The pain eventually fades after losing a baby, but the memory is never gone.
Two years ago.
When I knew it was over, I knew it was over.
But there was a thread I couldn’t snip. I lived like I was still pregnant. Like it would all be ok. I guess that thread was hope. Or denial. Maybe insanity.
I never really wrote about the nitty gritty of my miscarriage. I didn’t feel like it. But with the anniversary approaching, I began to think of those months during the waiting and bleeding.
In the hospital for the D&C, the nurses didn’t really know why I was there. There are plenty of reasons for a D&C. They must not have thought miscarriage for how bright and cheerful they were. How they acted as though we were all at some grand carnival. They were teasing me for not being jovial enough. I was somber. I just wanted to get it over with.
One nurse in particular was in and out of my curtained cubicle all day. It was a long wait.
She glanced through my file. She asked about medication in the past five years.
We had been to this hospital several times over the years.
Sperm analysis.
HSG.
Small procedures.
“What was all this for?”
“Um, Infertility.”
“Oh my God, did you hear that?!”
She whips open the curtain and yells across the corridor filled with patients and medical staff.
“This poor girl is going through infertility!”
I wanted to crawl under the gurney and pull my backless gown over my head. I was always very private about our conception struggles, and to have strangers yelling it through a crowd was humiliating to say the least.
The anesthesiologist was abrupt, impatient, and harsh. I didn’t fault her. She was busy. They had all of us packed into the OR waiting area like cattle. People from all walks of life, getting any and every minor surgery, were milling around or (like me) strapped down to a bed and being pumped full of saline.
When it was over I was drowsy and being yelled at to drink a Sprite and take my Percocet. They gave my sister her instructions. I told Mr.JAC he didn’t need to be there. Dumb on my part.
I warned the pretty, blond nurse that I don’t clot well as she started pulling the IV out of my forearm.
When we thought it was fine to leave they wheeled me to the front door only to freak out because my arm had bled out all over the floor and down the hall. People coming in the hospital door stared at me in horror as I sat in a wheel chair with about two pints of blood puddled around me on the floor. My wool coat was soggy and dripping red.
Another nurse who didn’t know where I came from grabbed me and wheeled me back at a run, thinking I was hurt. I laughed at the confusion back at the curtain cubes when she saw that all I needed was a tourniquet and a band aid.
Not much cramping. I only bled lightly for a week and spotted another two weeks. Twelve weeks of bleeding in total. But then, I am obviously a bleeder in every way. Always have been.
By the time the due date approached, I was pregnant with Lucky. Aside from some bleeding around seven weeks, and the kidney stones through the second and third trimesters, his was an uneventful pregnancy.
I was so wrapped up in my pregnancy with Lucky, the October due date for the prior passed without notice.
I remembered several days after the fact.
The anniversary of that due date passed again this October, again unnoticed.
It is certainly different when you have a child.
I’m not sure what is making me think of it this time. Maybe because the anniversary of the loss is just two weeks before Lucky’s first birthday. Lucky’s due date was two days after the confirmation of the miscarriage. I remember having mixed feelings about the chance of him being born on that anniversary.
Maybe I am remembering because I feel bad for not remembering the October Date. Not for myself, but for other women. I feel guilty for being casual about my own miscarriage. Like I am doing a disservice to other women who have had losses. By taking a moment to think about it, and feel, I am giving respect to those women. A nod of understanding and compassion.