But there are also life-changing events, specific moments after which nothing can ever be the same. Everyone has a few of these... their first step, first day of school, first car, first date, their wedding day, the death of a loved one. These events become so important that all others are defined by them ("that happened after you started kindergarten... before you were married... right before your grandmother died...").
Finding out that I was pregnant was one such event. One Sunday morning, everything changed. Even as my baby was only the size of a poppy seed, I was already its mother.
What did this mean to me at four weeks pregnant? First of all, it wasn't just "me" anymore. I was responsible for someone else, and it was suddenly very important that I take vitamins, avoid alcohol, wear my seatbelt, wash my hands, drink plenty of water, try to gain a little weight. Making decisions about even the smallest things became a new challenge as an expectant mother... deciding for two. There could be no selfishness. And this was only the beginning.
I fell so madly in love with our baby, too. Just thinking about the little life inside me could bring the silliest grin to my face. I became so eager to meet my son or daughter, and I would write it little love notes in my Belly Book. "You and Mom were scrubbed in for a four hour surgery today!" On the day of our first ultrasound: "Mom and Dad were so excited to see you for the very first time today!"
I couldn't bear the thought of remaining detached, holding back for a little while, and I was willing to accept the vulnerable position I was in, head over heels. By eight weeks, when my lab results came back abnormal, I felt something that I couldn't put into words until I found them in a book: "The human heart was not designed to beat outside the human body, and yet each child represented just that--a parent's heart bared, beating forever outside its chest." My baby, an extension of my self and my body. Even when it was still inside of me, I couldn't protect it from everything.
What I could do was hope and pray and dream about the future, envision myself as a mother. One evening, I begged Joe to drive me past the hospital's main entrance and I could picture it--me in a wheelchair, baby in my arms, a cart full of flowers and balloons. At church, I watched the moms hold their babies, walk their toddlers to the front during communion, sniff dirty diapers and sneak out through the back door during the sermon--that would be me soon enough. And when Joe and I went on walks, I could see the stroller in front of us, our dog stuck in between. I could picture our little family.
These visions were frequent, and it was becoming harder to picture myself without a baby, pregnant or otherwise. Everyday I fell more in love, and everyday I believed more and more in the idea that I was no longer just "me." I loved the responsibility. I ignored my vulnerability.
And then everything changed again, as you know. But more suddenly this time. Another moment with a clear before and after, another very specific point in time. A discovery in a dark ultrasound room. A feeling of things being taken away...
People have asked me why I left the doctor's office through the back door that day. As I approached the waiting room, I pictured the women that would be waiting there. What did I have in common with them anymore? How could I face them and their round bellies, their swollen ankles? I had tried to be like them and failed. I wasn't like them. I couldn't stand the idea of them seeing me and knowing my emptiness, my failure. My bloodshot eyes and tear-streaked face would surely give me away. They were women, but I was just a girl. It was easier to avoid their stares.
Until my procedure the next day, I found myself floating somewhere between pregnant and not pregnant. I was surprised to find out how important it became for me to identify exactly what I "was." What could I call myself? Who was I supposed to be now? But it wasn't until the surgery, walking away without my baby... that's when I became lost in the identity of "not pregnant" again.
Physically "not pregnant." But in the mirror, I still looked pregnant. What was I going to do with this weight I'd put on? I still felt pregnant. There was still enough blood circulating through my veins for the both of us. I hated the thought of watching this all fade away.
Mentally "not pregnant." How could I go back to before? Who had I even been? I couldn't remember that person anymore. And who was I responsible for now that it was just me? I wanted that back. I wanted it to matter what I ate and what I drank.
Emotionally "not pregnant." Could I really be a mother one day, and not a mother the next? And what about my broken heart? My husband's? How could God let us fall so in love with this baby, only to take it away? What about those dreams of myself as a mother, dreams of us as a family--had those also been a lie?
When all of this was happening, I didn't know where to find the answers. And I still don't really have the answers, but I can tell you how I learned to deal with the questions.
When I avoided the waiting room: What did I have in common with those pregnant women? I've talked to lots of people about my miscarriage now, and I've learned how common it really is. And I've also learned that you can't tell by looking at a person if they know that pain. I don't think that many people could guess that I've miscarried by looking at me now. My point is that at least a third of the women in that room probably would have seen my tears and understood my pain, having felt it themselves.
When I thought that I wasn't a woman like they were, I couldn't have been more wrong. To know the pain of miscarriage is something uniquely "woman." To love a child and have to let it go is something uniquely "mother." As for those pregnant women and mothers who have been fortunate to avoid such a loss, they still know what it means to be in love and to be completely vulnerable. We have more in common with eachother than we know.
After the surgery: How could I go back to who I was before? I couldn't. It didn't matter that I couldn't remember the "just me" from before, because that person was gone. Just because the pregnancy was over didn't mean that I hadn't been permanently changed by it. I wouldn't ever be the same again--I didn't have to be.
And who was I supposed to be responsible for now? It was hard for me to accept that I was now the only one walking around in my body. I had a new task at hand, though. Taking care of myself would become very important over the next few months. Taking care of my husband, too. Taking care of myself for his sake. Working hard to keep my head above water.
The hardest question for me was the next one: Could I really be a mother one day, and not a mother the next? The answer was and is no. I am still that baby's mother. I have this advice now for people who have recently miscarried:
You're still a mom, even after your baby has died. You are the most important person that that baby ever knew, and you always will be. Your baby is still right there with you, and it always will be. Because you'll always be it's mom.
Always.
(What I'm listening to right now...)
Incubus Morning View
No comments:
Post a Comment