Dying Inside
In the midst of all my anxiety and grief, there was a morning, April 11, when “I woke up and realized how very well I feel for being seven weeks pregnant.” I struggled with that realization, vacillating between panic and peace, for two weeks before my next scheduled doctor visit. Over and over, I relieved the day I had my D&E. I wrote, “I’m feeling so much fear - revulsion - at the thought of letting those doctors into my body again.” I went to the temple and felt better.
There were other difficulties among my loved ones. My dad was in the process of being diagnosed with prostate cancer. My mom choked in a restaurant and lost consciousness before someone revived her with the Heimlich maneuver.
I had a checkup scheduled for Tuesday, April 24, but I didn’t make it that long. I was a wreck the weekend before and I was beginning to feel cramps, so on Monday, I went in to the doctor during walk-in hours. He searched my belly for a heartbeat, but there was none. It was fairly early to hear a heartbeat - only nine and a half weeks - and I could tell he thought I was being paranoid, but he sent me for an ultrasound anyway.
Another twist of the knife. I had the ultrasound late on Tuesday, The sonographer told me she saw a yolk sac, measuring about five weeks - and that she detected a heartbeat. I couldn’t imagine how I had gotten my dates wrong - I had a positive pregnancy test from before the date I would have conceived, if that were true - but I wanted so badly to believe her. A Christmas baby. I had always wanted a Christmas baby.
With my cramps increasing, I went back to the doctor on Thursday. He had the report from the ultrasound. Apparently the radiologist, reviewing the recording of my ultrasound the next day, disagreed with the sonographer - the report simply said, “A fetal pole with no heartbeat.”
There were 11 days of purgatory to endure before I was seen at the Pregnancy Loss Clinic - a week’s wait for another ultrasound, just to be sure; another doctor visit; paperwork issues; an intervening weekend. That was the hardest time in this loss. I was starting to believe that there is no such thing as rock bottom. No matter how distraught I was the day before, it was always possible to feel worse. I was terrified about the idea of another D&C, and even when I finally learned (why don’t we talk about these things?) that my miscarriage could probably be managed with medication, I was certain it wouldn’t work for me, and that I was facing another surgery.
There was support as well - heart-felt sympathy from my parents and my in-laws, meals for my family, hugs from medical staff, walks with friends. There were priesthood blessings, and tiny, incremental spiritual insights that helped me see things a bit more clearly. There was a profound middle of the night conversation with my husband, who was beginning to show signs of wear.
I went to a church activity during those eleven days and heard a woman say, “As a mother, how do you feel when you can’t protect your child? You die inside.”
I wrote those lines in my journal, and added, “That is how I feel.”