Today is my post-op from the ruptured tubal pregnancy.
I’ve been dreading it. I couldn’t figure out why until yesterday. But as I sat and journaled, it came to me. The “why” behind the dread.
To go the appointment is to make the entire (trauma and grief filled situation) medical-only. I don’t want it to be medical-only. I don’t want to discuss what happened, how I’ve healed, and future plans for TTC.
Why not?
Because to do so – - to keep it medical only – - invalidates the emotions surrounding it.
Medical only, keeps the baby from being real enough to grieve.
Being fully healed physically is assuming that I’m fully healed emotionally.
I’m not and I don’t want to act like I am.
But it’s a medical appointment, not a therapy session . . . .
This has been a struggle of mine the past two weeks at church. So many people are coming up, and after the complaint that I’m a “bit too thin”, they state things like,
“You’re looking great”
“You healed so quickly!”
“You look so good for what you went through just a few weeks ago!”
This Sunday past I dealt with it better than I did the Sunday previous. The Sunday previous I just came home and cried for the rest of the day. My husband didn’t know what to do with me. I’m not normally a person who cries. It freaked him out.
I know people meant well, but I felt like they were speaking only to the medical. Yes, it was a “life threatening” situation. Yes, I had major abdominal surgery and lost a fallopian tube.
But there was a baby! I was pregnant with the baby I longed for. And while I may look great and act great, my heart is not “great”. I’m still as raw today as I was 6 weeks ago. It hurts even more even, I think. Because now, I count the days and think, “I would have been about 4 1/2 months pregnant. . . I’d be feeling the baby about now. . . “
It’s not that people don’t care. I know that. In fact, they probably don’t know if I want the baby mentioned so they reference the surgery instead. It’s safer. Less emotional. How could they possibly know that I so badly want our little one spoken of and aknowledged?
I want someone – -anyone- – to get that emotionally, it hurts so very, very badly.
I should be pregnant right now.
This “infertile” woman had another pregnancy. I should be in the middle of it! But I’m not. Instead I’m a “bit too thin” and my baby is gone. What’s more, I didn’t even get one moment of joy in the entire pregnancy. Only fear and pain, trauma and loss.
I can’t fault anyone. I’ve been where people are. I’ve wondered if I have the right to reference the grief. Thinking, “Maybe the person would rather not go there right now. I should give them their space. . . Respect the distance they need to work through their loss.”
How differently I’ll think from now on. Because now I know all that is needed is a simple:
“How are you? I mean, really?”
“How is your heart?”
“Though you’re doing well physically, I imagine the emotional still is rough.”
“I’m praying for you. I know you won’t be over this for a long time.”
I’m a private person. I may write, but verbally, I don’t share. And emotionally, I’d rather not go there in public.
Despite my need for privacy and in-control emotions however, my heart has longed for one person–that’s all — just one, to acknowledge my heart pain instead of focusing on my physical recovery.
I don’t need a long in-depth conversation about it. I just need an aknowledgement.
What I don’t need is, but what I have gotten more times than I can count:
“At last you got pregnant. And here you thought you couldn’t.” (I got pregnant in my tube and no one can tell me why. Getting pregnant does not make me feel better. I want to know why I got pregnant only to have it happen the way it did!)
“At least you have your daughter”. (In some ways yes. Having her has been my reason to get up every morning instead of lay in bed. But the fact I have her, doesn’t mean my heart doesn’t have an empty spot now that nothing can fill. I lost a baby whom I prayed for and longed for. Having my daughter doesn’t change that empty place in my heart.)
“It was probably retarded or deformed”. (I hate this one. Hate it!!! I’ve had, not one, but three people say this to me. I can not comprehend how people can fathom that saying such a thing is supposed to make it better. I grew up with a severely disabled and mentally retarded aunt. I had foster cousins that were the same way. I know, first hand, that a child of mine would have been passionately loved, no matter how deformed or MR they were!!! It was my child. I don’t love my babies based on perfection. I love them based on the fact they are my babies.)
“You got pregnant again. Look at that. Must be you can get pregnant after all. There will be more. You need to focus on that, not the loss.” (Yes, I have hope we got pregnant without Clomid and without an IUI. But don’t offer my empty promises you can’t be sure of. I may get pregnant again. But I may miscarry. God help me, but what if it’s another tubal? The thought of getting pregnant again does not comfort me. Pregnancy for me, carries too many unknowns. I’ve had three pregnancies. Only one made it to term. There isn’t hope for me in getting pregnant. My hope lies in the assurance that pregnancy will make it to term and my arms will hold my baby as he/she nurses at my breast.)
I’m not a talker. I keep it all in. If I get any emotion out, it’s usually in my journal via the written word. I don’t even really confide in or talk to my husband. It’s just not my way of doing things. As a result, I haven’t “talked’ to anyone.
Thing is, as I run through my roster of people in my life, I realize I do have three friends that I could talk to, if I summoned up the courage to “bother them” and actually call them.
During my grief, these three friends have stood out. They know I don’t talk. They know I don’t like to bother people by calling. So they have written. And written again. Reminded me that they’re there if I do want to talk. I just need to move beyond my wall I have when it comes to actually verbalizing my heart and actually “bothering people” with what’s in my heart.
Friend one.
She has emailed me almost every day, asking how I am. Sharing things on her heart, not holding back from me just because I’m grieving. In sharing her own trials she validates that I am still a friend of hers that she will confide in, yet she doesn’t do it at the expense of making it all about her either. She constantly comes back to my loss and asks if I need anything. She lives hours from me, but she has been there, every step of the way despite the miles. Six weeks later and she knows–this woman who has never lost a baby–she knows it’s still as raw today as it was six weeks ago. It doesn’t frustrate her or frighten her. She takes it in stride and doesn’t act like there is an elephant in the room when we talk. I love her for it.
Friend two.
We called her right away. She posted to my infertility blog and facebook as things happened that day. I found out later, she came to the hospital during my surgery, though she couldn’t get in because visiting hours were over. She knows my grief. She too has infertility. She too knows the longing for pregnancy only to have it end in a cruel miscarriage.
She has gone through her own pain, yet she has consistently acknowledged that what I went through was different than hers. Not worse, just different. She honors that a ruptured tubal with life-saving surgery carries a dimension of emotion she didn’t have to go through with her miscarriage.
She has texted, called, and sent me a book that helped her. She has talked about my baby and hers, as much as we talk about our daughters that are here on earth. Our little one in heaven is as real to her as our daughter on earth is. Because her little one in heaven is real to her.
Friend three. She used to be my Dean of Women who has now turned friend. Another friend who has gone through the hardest of times to have her two beautiful daughters. She too, has experienced the loss of a much-longed-for-pregnancy.
I had told my pastor who came to see me, “No visitors!” Sue didn’t get the memo. I’m glad she didn’t. I’ll never forget what she did that night, twenty-four hours after my surgery.
She came into my room. She placed a plant on the shelf. Then she came, stood by the bed, and said two words, “Oh Miss”. They came out with such sorrow, such compassion. I began crying and could only get out, “Why? Why Sue? Why does He give a baby only to take it away? I don’t understand!”
Her response? “I know. I know”
And then, she stood beside my bed and cried with me.
I cried. She cried. We finally stopped. And she left with a kiss on my forehead – something uncharacteristic for both of us (neither of us are touchy-feely) but in that moment, the perfect thing to do.
That’s “all” she did. She came, she uttered six words. She cried. She kissed me. She left.
It was one of the most precious visits I have ever received in my entire life.
I want to be Sue for others going through this. I want to cry with them, with no words. I want to be with them in silence and let that be the healing comfort that soaks into their soul.
I want to be Stephanie for others going through this. I want to share the book that has helped me the most, and talk about our babies in heaven as much as we talk about our babies on earth. Because they are just as real to us as our living children. Heaven is as real to us as earth is, simply because our children are there. We live with an awareness of heaven not everyone has, because a part of our hearts is already there.
I want to be Bethany for others going through this. I want to call them, text them, email them, send them cards – - a week later. Six weeks later. Six months. A year. I want to remember that time goes on but their Mama’s heart doesn’t forget or stop missing their baby. I want to treat them as I always have, not fearing what to talk about or not. And I want to reference their loss regularly, to validate their heart that I have not forgotten they are hurting though life has gone on.
Will today’s Dr appointment give my heart the validation I long for? Chances are it won’t because I’m there for medical reasons, not emotional reasons. And I have my heart and mind set to approach it that way. Logical only.
I’ll stay logical as I go pick up my daughter from my Mother-in-Law’s. But then I’ll come home, and the tears will flow and I’ll email my friends who GET THIS, and they’ll email back and they’ll tell me THEY KNOW, and my heart will be comforted. Not free of grief, but validated and comforted none-the-less.
I may even call one of them . . .
