We were on our way to a wedding when it happened. The doctor's had told us that bleeding was common, that I was still very early and not to worry. I told myself that I wouldn't write about it. Ever since it happened, I swore up and down that I wouldn't; swore that I wouldn't even mention it outside of family and a small circle of friends who make up my support system.
I feel like I've done a good job, feel that I've managed to overcome it. Maybe not forget that it happened altogether, but there are days that go by where I don't think about it, and that is a small blessing in itself. Because when I do think about it, I'm back in the July heat in that squalid South Carolina bathroom, back in that backwoods urgent care facility while a doctor pokes and prods at the rawest part of me and tells me "You're fine. There's nothing there."
And then there are days like today. Where all of sudden it's there again in all of its nightmarish ferocity, threatening to tear me open from the inside out. It was a simple mistake, I'm sure. They probably just forgot to remove my name from a mailing list.
From my doctor this morning came a reminder email to schedule my 6 month ultrasound. As of Halloween, I would have known the sex of the baby I lost in July. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I've continued to keep count of the days until deadlines like this. Halloween for the sex; February for my due date. Of course, this counting had become largely subconscious, like blinking or breathing, but largely, I'd let myself start to heal.
Seeing this reminder of the child I lost ripped through me like a cold wind. Had it lived, I'd have been showing by now. Maybe even picked out a name, started decorating a nursery. The email, however good the intentions were, left me reelilng and violently angry.
Miscarriage is common amongst first and early pregnancy, and while I may feel that my story is unique, that no other woman could have possibly experienced the type of grief that I had, it simply isn't true. Because there are so many other women who have shared my pain. I wanted my doctor to understand being part of a larger statistic doesn't invalidate this hurt, shouldn't allow such callousness on his office's part. I wish I could say this is the first time they've made such a mistake, but it isn't. During a follow up visit, I was asked how far along I was despite my chart that clearly indicated that the pregnancy had ended.
I was afraid, ashamed even, of people knowing, of their questioning why I would share such intimate information. But now, I feel a need to not hide it in the dark any more. It happened. It cannot be taken back. Not for me and not for thousands of other women.
I cannot forget. No matter how hard I try. No matter what I do to distract myself the memory is ever present, an indelible part of me that cannot be removed as easily as deletion from a mailing list.
And even though it hurt, I realized I don't want to forget. Not completely.
I feel like I've done a good job, feel that I've managed to overcome it. Maybe not forget that it happened altogether, but there are days that go by where I don't think about it, and that is a small blessing in itself. Because when I do think about it, I'm back in the July heat in that squalid South Carolina bathroom, back in that backwoods urgent care facility while a doctor pokes and prods at the rawest part of me and tells me "You're fine. There's nothing there."
And then there are days like today. Where all of sudden it's there again in all of its nightmarish ferocity, threatening to tear me open from the inside out. It was a simple mistake, I'm sure. They probably just forgot to remove my name from a mailing list.
From my doctor this morning came a reminder email to schedule my 6 month ultrasound. As of Halloween, I would have known the sex of the baby I lost in July. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I've continued to keep count of the days until deadlines like this. Halloween for the sex; February for my due date. Of course, this counting had become largely subconscious, like blinking or breathing, but largely, I'd let myself start to heal.
Seeing this reminder of the child I lost ripped through me like a cold wind. Had it lived, I'd have been showing by now. Maybe even picked out a name, started decorating a nursery. The email, however good the intentions were, left me reelilng and violently angry.
Miscarriage is common amongst first and early pregnancy, and while I may feel that my story is unique, that no other woman could have possibly experienced the type of grief that I had, it simply isn't true. Because there are so many other women who have shared my pain. I wanted my doctor to understand being part of a larger statistic doesn't invalidate this hurt, shouldn't allow such callousness on his office's part. I wish I could say this is the first time they've made such a mistake, but it isn't. During a follow up visit, I was asked how far along I was despite my chart that clearly indicated that the pregnancy had ended.
I was afraid, ashamed even, of people knowing, of their questioning why I would share such intimate information. But now, I feel a need to not hide it in the dark any more. It happened. It cannot be taken back. Not for me and not for thousands of other women.
I cannot forget. No matter how hard I try. No matter what I do to distract myself the memory is ever present, an indelible part of me that cannot be removed as easily as deletion from a mailing list.
And even though it hurt, I realized I don't want to forget. Not completely.
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