You Knew

Dear Friend,

You shared the best news with the worst person.  You bit that bullet and told me your news because you knew that, like a bandaid, it would hurt less if you just said it. You knew. You knew I would be crushed if I heard it elsewhere. You knew.  I am sorry I couldn't muster anything than guarded happiness.  You knew that if you displayed anything other than the glee and excitement you were feeling that I would be offended and feel pitied.  You knew I hated to be pitied.  But you knew I was still grieving, it was still raw for me.  I still left the room when an expectant mom walked in, just so I could cry in private.  You knew I cried in private, not because I ever told you, but because you knew me enough to know that was how I was grieving. You knew not to be offended at my weak smile for your news.  You knew I wasn't yet capable of anything else.   You knew that someday I would be excited and truly happy for you.  Someday I would be able to rub your huge belly and eagerly feel for a kick.  You knew someday I would snuggle your baby and sniff his sweet baby scent and truly love him.  You knew I would be okay before I knew it.

I am lucky

I have been reading all sorts of books, articles blogs etc about miscarriage in an attempt to feel better.  One thing I read over and over is that a loss is difficult regardless of when it happens and this is true of course.  I also read that one of the worst things to tell a grieving parent is that they "are lucky because (insert reason here)".  That may also be true for everyone else, but not me.  

The truth is...

I need to be lucky.  I need to feel as though this could be a million times harder.  I need to get up in the morning and have some reason to say that I could feel worse.  So here it is my "Lucky List" *

1- I just found out they were twins a week before.  I barely got used to the idea of two.  We didn't name them or even really imagine them because we were told they were so high risk.

2- I already have a child.  I could not imagine the sheer terror that this lost baby was my only chance at motherhood. My daughter has also prevented me from plunging into the depths of despair. I needed to get up every morning and care for her.  I tried to contain my tears for her sake.  That pressure to get back to normal for her helped me more than anything. 

3- I got pregnant easily.  Women try for years only to then suffer a crushing loss. I believe that as soon as my periods return I will be able to get pregnant again. 

4- I never felt them move.  I remember how close I got to my daughter when I felt her move and kick. I am fortuante to have been spared this.  

5- I was only pregnant 13 weeks.  (This is the biggest lie I tell myself-  It wasn't just 13 weeks of course. I saw their whole lives in the 11 weeks I knew I was pregnant. )

6- I have an unbelieveable support system.  My mother, mother in law, and three best friends have all been through this.  They get it.  I also am surrounded at work by women.  Not career crazy female lawyer partners that gave up having kids to pursue their career, but by women whose job it is to nuture.  Most are there because they have kids and the discount rocks.  They may not get it per se, but being able to break down and cry into someone's arms is one hell of a work perk. 

7- My husband is not only a fabulous man, but also happens to be a third year medical student.  He is as close to getting what's going on phyiscally as a man is going to get.

8- My mother and father raised one hell of a strong woman.  I truly believe I can handle anything... blah blah gag I know.  Also, my mother specifically taught me that I needed to be my own strongest advocate.  When I am lying in a hospital bed, it simply did not occur to me not to question and push back when I disagreed.

I AM lucky.  My pain could be worse, my situation could be worse.  I am lucky.  I am lucky. I am lucky. I am lucky. 

*please please do not take offense to these reasons- a loss is hard for EVERYONE.  This is what I need to tell myself to get through my day.  I am by NO MEANS mitigating anyone's loss if they happen to share my "lucky list" reasons.  

It is his loss too

When I lost my twins, my husband lost his twins too.  Somehow no one talks about the father during a miscarriage.  My husband dreamt and prayed just as I did for those children.  He loved them as I did.  Just as I pictured our life with them, so did he.  When I lost my babies, so did my husband.  Not only did he suffer the loss as I did, but he had to stand in stoic agony while everyone rallied around me and worried about my body and my mental health.   I do not remember much of those first couple days, but I know I would have never survived without him.  I would still be on that table crying and howling in misery.  He drove us home safely that day all while our world was crashing down around us.  He was the one who answered all the doctors' questions because I couldn't string two words together.  He was the one who dutifully told my boss why I couldn't come in because I couldn't stop the tears long enough to dial the phone.  He somehow managed to care for our daughter without crumpling into a ball of anguish.  While everyone asked "how is she doing?", he bravely answered everyone's concern without ever betraying that his own pain was about to consume him.  I have no idea how he did it and frankly, is still doing it, as our pain is still raw.  I read something utterly foolish that claimed since I was the one who carried the babies that the pain would be worse and that a father will grieve less.  I could not imagine anything farther from the truth.  When we held each other at night sobbing in each other's arms, it was OUR pain, OUR loss.  His pain was compounded by that fact that he needed to put aside his pain, the world around us expected him to.  He could not give into the waves of grief that must have threatened to wash over him every second.  As if caught in a storm, he needed to keep his head above water or we would both drown in the despair that was pulling us down.  I needed a lifeline, so he was.   I needed him to be strong, so he was.  I needed him to act normal, so he did.  I needed him to talk about our loss with me, so he did.  We cried together and I will forever remember that it was only with him that it felt ok to cry.  With anyone else, I felt like a burden, ashamed, embarrassed.  I felt pitied.  Not with him.  He knew the pain that no one else could fathom.  He loved those babies as I did.  He planned his life with them just as I did.  He was going to be the father of twins; excited for the joy and terror that involved.   He wondered what they would look like and how they would be as they grew.  They were just as much a part of him, maybe they even had his blue eyes and love of science.    Yet, no one ever asked "how is he"?   It is not that they didn't care, they just didn't know.  They didn't realize that beneath that face of the man, who is back at work, taking care of his bleeding and broken wife, capably handling everything she is incapable of handling, and appearing to be coping with it all, is a man who just lost his babies.

The Secret Club

Last week I joined a secret club that no one talks about.  At first it seemed very exclusive, almost as though I were the only member, but in truth 1 out of 4 women belong to this secret club.  No one knows the other members; there is no secret handshake or club jackets signifying your membership. But if you look closely it is possible you may be able to detect a fellow member.  You can see it in the fleeting flicker of anguish that is quickly replaced by a smile and a sincere congratulations upon hearing of yet another pregnancy.  It's obvious in the pain hidden behind the glassy eyes when she crosses paths with a new mother proudly toting her precious newborn.  If you could hear the sound of her heartbreak it would be deafening.  It is the sound of silent deaths of hopes and dreams; the death of holidays, birthdays, graduations and weddings as she envisioned them after seeing those two pink lines.  If you can detect a member, chances are it is because you too were once inducted.
Some women are inducted more than once. They have gone through the excruciating initiation rite more than once: the tenative joy at the beginning followed by the hollow crushing pain of being told you are once again an empty tomb.
Last week I joined the miscarriage club.  I never knew it existed.  My first pregnancy, though difficult, was ensconced in hope and naivity. I was young and healthy: nothing could happen to me or my baby. I was right, sort of. Nothing did happen,  Miscarriage was a dirty word that I skipped over in the index of my pregnancy books between "maternity leave" and " morning sickness".  I never thought of it.   Then 12 weeks into my second pregnancy, I was inducted to the club.  Never again will I not think of it.  Not only did I join the club, but I joined for life.  Every pregnancy would be different.  Less magical, less joyous; simply because now I KNOW. I can never Unknow that experience.  My membership branded me forever; an invisible mark you couldn't see.  Well, unless you know what to look for.

Coffee and the Quest for Normal

I sit here enjoying a morning cup of coffee.  At least I am forcing myself to enjoy it.  A cup of coffee has never been so significant before.  I don't drink coffee during my pregnancies.  This is the first cup I have had in over 13 weeks.  This cup means I am no longer pregnant.  I would give anything to not be able to drink this coffee, to not eat lunch meat, to order my steak well done.  In retrospect, it all seems like such small sacrifices; something so minor I can do to keep my baby safe.  I did it all, albeit  with much complaining, because I wanted my baby safe.  In the end, there was nothing I could do.  Something simply went wrong- it wasn't coffee, lunch meat, or rare steak.  So I sit here sipping my lukewarm bitter coffee. I hate it, every single sip feels like torture.  I continue sipping only because I need to feel normal again.  I need to move on.  I know I will never forget the emotions and events of these last 13 weeks.  I will forever replay the image from the ultrasound where I saw two rapidly beating hearts and excitedly exclaimed "they are waving at us!".  I will hear the words, "I cannot find a heartbeat" until the day I die.  But I need to feel normal, to enjoy my life even if I am just forcing myself to enjoy it for now.

5 Minutes

There are five minutes of my life that I will never be able to forget.  I remember everything about it.  Smells, sounds, sights the feel of the horrendously uncomfortable transvaginal ultrasound wand up my whoha.
We went to our fetal maternal medicine appointment in order to get the confirmation regarding our mono/ mono twins (please see Other Shoe post) and to create an action plan.  I remember walking to the office still hoping and praying that they would see a membrane separating my babies.  Everything would be okay so long as they found a membrane.  My husband met me at the hospital and together we waited for the ultrasound tech.  As we followed her down the hallway, my husband confided to me that she was the best tech they had on staff meaning if there was a membrane she would find it.

In order to be as accurate as possible and get the best images, she needed to do a transvaginal ultrasound.  Those are uncomfortable, but my thoughts weren't there... it was just on "membrane' "membrane, let there be a membrane'.

My husband and I clutched hands as she looked. I saw our babies and my husband squeezed my hand lovingly. He saw them too. I asked her if she saw membrane could she tell me or would we have to wait for the doctor.  She laughed and assured me that she could tell me and wouldn't make me wait that long!  I held my breath for what seemed like forever as I squinted at the screen. I have no idea what I was looking at but I was hoping something would pop out at me.  Then suddenly she "we have a membrane!"

Words cannot begin to describe my elation. Relief flooded through me. Husband squeezed my hand tighter and we smiled at each other.  I remember that smile as though I had a picture of it.  I told the tech she was my favorite person ever.  I told her I loved her.  My husband and I giggled as we looked at our babies both of us silently imaging our wonderful chaotic future with twins. Identical twins.  The tech continued to take measurements. Suddenly her voice broke into our revelry.  " I am not seeing any heartbeats."

"I am not seeing any heartbeats"    I knew what that meant but it took a moment to understand that my babies were gone, just when I felt I could hope for them, love them.  I always read the phrase 'it felt like the air was sucked out of the room' and wondered about that feeling.  It happened in that moment.  I wish I could describe it but the best closest physical feeling is getting the wind knocked out of you.  You are completely aware of the darkness you feel clutching at you, but you simply are powerless to take a breath.  The room spins, yet you are perfectly still, cognizant of everything.  She said "I am so sorry" and then took the ultrasound wand out. I remember the odd suction noise it made.  I hear it so clearly when I close my eyes.  I see the screen with my unmoving babies and the tears my husband is desperately triying to contain. I can still feel the transcendent feeling being ice cold yet burning.   I asked through choked tears, if she could be wrong. She sadly shook her head, but I demand that someone else come and look.  She said of course, she touched my leg and expressed her sadness for us and walked out to find the doctor.

The entire process was about 5 minutes.  I remember nothing from the time she walked out to when the doctor came in.  5 minutes to go from one of the best moments in my life, certainly the most relief I ever felt to the deepest darkness sorrow I never even thought possible.  5 minutes and it is branded into my soul.  It is a part of me forever. No amount of joy or sadness will dull the clarity of those 5 minutes.

The Other Shoe

Still reeling from the news of twins, I barely noticed the tech call in another tech to take some sort of measurement or something.  My husband, who had just finished his OB rotation, stayed silent.  I asked him if something was wrong, he said no that this happens a lot.  Techs often want a second opinion on something.  Oh well, I had more important things to think about like ' how on Earth am I going split a family Christening dress made from my grandma's wedding dress between TWO babies?  The tech cleans me off and we have to wait to talk to the doctor, which gives us time to tell my parents.  I shakily grasp the pictures showing  the profiles of "Baby A" and "Baby B" and walk up to my parents and just show them the pictures.  It takes my mother an unbelievable amount of time to get it and she just start saying "what? What?  WHAT?".  Over and over louder and louder.  To be quite honest, I have very little clear memories from the time between the ultrasound to the appointment with the doctor.  I blame the shock.  I just remember looking at the pictures over and over in utter disbelief.

We wait 45 minutes for the doctor.  My husband is still quite silent, but that is kind of his type, plus he was still attempting to study for his exam.  When the doctor comes in, she immediately sits down and hands Kieran a pamphlet about our "type of twins".  She proceeds to pulls out a pad of paper and starts in with a biology lessons about twins.  I was tempted to say "hey lady, I took high school biology, I get it.  Two eggs equals fraternal twins, one split egg equals identical."  I am glad I held my tongue because apparently that wasn't the issue.  Now I apologize for the college bio lesson, but I had no idea about this and it actually makes a big difference.  Identical twins usually have two placentas and two amniotic sacs.  I NEVER knew that identical twins were not actually skin to skin in the womb!  Did you??  No, apparently when people say, "oh they are holding hands in there"  they are probably wrong.  At least 99% of the time.  Some twins share a placenta but are still separated by different sacs.  HOWEVER, in 1 % of identical twin pregnancies, the twins share not only a placenta but also a sac.  This means they are swimming in the same pool.  Sounds ok, right?  NO wrong.  Absolutely wrong.  The biggest problem is that as they swim around and around their umbilical cords get tangled.  The cords can get so tangled that they can cut off the blood flow to one or both babies.  As pregnancy complications go, apparently it doesn't get more high risk.  The doctor gave us the harsh statistics. 50% of twins don't make it.  Usually it is a package deal because if one dies, it quickly becomes septic and poisons the other.   If, and talk about one hell of an "if", I make it to 24 weeks, I will be admitted to the hospital until either I deliver because of fetal distress or they perform a c- section at 35 weeks.  They will not let me go longer than that because the risk of cord compression outweigh the risks of prematurity.  By this time, the tears are flowing, my head is spinning, my heart is screaming.  Why was this happening?  She mentions there is a chance that their machine missed the membrane and that the twins actually are in two sacs but she says "I would love to be wrong about this but I do not think I am".  She mentions she is setting up an appointment with the Maternal Fetal Medicine doctors who specialize in high risk pregnancies.  She says a lot more about aggressive monitoring and a team taking care of me and the twins, but all I hear over and over is "50%".

Are you seeing what I am seeing?

Today we had our 12 week ultrasound.  It would be the first chance to actually have proof that a baby has been causing my unrelenting morning sickness, all consuming fatigue, and unbelievably rapidly expanding tummy.  I heard I would pop a little early, but seriously, maternity pants at 9 weeks??  My parents, sister, and nephew happened to be in town visiting and since my parents saw an ultrasound with my first baby and I saw my sister give birth, apparently my sister was entitled to come into the ultrasound room.  Whatever right? The more the merrier.   So we are sitting, well I am lying there with the cold goo on and the image of a perfect little baby pops up.  There is my baby!  My husband squeezes my hand excitedly.  The tech moves the wand a little and shows the other side of the baby.  My husband squeezes my hand tighter.  While watching my baby's little hand waving excitedly, I hear the tech ask if we see what she sees.  Of course, I did one of these before!  That's my baby clear as day.  She moves the wand again showing the other side of the baby again.  I wonder why she keeps flipping the image.  Again, "do you see what I see?"  At this point I am looking for penis.  At 12 weeks this would have to be one remarkable penis to see it so clearly.  But hey my son will win bar bets.  While staring at the screen I am becoming aware that the hand my husband is holding is rapidly losing feeling.  This time the tech says "you are not seeing what I am seeing".  I look at her blankly.  "Twins!" She says excitedly.  My first reaction is to burst into tears.  I had had weeks of everyone teasing that it could be twins since I was so sick and so large.  My mother even joked the day before that if it ended up being twins my husband wouldn't be able to concentrate on his test later that afternoon.

Identical Twins.  My head spun with the news.  My husband was silent.  The tech moved the wand and I saw that the flipped image I had been watching was not one baby but two. With two rapidly beating heartbeats.  I would need a minivan.  Two sets of arms.  I would need to buy another car seat.  Two sets of legs.  OMG how would I nurse two??  Two beautiful profiles. Two tiny beautiful babies.

Almost Valentines Day

So I love Valentines Day.  First and foremost, because it is really close to my birthday (and several other family birthdays as well), so V- Day always felt like an Opening Ceremonies of sorts for the week of family celebrations.  It is also a perfect excuse to wear pink and sparkle with utter abandon.  
I suppose I should credit my parents for an excellent job raising me because for some reason I never attached negative feelings to the holiday.  I remember in high school and college many of my friends would lament being single on V-Day.  For me, it wasn't necessarily about romantic love, but just love and chocolate.  My dad made a point of giving me something special- mom got flowers I usually got candy or maybe a $5 toy.  This is a tradition I insisted my husband follow with our daughter. I don't want her to dread or anticipate a certain day of the year just based on her relationship status. I'd much rather her anticipate or dread it based on the availability of glitter. Like everything else I have no idea how to manage this especially in our boyfriend/looks/ possession obsessed society. Sigh

I am a writer*

I've never acknowledged that- I am a writer.  I have dreamt of writing for over 15 years.  It has been my secret dream. My stories, plots, and characters were all places I could escape when I had enough of the real world.  I have rough plots for about 15 novels floating around in my head.  Not one is completed; my characters are too elusive to pin down and just expose all at once. But I digress.  I am not sure why I never told anyone or never really pursued publication. No that's a lie, I know exactly why I kept it a secret.  It was my tiny fragile glass bubble of a dream.  Sure I wanted to go to college and I guess law school, but none of those goals were dreams.  Not once did I dream about getting sworn to the Bar, well I did but I was naked and it was more of 'worst nightmare' realm whilst I studied for the bar exam so that doesn't really count.  I am terrified of my glass bubble dream being shattered.  If no one knew about it no one could say something discouraging. If I never really pursued publication I could never be rejected.  It was safe; tucked away only taken out when I was all alone and could cradle it protectively.   Then I got fired (see earlier posts).   My world crashed down around me and I lost all feeling of purpose. yea yea I am a mom, but you know what I mean. I need something else, something that's mine.  Law, cruel sadistic bitch that she is, was mine.  I was good at it.  I was a lawyer.  But as I said that all turned to dust and I realized that I still had this tiny glass bubble of a dream and now nothing else holding me back.  Maybe just maybe I could somehow wrap this fragile bubble around me and protect myself from the fallout of my shattered profession.  I wasn't a lawyer, I could be a writer with a law degree.  I could write and no one could take it away from me. I might not make a dime and that doesn't matter.  (Sidenote: I don't really mean that- I'd like to make a couple dimes). I realized that a dream is only a dream until we say it out loud.  So I told my husband.  Yea, my husband with whom I have shared everything, has been kept away from my glass dream.  To my mortification, he has told other people all of whom have been humiliatingly supportive. (actually he bragged about it)  I told my closest friends, who also nearly choked me with encouragement.  Then the strangest thing seemed to happen, my bubble grew bigger, stronger, brighter.  With every person I told I felt it grow a bit more.  I still hadn't taken that step to move towards publishing, so I told Facebook.  (Imagine dramatic music right here).  I appealed to my 300 some friends to make connections.  I got responses.  I told more people and more and then groups of people all at once.   As soon as someone asks about my writing my immediate reaction is to deny it, but I don't- I swallow the surge of bile and tell them about it.  I still feel that apprehension every time I talk about it as though some one will laugh and say that's stupid. It hasn't happened yet and my little glass bubble feels a little less fragile these days.
Of course I haven't told my family.  I mean I made comments vaguely alluding to it but never said "I am going to be a writer".  They are loving kind people but they are bulls of practicality in a china shop of dreams.  They can find out at the book signing.....

It felt good to say and better to read.  I am a writer.



* if by "writer" I mean somehow who dabbles in the writing process with the eventual goal of being published.