Scarred

In looking back at what I wrote concerning my first miscarriage, I find myself reaching for the comfort and solace in words once more, only this time, there is no beauty in these words. Instead I find a rawness, a coldness that cannot be removed by searching for the perfect arrangement of words. I wish I could.

I expected to be sad. What I did not expect was the irrationally powerful anger and overwhelming bitterness. Certainly I experienced something similar last summer when I lost my first pregnancy, but we were so hopeful this time, so intent that this time it would work. I cannot speak for my husband, but I wanted to trust the numbers, wanted to believe that while miscarriage is common in the first pregnancy, that 85% of women will go on to have a successful, healthy second pregnancy. I am not one of these women.

We stared at that second pink line for several minutes, both of us disbelieving in that moment that what we both wanted had finally happened again. We wondered if we should tell our families. We laughed, we talked about how good we felt this time, how much faith we had in this pregnancy. We told our families. The day after we made the announcement, I began bleeding.

Along with the anger, what is most disturbing is that despite my grief, most of what I felt was a dullness, and even more frightening the acceptance that I somehow knew this was bound to happen. I had the thought that I had become used to this, and the idea numbed me.  The next day I found myself laughing and immediately felt ashamed. How could I laugh? How could I possibly find joy in anything given what had just happened? Some people might say that laughter is a part of healing, but it chafed at me regardless.

And the anger. It’s the beast in my belly, threatening to consume and drown. I see other women with their babies, their families clear faced and smiling; I see other women with swollen bellies, their skin stretched tight and eyes peaceful, happy with the life inside of them. These women are my close friends, my acquaintances, and every social nicety says I’m supposed to be happy for them, excited for the additions to their families. But I’m not. I want to throw back my head and howl. I want to curse. I want to tell them it isn’t fair. I want to ask them to take down their pictures, to not mention how wonderful it is to be pregnant or to have a baby. Don’t they understand? Their happiness cuts through me, and the wound is open and ragged. We’re supposed to coo over babies, marvel over pregnant women and their swollen ankles. I’m the monster who wishes they would disappear. And when I have these thoughts, I’m even more ashamed. My body is broken, and my capability to feel happiness for others even more so.

Tonight as I was running, Ben Harper’s “Amen Omen” began to play, and while I have always loved the song, I had to stop it for the fear that I would begin sobbing right there in the park amongst the other joggers. It goes

What started as a whisper,

Slowly turned in to a scream.

Searching for an answer

Where the question is unseen.

I don't know where you came from

And I dont know where you've gone.

Old friends become old strangers

Between the darkness and the dawn

Amen omen,will I see your face again?

Amen omen,can I find the place within

To live my life without you?

I still hear you saying

"All of life is chance,

And is sweetest,is sweetest when at a glance"

But I live,

I live a hundred lifetimes in a day.

But I die a little

In every breath that I take.

Amen omen,will I see your face again?

Amen omen,can I find the place within

To live my life without you?

I listen to a whisper,

Slowly drift away.

Silence is a loudest,

Parting word you never say.

I put I put your world

Into my veins

Now a voiceless sympathy

Is all that remains.

There are parts of me that will never be the same. There is a sense of faith and hope that has died, and while I wish I could say that I can trust in some higher power, that that force knows what is best, I find no solace in that. The only thing I know is that time may heal that which is broken, but, oh, how the scars remain.