The final kick-start to a long-pondered thought...

I have been toying with the idea of writing a blog for awhile.  I like the idea of being able to share with friends and family what's going on in our lives when we can't talk every day.  Unfortunately the impetus to finally starting the blog was not in the least desired.  Or in other words, the reason I'm finally starting is really crappy.

I've been wanting to record my thoughts and feelings so much over the past week and a bit on what's been happening.  I want to tell people, but it's such a hard conversation to start and have.  It would seem that being blunt is the only way to get it out.  I'm on the tail-end of a miscarriage.  This has been a horrendous, horrible nightmare.  Luckily I've had some truly remarkable people help me have brighter moments.  This is really tough to talk about, but I wanted to put my thoughts down.

As a general warning to all, this may be TMI (too much information) for some.  Too bad.  Don't read it.  I'm not a person to sugarcoat or gloss over things.  Check back in a couple of weeks for other posts.

TUESDAY, April 2 @10pm
Mr. M and I were getting ready for bed.  I noticed some brown spotting after using the toilet and became rather alarmed.  I called my sister-in-law who's experienced this and asked her what I should do.  She reassured me that it was probably nothing to be worried about, having experienced spotting during multiple pregnancies.  I was somewhat mollified, but still worried. I think I may have also texted another friend for her opinion, and received pretty much the same answer; it's probably nothing, don't stress out too much.  I had a hard time falling asleep that night, being worried but trying not to get too worked up.  Reading a friend's blog helped to pass the time.  I probably read over a year of posts, taking over 2 hours.

WEDNESDAY
Have an appointment booked with my doctor for later that morning, just before lunch.  There is now some red mixed in with the brown.  I don't have a whole lot coming out, just mainly see it when I wipe after going to the bathroom.  I am now starting to google like mad, trying to figure out what's going on.  Most websites offer grim +news.  I can't believe its a miscarriage, there's no pain, no cramping!  No, it's just some spotting.  Yet, the doubt and unease creeps in, apprehension building.
I leave E with her dayhome-mommy and head over to the appointment.  The doctor and I talk about what's going on and she decides to do an exam.  I was just over 9 weeks pregnant, so it was too early to hear the baby's heartbeat using the doppler monitor, but she tried anyways, for my sake.  I had never wanted to hear a baby's heartbeat more.  She worked really hard trying to find it so that we could hear it, moving the probe around for 4-5 minutes.  She showed me on the screen the heart rates the machine was picking; 79 was mine; 152, 161, 141 were the baby's.  I felt better, she could find the heart rate, and even though it was slightly erratic, the baby was obviously alive and okay.  A wave of relief washed over me.  "Okay, so I'm just spotting, I figure I will be told to go on bed rest for a little while.  That sucks but I can handle it"  The doctor wants to do a visual exam, just to confirm that things are alright.  She requested to see my pad to get an idea of how much blood was coming out (Okay, eww!) before having me lay back on the exam table.  She, like me, feels happy with how little has shown up on the pad.  This is good.  Then comes the exam that every woman loves.  As soon as she put the speculum in and saw inside she said "There's a lot more blood that I thought there would be.  I think you're losing the baby."  No softening that blow, just said it straight out.  Instant fear, cold sweeping down my body.  I didn't want to hear it and I definitely didn't want to believe it.
She wheels back over to her computer and starts typing out things, different requisitions for further tests.  Meanwhile I'm lying on the table, covered from the waist down with a thin paper blanket, my legs still in the stirrups, hearing her words repeating over and over in my mind and thinking:  "This can't be happening.  She's made a mistake.  We saw the baby's heart rate; it's still alive.  She's wrong.  She's wrong.  She's wrong."  Like a mantra, repeating over and over in the back of my head.  I am struggling to follow what she's saying, what I need to do next.  Okay, get an ultrasound, go for blood work, take things easy for the next few days.  Because English isn't her native tongue, and because I'm reeling from what she's said, I'm having a difficult time concentrating on her words.  I'm trying to hold it together while my world is falling apart.  As I stare at her, trying to follow what she's saying, a few tears roll down the side of my face.  Surreptitiously I wipe them away, not wanting to cry in front of this stranger.  She must have seen the tears because she then rolls over to sit next to me as I'm lying on the bed.  Awkwardly she pats my shoulder and tells me it's probably for the best.  She knew this was an unplanned pregnancy and I'd had trouble conjuring up a lot of enthusiasm for it in our first visit together.  So maybe it was really okay that it wasn't going to happen because I hadn't really wanted it.  Also, because I've been struggling with my depression again, it just wouldn't have helped in that department either. Quoting medical jargon to me, saying miscarriages are common, even more so than what we may at first expect because it can disguise itself as a heavy period, blah blah blah.  She wouldn't stop talking.  And you know how it is, when you're fighting tears, trying to hold it together, the worse thing someone can do is touch you, or try to console you in any way.  I kept trying to say "Okay, thank you", which is the polite way to indicate to another person that the conversation is over.  She did not get it.  Truly, I think she was trying to be supportive and encouraging.  But it was NOT what I wanted or needed.  I just wanted this woman to leave, so I could get off that stupid table, get dressed and go to my car.  Just leave me alone!  Finally, after some more shoulder pats and advice to just "keep a positive outlook" she left the room.
I couldn't look at Nurse Jessie, even though she's awesome, as I left the clinic.  I barely made it out the doors before I just started bawling.  How could this be happening?  She was mistaken, my baby couldn't be dead, we'd seen it's heart beat on the device.  How could a miscarriage happen when the baby's still alive?  I didn't understand.  It took me a few minutes to pull myself together enough to drive and pick up E.  When I get to day home-mommy's house, I'm totally rude, keeping my glasses on, picking up E and just leaving.  I felt terrible not telling Mrs. E anything, but I wouldn't have been able to hold it together enough to say anything, let alone share the doctor's prognosis.  I knew Matt would want to know what had happened.  I call him, and miracle of miracles, it goes to his voice mail.  I start out light, sharing how E had done that morning, talking about how cute her painted nails are.  Then I start telling what the doctor had said, trying to be positive and optimistic.  I start to falter when I tell him what she had said at the end.  Yes, it was cowardly to share this news in a voice mail, but I couldn't have gotten through any kind of conversation at that point.  Poor Mr. M, having to hear such a crappy voice mail.  He didn't deserve that. 
After feeding E lunch and putting her down for a nap, I read my scriptures, as I often do, before taking my own nap.  I was reading The Book of Mormon, and a couple of scriptures really stood out to me, specificically in the book of Enos, 1:12,15.  From those two scriptures I felt that if I just have enough faith and desire, that the Lord would provide a way for this baby to be okay, and for all this talk of miscarriage to stop.  In the back of my mind I knew that wasn't necessarily true, but I so badly wanted to believe.
Mr. M. and I felt it necessary to get a priesthood blessing that evening and we called our home teacher.  Mr. J and Mr. M.S. came over quickly.  Miss E was not sure what was going on and kept patting my leg.  I remember opening my eyes and seeing her standing in front of me, looking up at her Dad and the other men.  Mr. M. was getting emotional, right along with me during the blessing.  I reached out and rested my hand on his leg to offer my comfort.  Little E came over and would take my hand off her daddy's leg, and then place it back on.  I had been hoping that the Lord would promise me that the baby would be okay; that wasn't the case.  I do remember that I should trust in the Lord, that I should rely on my husband and that I should find the joy in being a mum to E.  When it was M's turn for a blessing, E sat on my lap with her arms folded and was so reverent.  I guess that's one of the main things I remember from the blessings, how reverent E was; folding her arms, sitting quietly and trying to comfort her mummy and daddy.
It was a hard night.  We talked to our sister-in-law and gave them the heads up on what had happened that day.  I was trying so desperately to stay positive and be optimistic for the ultrasound tomorrow.  I kept thinking about those scriptures and how if I was just faithful enough, then we would be blessed.

I stayed awake late that night.  I was too afraid to sleep, afraid for what we would find out the next day.  I also didn't want to leave my baby "alone".  It might not make sense to others, but I wanted it to know, if it could know, that I was there for it, keeping vigil throughout the night.  I would do anything in my power to keep it safe from harm.  I couldn't go to sleep with the thought that my baby's last moments might be when I was sleeping.  I didn't want it to feel abandoned, unwanted or unloved.  I was its Mummy and I would do everything in my physical and spiritual power to keep it here on Earth.

The bleeding continued throughout the night.

 
THURSDAY
M had already booked the afternoon off for a different reason.  At first I thought I would go to the ultrasound, booked for 1:30, on my own while he stayed home and watched E.  Friends, Mrs. M and Mrs. E, both thought I shouldn't be alone and that M should go with me.  So, once again, E went to her dayhome-mommy's house for her afternoon nap, while we went to the appointment.  Apprehension filled my gut as we drove to the clinic.  Continually praying as we drove, I was just trying to will everything to be okay.  I so desperately wanted it to be good news.  But I knew that it might not be, so I asked the Lord to just help me trust in Him, and if He was willing, to help me learn or understand what had happened.  To have some tangible reason why we couldn't have the baby.  Before we could go in and find out for certain what was going on, Matt and I had a prayer together.
The clinic, as so often is the case, was running behind.  I was distracted from my immediate worrying when I met the receptionist who checked us in; she had been a huge bully to me throughout Jr and Sr High, threatening to beat me up on multiple occasions, and then treating me horribly the rest of the time.  Wow, that was a blast from the past I hadn't expected.
They finally called us into the back to begin the exam.  The technician, Bev, was very kind when we told her why we were in.  My heart was in my throat as the images came onto the tv screen across the room.  Please, please be okay little baby.  Show us a wave, kick your leg, keep that heart beating strong so we can all see that you're okay.  It's always hard to tell what you're seeing in an ultrasound, and the acronyms they use for the different pictures they take are mostly unfamiliar.  There was any movement; no legs or arms waving around, no beating heart, nothing.  Bev gently touched my leg and said that she was having trouble finding the baby's heartbeat, and that she would like to do an internal-ultrasound.  For that I was, thankfully, allowed to go empty my bladder before starting.  I will spare the specifics, but it's a much more invasive procedure.  I didn't care.  Just show me that my baby is okay!
While performing the tests and taking the measurements, Bev asked if we were sure about our dates for when we conceived, how far along we were.  There was no doubt in my mind, and assured her that it was correct.  One of the measurements they take, the length from the head to the bum, shows the predicted gestational age of the baby.  I was just over 9 weeks pregnant at the time, I think it was 9w3d to be specific.  Each time she measured, it was showing the baby as being 7w4d, so a lot smaller than it should have been.  One of the last tests she did is when they show a secondary screen which is supposed to record the baby's heartbeat.  Instead of valleys and peaks, straight lines.  This is when I started to cry.  Seeing the pictures of the baby had been hard, with little discernible movement.  But seeing those straight lines brought in reality.  It was a full-body, silent sob.  I couldn't look at that screen anymore, couldn't take the truth that had silently unfolded.  The hope I'd kept in my heart was extinguished and it hurt.  She had a few more images to capture, which required her to be quite aggressive with the wand, and causing a lot of discomfort.  Supposedly my right ovary was very difficult to find, and I felt her pushing a lot of things, namely my cervix, around to find it.  The pain from the exam was beginning to match what I was feeling inside, both literally and figuratively speaking.  Once again, Bev patted my knee, hugging it to her as she said that she couldn't find a heart beat.  Hearing her say that sucked.  Big time.  She left the room to have the doctor review the images, leaving me to get dressed, telling us to take all the time we needed.  For the second time in as many days, I'm lying on an exam table, covered from the waist down with a thin paper blanket and my legs up, crying.  But these tears are different now, full-body sobs, holding tightly to Matthew's hand.  Oh, poor Matthew, he was having a hard time too.  Pulling myself off the bed, I once again dressed and waited for the doctor to officially pronounce the diagnosis.  Looking at Matthew was too difficult, I would just start crying and I had to hold it together, not wanting to cry in front of these strangers.  We sat there, in that darkened room and held onto one another's hand, waiting.

The doctor came in, told us her name, and said she wanted to do another exam.  A little flicker of hope ignited in my chest.  Maybe there was something the technician had missed.  Maybe the instruments had been faulty, not providing an accurate reading.  It was quickly apparent she wasn't as familiar with the machinery, asking the technician to help her do things.  Seeing those same images on the screen, with no miraculous changes to the picture broke me.  I turned my head to the side and looked over M's shoulder at the wall, reading and re-reading the sign stating that we should ask for pictures before the examination begins.  The doctor abruptly stopped whatever she'd been doing, apparently satisfied with the outcome.  She then turned to me and started to talk about how the baby was dead.  That this was a situation called a "Missed Abortion" and the baby had died but my body hadn't recognized it, how they were extremely common, what our options were now, blah blah blah.  I couldn't look at this woman who was so clinically describing the death of my second child.  The pauses in her statements indicated she was expecting some kind of response from me, but I couldn't even look at her.  Instead, I stared at that stupid sign barely able to breathe.  When one pause became uncomfortably long, I tried to say, while facing the wall, that I didn't mean to be rude but I couldn't talk... faltering as I tried to hold in more sobs.  I looked at M, pleading with my eyes for him to step in and be my voice.  He came through for me big-time.  I was so immensely grateful he had come with me, that he was here with me and for me.  Even though he was extremely upset himself, he was able to communicate for me and let her know that I couldn't look at her.  He was my champion and I love him for it.  When that woman finally left, leaving an awful ringing silence in her wake, I curled into a ball and started to cry again.  The cruelty of wanting to do another exam, inadvertently getting my hopes up, made the reality that much more bitter to take.
I had to go to the bathroom once more, and while I was occupied I heard M talking with the technician, Bev.  Stopping to ask if we were okay, M told her that the second test by the doctor had upset us both.  Afterwards, M relayed to me that she looked embarrassed and sympathetic when he mentioned how we were feeling, seeming indicate to us that she agreed that it was unnecessary and cruel.  Before being able to walk back out to the reception area, I stopped and put on my glasses.  Irrational though it may seem, I didn't want that girl I knew to see me when I was so raw feeling.  We were both so emotional, but trying to hold it together that we almost tried walking through a door marked hazardous, rather than the correct one.  Ya, real smooth.
The afternoon was a blur after that, marked only by the increasing pressure in my pelvic area.  Of the three options discussed as "remedies" for my condition, being a natural passing, medication or a D&C, I had hoped to have the third option.  Yet even that choice was taken away.  Whether due to the natural processes already happening, or in my opinion, the rough treatment due to the internal exam, my body was preparing to expel the baby.  Things became very painful around 5 that night.  Insistent and sharp, never letting up I tried to breathe my way through the pain, praying that the drugs I had taken would soon kick in.  They never really seemed to, maybe only temporarily dulling the pain from a 9 to an 8.  Randomly I would feel the need to go to the bathroom and push, which is when large blood clots would come out.  Varying in size from my flat hand to an egg, it seemed never ending.  One time, after passing a sizable clot, I sat on the floor in the bathroom and just started crying.  Little E, getting ready for bed, came into the room with me and started crying too.  She crawled into my lap to hug me and holding her helped to ease some of the pain, even if just for those brief moments.  Even though she's too little to understand, her desire to comfort and mourn with those who mourn touched my heart.  She is such a sweet little girl.  
The worst part of that long night was hearing, feeling and seeing everything.  I wished to be numb to it all.  With every large collection of tissues I would wonder if my baby was in there.  To flush the toilet felt so wrong.  I know that nothing would have been different if we were at the hospital, and in fact the privacy of our home allowed me to grieve.  Yet it seemed so wrong that I was flushing the remains of my baby down the toilet, worse than garbage.  It was the worst night of my life.  I would never wish that experience on anyone.
M was my rock, there with me when I needed him, providing support, encouragement, back rubs and love.  This was hard on him too, he is grieving and mourning our loss right along with me.  
It seemed to take forever, but things finally abated enough that I could sleep.  No longer worrying about taking medication, I stuffed myself with pain meds and fell into a fitful sleep, waking often to pass more clots and cry.



More to come...