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.