I gave God two options on Monday: 1. That this bleeding thing was all some giant mistake and the baby was healthy and I could be like these women who could pass giant clots and bleed profusely and still somehow manage to have healthy babies. Or, 2. That if the baby could not survive, they end it now. I think it was a good system in that I had something to be grateful for at the end of the day. I am grateful that it ended quickly. That I only bought two maternity outfits. That I still have the receipt. That I still have, let’s see…one month left in which to conceive so that I can deliver a baby before my amazing insurance runs out.
I am depressed. I am in mourning. But another part of me has switched in to fighting mode and I’m finding this third loss highly practical. I was immediately on the phone with the midwives and the doctor and the fertility specialist. Before noon on Tuesday I had already researched and called 3 adoption agencies. I had bawled on the phone with the fertility people. By 5:00 PM the same day, I gave up on both options. Adoption is too damn expensive. Fertility treatments are too damn expensive. I’m better off financially buying private insurance and trying and failing for three years straight before I pursue either of those options. (And don’t recommend LDS Family Services to me. Their hoops and birthmother harassment are hardly worth the price tag.)
Maybe it’s a failure to cope with my emotions, but I’m doing better than last time. I even got out of the house for our fourth anniversary today. Since it was doomed to be sexless, crampy, and miserable, we devoted the day to doing nice things for others. It was a perfect way to end what was, without question, the hardest, shittiest year we ever hope to endure together. (And before you think I’m being dramatic, my dog nearly died, we had two miscarriages, our crap got stolen, our renters trashed our house, every damn thing we owned seemed to break down (from dishwasher to computer to fridge to truck to washer and dryer!) and require expensive repair or replacement, my husband spent the entire summer living away from me and I spent the entire summer without work. And that’s just the stuff I feel comfortable sharing online.)
One of the “nice things” we did was visit my old doctor’s office. You know. The sucky ones. We brought 3 bouquets (or “bow-kays” as is believed by some Eugenian shop owners), candles and cards–in honor of the three miscarriages. I brought them to the front desk and explained that I wanted the nurses to give them to women who were suffering from a pregnancy loss. They were really sweet and fully embraced the idea and promised to hand them out. They see so many women, and so many women have miscarriages, I’m guessing they’re already gone now. The cards were difficult to write and I sobbed through them like anyone would. I hope the message and the gift helps. A few of you sent me flowers and gifts and I can’t tell you how nice it was to be thought of and have something to distract me.
Anyway. Sexless though this anniversary might be, I believe I owe a little bit of love and affection to my wonderful, supportive, sweet, amazing, incredibly woozy husband who donated a pint of blood today for the both of us.
Thank you for your prayers. Yesterday I felt like I would never be happy again, and today I’m feeling like it’s possible.