I’ve started this post about a hundred times, and it’s strange that I’m even hesitant to type it. I’m never at a loss for words from these fingers. Never. I’ve always maintained that this blog is for me. It’s my outlet, my therapy. So this one is really for me. Not you.
First, I’m sorry to my closest and best, who will read this and wonder why I didn’t tell you in person. Here’s the thing: I can’t. I genuinely cannot speak the words.
I had another miscarriage.
On Tuesday, July 17, Joe and I went for our 8 week ultrasound. Everything looked great. 1 baby. 1 healthy, strong heartbeat.
On Wednesday, I designed our “We’re moving!” postcards. They were super cute, and signed “Love: Joe, Kristi, Alex & Baby Van Wormer (
coming March 2013!).”
On Thursday, we went to dinner as a family—at Alex’s favorite, Buffalo Wild Wings.
He calls it the “macawoni restaurant.” We talked about which room he wanted, and which room the baby would get.
On Friday, I started bleeding. Joe took me to the emergency room.
We’d been down that road before, so I knew the look in the ultrasound tech’s eyes when she discovered the unthinkable. She didn’t even have to say anything.
I’m not totally sure where to go from here. I was half laughing, half crying on the way home from the hospital, questioning to Joe how lightning could possibly strike twice. He offered a perspective of grace, saying, “Maybe lightning struck once, and Alex is simply our greatest blessing. Maybe
he’s the miracle we weren’t supposed to have.”
Even with that, it’s still hard to understand. I know I’m not alone—but still, with miscarriage rates at 4.2% at 7 weeks after a heartbeat is heard, that’s a pretty inaccurate lightning bolt. A lightning bolt that I’m really, really pissed at.
What seems even more unfair and cruel is the physical process of the actual miscarriage itself. Last time, I didn’t have to experience the shittiest parts, because everything was removed surgically. So the “aftermath” was really just some light period bleeding. Nothing, really.
You would think that God would have a little more mercy for the process, you know? I’ll talk about it here in gruesome detail because I don’t think many women (
or doctors, for that matter) do. I realize that the body is expelling something, so it’s not going to be easy or pain-free. But my GOD it hurts. It hurts like the fury of a thousand gnomes clambering at your pelvis. When you go to the bathroom you see and smell things that cannot be unseen or unsmelled. And then, to top off this entirely shitty and painful process, you then have to actually pass the mass that used to be your baby. And look at it sitting in the bottom of a toilet. And then flush it down that toilet. Forever. And if you are lucky enough to do that last part at work like I was, you sit in the bathroom shaking for 20 minutes until you have to courage to hit that asshole of a toilet handle and walk away.
That might seem like an extremely callous way to put it, but it’s the honest and painful truth.
And then, somehow, I prayed. Well, it was less of a prayer and more of an interrogation with God. I genuinely cannot understand why considering the circumstances He couldn’t make the physical part of this process easier somehow. The emotional part I can get through. This baby simply wasn’t meant to happen. Strangely, I can very easily wrap my head around that. And maybe I’m in the minority with that acceptance, but it’s simply how I feel. The physical reminders are simply unnecessary if you ask me. I give them the big, fat middle finger.
So here we are again. It’s a whole new set of emotions and I am absolutely furious that I have more babies in heaven than I do on earth. I honestly never thought I’d be here, in this place. But with time comes healing, and I know we’ll see the other side eventually.
I’ll repeat what I said last time: Forgive me for being so bold as to say I don't want your sorry. So don't give it to me. Instead, send a smile, hug, or a large Diet Coke from McDonalds. And if you put a little rum in it, I won’t tell.
