process. I slept during a huge family dinner and my family thought I was dying because I didn't realise I was bleeding as badly, but I passed it off as a really bad period and they never suspected otherwise. No one found out about it until years after, when I miscarried the second time and divulged the information infront of my aunt.
The second time, I was with D. I was further along than the first pregnancy, but only about 8-9 weeks. Only made it to the first doctor's appointment, where they set you up with so many pee cups that you basically feel like you should be peeing into them instead of the toilet. I found out while my life was in turmoil, my boyfriend was in jail and I was trying to keep my life together and move the fuck out of a really nice place and into the ghetto hole I could afford. I told more people that time, but mainly because I was completely alone. When I started to miscarry, I drove myself. When I bled so badly the doctors were amazed I wasn't passed out, I was alone. My family was in the States for a wedding, and I had secluded myself to the point where I had only a handful of friends, and most did not drive or had no way to come to be with me at the hospital. It didn't matter, though, really. I was in quarantine because I was super sick, and with the drugs they gave me to stop the fetus from further stretching and possibly rupturing my tube, I was in a less than pleasant mood. The fact I couldn't even lean on my boyfriend, who, was still in jail at the time, made things more painful and made me more aware of my fuck ups than anything.
Bug was the third pregnancy. This one happened... way too soon. I admit to going through things, and dealing with them in a less than classy manner, but, whatever. Ya learn from your shitty mistakes. I got pregnant, I think, the day after my body decided it was healed from the second miscarriage. Did you know that even if you don't have an actual baby in your hands after it's all said and done, your body still takes at least 6 months to 'right' itself? For your eyesight, if it was bad, to go back to being as bad as it was, for your uterus to heal and for your body to be prepared to house another life. I mean, you can do it before, obviously, and it can take a lot longer too, but the average is 6 months. It was around six months after I miscarried and dumped D that I met Rockstar and got knocked up.
I wrote about Rockstar and the getting knocked up bit in part one. I missed the part where my grief for Bug is also intertwined with the loss of my uncle, who died either the week before or week after I conceived Bug. Either way, my entire family, who all knew about Bug because I had lasted almost into the 'safe' zone, they were all convinced that Bug was a sign from my uncle Pete that shit would be okay. That our family would be fine, and we'd have someone to focus on instead of grieve relentlessly, like we've been doing now.
I've meshed that, along with the bullshit that is going on with D, into losing Bug. Those things, finding out everything about D, and losing Bug, they all happened so closely together, in the span of less than a year, that it's really difficult for me to separate everything. I know logically and rationally that none of those things are related, but emotionally, I can't remove each thing. I think this is part of why it's taken me so long to move on from it, taken me so long to accept everything.
When I lost Bug, I had a friend I cared deeply for (still do, even with all the distance because of that event) staying with me. He had flown in from the east coast for a Superbowl weekend, and we were having a great weekend. I was still having cravings for really random, really healthy shit, so he was teasing me for that. We had brought my mattress into the living room so we would have a place to crash, because I was like an old lady who fell asleep halfway through the Superbowl. I remember waking up at 6am the morning after, having to pee, but something felt wrong.
I braced myself, calmed my nerves and crept to the bathroom where I found my underwear soaked in blood and a trickle running down my leg. I cried, but wasn't long or wet tears. My heart shattered, and it hurt to breathe for the next two minutes, while I peed and sat on the toilet, trying to think of where I had packed the pads and what I was going to do. I knew what was happening, after all. Two miscarriages already under my belt, it was something I was familiar with. I didn't really need to go to the doctors, but the pain was pretty intense and I was afraid that a tube or something had burst, so I changed, got shit all packed and ready and woke my friend up.
I hate the fucking nurses at my local hospital. I mean, I undersatnd that they're trying to do their job, but I was going in already with the knowledge I was losing my baby, and my friend, lord love him, was panicking because I wasn't showing emotion. I'm not that girl who bawls unless I broke something, or it seriously fucking hurts. I cry in private, because that's how I roll.
So, nurses were downright cunts, and I waited for four hours before a doctor even looked at my chart. I had lost a lot of blood, but that was expected and I wasn't really expecting anything special to happen. I just wanted to make sure I wasn't going to bleed out, y'know? That shit's kind of hard to get out of the carpet, and I was renting. So, doctor came in, did an ultrasound, confirmed I was miscarrying, and warned me that it was going to hurt because of the size of the fetus. I shrugged, because, thanks tips- further along, I bet that shit's probably bigger. 11 weeks and 5 days, to be exact. I made it almost 3 weeks further than the last pregnancy.
Anyways. I had to sit in the emergency waiting discharge room type thing, where OF COURSE there is a new family waiting, because the baby had a cold or something and the new mom was freaking the fuck out. I mean, karma seriously has loved to kick me straight in the cunt on my good days, kids. The new baby in the room bothered my friend more than me, because I was busy texting and calling my friends and family who knew to let them know. Eventually that was all done and I was still waiting (four hours later, I'd be able to go home), and the New Dad had left to go somewhere (probably get away from his crazy fucking wife) so the New Mom was left alone with the kid. Kid starts crying, Mom picks him up and starts walking, which brings her closer to me.
She makes small talk, and I'm morbid so I explain softly that I'm miscarrying right now. The crazy bitch then asks me “Oh, and they can't do anything about that?” and I look at her like she has five fucking heads. I shook my head, because words could not have been formed at that point. Then she asks me what it's like, having a miscarriage. While holding her newborn son, she asks me this. I, being the ridiculously polite human that I am, explain exactly what happens, and what it feels like. In every detail. To the point where she then backs away slowly, sits down and thinks about it. She didn't understand how I had just 'lost' the baby, but she wasn't stupid enough to ask if I felt sad about it.
Her husband came in halfway through, figured out what I was in for (I feel like a prisoner every time I say that) and took her out as soon as it was clear I had reached my limit of 'Educate the Moron Day'.
I was eventually released, and had gone back home to sleep and bleed, basically.
And then the pain started. Intense, crazy bad, my body went into labour and I wasn't at the hospital so all I had was some Advil. I stuck it out for four hours at home of puking from pain and blood clots the size of my fist (I shit you not, I had to get the plunger because my toilet was ghetto and wouldn't flush a couple of them down the drain) and finally my friend picked me up and took me back to the hospital. My parents had to come then, because they weren't sure if I needed surgery or what have you. I had probably the best nurse and doctor in the fucking place, because they picked up on my morbid sense of humor and sarcasm and rolled with it. When it was decided (oh yeah, WAY TOO MUCH INFORMATION ABOUT MY LADY BITS COMING UP) that they'd have to go in and remove the fetus/sac/shit that kept my cervix dilated and open and profusely bleeding, the doctor asked if I wanted to roll or walk. I chose walk and he warned me if I passed out from the sudden blood loss he'd slap me with a wet cloth. My dad at the time was racing up and down the hall of the ER in a wheelchair, of course.
When my legs were up in the stirrups and the nurse had used my body as a prep table (seriously. I had to help take the shit out by holding all the gauze pads and other shit she needed) the doctor looked up from my junk and confirmed that I was aware I couldn't save the baby. I mocked him and acted shocked, asking him why he couldn't save my baby. He thought I was serious enough for a second that his face paled, but the nurse smacked me and told me to smarten up or she'd make him use the big needle.
No needles were actually involved. Instead, much to the dismay of my local doctor (I guess I should have gone under for it? It was supposed to be a super painful thing?) they did a sort of D&C. I only say sort of because according to people (aka my family doctor and nurses) I should have been put under, so it must not have been that, but to my understanding a D&C is when they go in and take all the shit out so you stop bleeding your blood supply out.
Waited twenty minutes, doctor asked if I wanted the good drugs (seriously. He even winked.) and I said no, I wanted my bed, and clean clothes (bloody, bloody mess. They let me go back to my room after the procedure with the bloody scrubs they had me put on when I got there, so I pretended to be a zombie coming back. My dad, fyi, hates blood and needles. Probably the best part of that whole experience was seeing him faint.) so they released me and I went home.
Worst thing work could have done, was make me take the week leave. I only wanted the extra night off, because I knew I'd be in pain and need to be able to pass out when it got to be too much, but work literally turned me away when I tried to take my shifts back. I love them, but I think I've proven that I overthink shit too much and work would have kept me more focused. So I had a week off, where I laid on my couch and watched Jersey Shore and Days of Our Lives and The Young and the Restless.
I go tonight at 630 to get the placement of the tattoo finalized and to get the tattoo done. I'm only showing/telling people who read my blog and a few friends who know me more 'real life' than you guys. I'm not hiding it, but I am. I love that I'm getting this tattoo, and I'm not regretting it in the least, it's just... this will be one of the tattoos I don't gush about. I have four tattoos I'll gush about, and one that's my 'rebel' tattoo (a black rose on my leg- it means more than me ignoring my mother when I was 18, but to explain all the meanings takes too long) but this tattoo is more... for me. It's going on my left ribcage, because my right side is taken up, and it'll be the first tattoo I get that has any colour to it.
Three footprints, two smallish, one mediumish which will be light blue. I'm super stoked for the actual process, it's been almost a year, but I'm also excited to have it. I just hope no one tries to tackle me or anything, because that will hurt like a mother fucker.
I love all of you, by the way. You guys are amazing, and fantastic, and reading everything you all say, has been awesome. Thank you for being here, and being my friend. I'd cut a bitch for all of you. Ninja style.
The first time, I barely knew about it. I know I've mentioned this and I'm repeating myself, but, it's how I process. I slept during a huge family dinner and my family thought I was dying because I didn't realise I was bleeding as badly, but I passed it off as a really bad period and they never suspected otherwise. No one found out about it until years after, when I miscarried the second time and divulged the information infront of my aunt.
The second time, I was with D. I was further along than the first pregnancy, but only about 8-9 weeks. Only made it to the first doctor's appointment, where they set you up with so many pee cups that you basically feel like you should be peeing into them instead of the toilet. I found out while my life was in turmoil, my boyfriend was in jail and I was trying to keep my life together and move the fuck out of a really nice place and into the ghetto hole I could afford. I told more people that time, but mainly because I was completely alone. When I started to miscarry, I drove myself. When I bled so badly the doctors were amazed I wasn't passed out, I was alone. My family was in the States for a wedding, and I had secluded myself to the point where I had only a handful of friends, and most did not drive or had no way to come to be with me at the hospital. It didn't matter, though, really. I was in quarantine because I was super sick, and with the drugs they gave me to stop the fetus from further stretching and possibly rupturing my tube, I was in a less than pleasant mood. The fact I couldn't even lean on my boyfriend, who, was still in jail at the time, made things more painful and made me more aware of my fuck ups than anything.
Bug was the third pregnancy. This one happened... way too soon. I admit to going through things, and dealing with them in a less than classy manner, but, whatever. Ya learn from your shitty mistakes. I got pregnant, I think, the day after my body decided it was healed from the second miscarriage. Did you know that even if you don't have an actual baby in your hands after it's all said and done, your body still takes at least 6 months to 'right' itself? For your eyesight, if it was bad, to go back to being as bad as it was, for your uterus to heal and for your body to be prepared to house another life. I mean, you can do it before, obviously, and it can take a lot longer too, but the average is 6 months. It was around six months after I miscarried and dumped D that I met Rockstar and got knocked up.
I wrote about Rockstar and the getting knocked up bit in part one. I missed the part where my grief for Bug is also intertwined with the loss of my uncle, who died either the week before or week after I conceived Bug. Either way, my entire family, who all knew about Bug because I had lasted almost into the 'safe' zone, they were all convinced that Bug was a sign from my uncle Pete that shit would be okay. That our family would be fine, and we'd have someone to focus on instead of grieve relentlessly, like we've been doing now.
I've meshed that, along with the bullshit that is going on with D, into losing Bug. Those things, finding out everything about D, and losing Bug, they all happened so closely together, in the span of less than a year, that it's really difficult for me to separate everything. I know logically and rationally that none of those things are related, but emotionally, I can't remove each thing. I think this is part of why it's taken me so long to move on from it, taken me so long to accept everything.
When I lost Bug, I had a friend I cared deeply for (still do, even with all the distance because of that event) staying with me. He had flown in from the east coast for a Superbowl weekend, and we were having a great weekend. I was still having cravings for really random, really healthy shit, so he was teasing me for that. We had brought my mattress into the living room so we would have a place to crash, because I was like an old lady who fell asleep halfway through the Superbowl. I remember waking up at 6am the morning after, having to pee, but something felt wrong.
I braced myself, calmed my nerves and crept to the bathroom where I found my underwear soaked in blood and a trickle running down my leg. I cried, but wasn't long or wet tears. My heart shattered, and it hurt to breathe for the next two minutes, while I peed and sat on the toilet, trying to think of where I had packed the pads and what I was going to do. I knew what was happening, after all. Two miscarriages already under my belt, it was something I was familiar with. I didn't really need to go to the doctors, but the pain was pretty intense and I was afraid that a tube or something had burst, so I changed, got shit all packed and ready and woke my friend up.
I hate the fucking nurses at my local hospital. I mean, I undersatnd that they're trying to do their job, but I was going in already with the knowledge I was losing my baby, and my friend, lord love him, was panicking because I wasn't showing emotion. I'm not that girl who bawls unless I broke something, or it seriously fucking hurts. I cry in private, because that's how I roll.
So, nurses were downright cunts, and I waited for four hours before a doctor even looked at my chart. I had lost a lot of blood, but that was expected and I wasn't really expecting anything special to happen. I just wanted to make sure I wasn't going to bleed out, y'know? That shit's kind of hard to get out of the carpet, and I was renting. So, doctor came in, did an ultrasound, confirmed I was miscarrying, and warned me that it was going to hurt because of the size of the fetus. I shrugged, because, thanks tips- further along, I bet that shit's probably bigger. 11 weeks and 5 days, to be exact. I made it almost 3 weeks further than the last pregnancy.
Anyways. I had to sit in the emergency waiting discharge room type thing, where OF COURSE there is a new family waiting, because the baby had a cold or something and the new mom was freaking the fuck out. I mean, karma seriously has loved to kick me straight in the cunt on my good days, kids. The new baby in the room bothered my friend more than me, because I was busy texting and calling my friends and family who knew to let them know. Eventually that was all done and I was still waiting (four hours later, I'd be able to go home), and the New Dad had left to go somewhere (probably get away from his crazy fucking wife) so the New Mom was left alone with the kid. Kid starts crying, Mom picks him up and starts walking, which brings her closer to me.
She makes small talk, and I'm morbid so I explain softly that I'm miscarrying right now. The crazy bitch then asks me “Oh, and they can't do anything about that?” and I look at her like she has five fucking heads. I shook my head, because words could not have been formed at that point. Then she asks me what it's like, having a miscarriage. While holding her newborn son, she asks me this. I, being the ridiculously polite human that I am, explain exactly what happens, and what it feels like. In every detail. To the point where she then backs away slowly, sits down and thinks about it. She didn't understand how I had just 'lost' the baby, but she wasn't stupid enough to ask if I felt sad about it.
Her husband came in halfway through, figured out what I was in for (I feel like a prisoner every time I say that) and took her out as soon as it was clear I had reached my limit of 'Educate the Moron Day'.
I was eventually released, and had gone back home to sleep and bleed, basically.
And then the pain started. Intense, crazy bad, my body went into labour and I wasn't at the hospital so all I had was some Advil. I stuck it out for four hours at home of puking from pain and blood clots the size of my fist (I shit you not, I had to get the plunger because my toilet was ghetto and wouldn't flush a couple of them down the drain) and finally my friend picked me up and took me back to the hospital. My parents had to come then, because they weren't sure if I needed surgery or what have you. I had probably the best nurse and doctor in the fucking place, because they picked up on my morbid sense of humor and sarcasm and rolled with it. When it was decided (oh yeah, WAY TOO MUCH INFORMATION ABOUT MY LADY BITS COMING UP) that they'd have to go in and remove the fetus/sac/shit that kept my cervix dilated and open and profusely bleeding, the doctor asked if I wanted to roll or walk. I chose walk and he warned me if I passed out from the sudden blood loss he'd slap me with a wet cloth. My dad at the time was racing up and down the hall of the ER in a wheelchair, of course.
When my legs were up in the stirrups and the nurse had used my body as a prep table (seriously. I had to help take the shit out by holding all the gauze pads and other shit she needed) the doctor looked up from my junk and confirmed that I was aware I couldn't save the baby. I mocked him and acted shocked, asking him why he couldn't save my baby. He thought I was serious enough for a second that his face paled, but the nurse smacked me and told me to smarten up or she'd make him use the big needle.
No needles were actually involved. Instead, much to the dismay of my local doctor (I guess I should have gone under for it? It was supposed to be a super painful thing?) they did a sort of D&C. I only say sort of because according to people (aka my family doctor and nurses) I should have been put under, so it must not have been that, but to my understanding a D&C is when they go in and take all the shit out so you stop bleeding your blood supply out.
Waited twenty minutes, doctor asked if I wanted the good drugs (seriously. He even winked.) and I said no, I wanted my bed, and clean clothes (bloody, bloody mess. They let me go back to my room after the procedure with the bloody scrubs they had me put on when I got there, so I pretended to be a zombie coming back. My dad, fyi, hates blood and needles. Probably the best part of that whole experience was seeing him faint.) so they released me and I went home.
Worst thing work could have done, was make me take the week leave. I only wanted the extra night off, because I knew I'd be in pain and need to be able to pass out when it got to be too much, but work literally turned me away when I tried to take my shifts back. I love them, but I think I've proven that I overthink shit too much and work would have kept me more focused. So I had a week off, where I laid on my couch and watched Jersey Shore and Days of Our Lives and The Young and the Restless.
I go tonight at 630 to get the placement of the tattoo finalized and to get the tattoo done. I'm only showing/telling people who read my blog and a few friends who know me more 'real life' than you guys. I'm not hiding it, but I am. I love that I'm getting this tattoo, and I'm not regretting it in the least, it's just... this will be one of the tattoos I don't gush about. I have four tattoos I'll gush about, and one that's my 'rebel' tattoo (a black rose on my leg- it means more than me ignoring my mother when I was 18, but to explain all the meanings takes too long) but this tattoo is more... for me. It's going on my left ribcage, because my right side is taken up, and it'll be the first tattoo I get that has any colour to it.
Three footprints, two smallish, one mediumish which will be light blue. I'm super stoked for the actual process, it's been almost a year, but I'm also excited to have it. I just hope no one tries to tackle me or anything, because that will hurt like a mother fucker.
I love all of you, by the way. You guys are amazing, and fantastic, and reading everything you all say, has been awesome. Thank you for being here, and being my friend. I'd cut a bitch for all of you. Ninja style.
6 comments:
words escape me at what you've been through. hope the blog is helping. love the tattoo - sounds beautiful xo
Claire
You know, I'm reading this shit at work trying not to cry.
I'm sorry for everything. I'm sorry for the time you had no one and for having shitty nurses. And mostly I'm sorry that you've been through this 3 fucking times. It's unfair. I've been there once and I don't think I could have survived it again.
As for the question of the D&C, what you had was absolutely a D&C. They usually do knock you out, but not always. I had one after Nicholas was born to scrape out all the placenta and shit that was stuck in there. I also went into labor and was begging for drugs that I never got. My nurse was awesome though and set up my IV while I was waiting to go into the operating room (mine was scheduled after we found out he died) so they could knock me out immediately. Of course the irony is that he literally fell out of me as I stood up to get onto the operating table and the pain was gone after that. And then like a minute later they knocked me out when I didn't fucking need it anymore.
Be sure to post pictures of your tattoo. I want to see it!
:( I don't know what to say.....other than I've miscarried too. You think that would make it easy for me to know what to say, but it doesn't. I think it makes it harder because I don't really know what I would want someone to say to me. Just know I'm thinking of you and good luck with your tattoo! :)
Claire- thank you.
Jaclyn- They gave me no drugs, either. I didn't really ask, though, I just wanted that shit done and over with. Pictures will come soon, and I'm sorry if I made you cry.
L-Kat- Miscarriage is always hard. Once you know, you know. I don't know what to say to anyone either. I'm too blunt and brutal. Thanks for reading, though. :)
My twin boys are actually survivors of a set of triplets. Their brother, Will, who weighed only 2 pounds, 3 ounces at birth lived for six days and then died in my arms at the NICU. I have his footprints tattooed on my side as well -- yet another way that you and I are connected. :) I love you.
PS: My word verification is "unwaver". It seems fitting.
I have never had a miscarriage. I will start with that. But I will say that I thought I was having one. With my first son I started bleeding profusely right around the same time in my pregnancy as when you lost Bug. It took hours of sitting at home crying, waiting at the hospital, and then finally getting an ultrasound, before I saw that the baby was still swimming around in there. I say all this just to say that although I have never experienced that loss that you and so many other woman (many many in my family and a few friends) have felt, for a few hours I too experienced that stark horror and sadness, as I was completely convinced that I had lost the baby. So I have a very small sense of what you were going through. And I am so so sorry for what you had to deal with.
I am so glad that you felt you could share this and I hope that in the writing and telling of the tale that this has helped on your journey to heal.
Jen-I had no idea about Will. That must have been horrifically awful to have him for that brief time and then lose him, but I'm sure it makes you that much more appreciative of your 2 short people. HUGS girl.
HUGS to both of you.
(and along with Jaclyn, I am having a hard time not crying at work).
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