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| Wheatfield under Thunderclouds, Vincent van Gogh |
The good news is that my ultrasound shows nothing. Not only will I not need a D and C, but I can let go of the worry of passing the baby in a public restroom, a particularly wearing concern when I have spent a quantity of time in clinics and hospital, where everyone wants a urine sample. ("Is it okay if there's blood too? Sorry, I can't help it.") There is still blood, but it is apparently within the range of normal. There is a wide range of normal.
I am not an expert in miscarriage, and not only that, I'm not an expert in my own miscarriage. My one previous experience was when I was 17 years younger, and it was, though not painless, relatively fast. But there's nothing wrong, besides the essential wrongness of the thing itself, with a miscarriage taking longer. There's nothing abnormal about the quantities of blood I have shed, as I realized when faced with the utter unfazedness of the ER doctor and the midwife who felt that the ultrasound could probably wait until Monday; in short, the professionals who see a lot of this sort of thing, as opposed to the worried chorus of everyone telling me to go in, get it checked out, just in case -- none of whom will be paying the ER bills, of course. What was happening was normal, and normal is a wide range.
There is a certain kind of reverse Chicken Little fatigue that drops on you when you realize, "This is going to be okay." The hapless fowl felt the nut pinging his skull and thought the sky was falling. Here, the sky actually has fallen, but it's also just the seed falling to the ground, again, cracking open, like the seed is supposed to do. My shell has been fragile lately, and I've cracked again and again. Biblically, I suppose that means I'm blessed; all I know is that when I've tried to toughen up my shell this week, I've ended up cracking harder in the end. Deal with it now or it will deal with you later -- that's something you can always expect.
I'm still bleeding, I'm still cramping, but it's going to be okay. I feel normal, for the first time in a long time.
3 comments:
My wife and I experienced the same last month. Baby Seven was to have been born this coming summer. Instead we buried the tiny clot of blood in a pretty little wood box in a secret place around our parish on the old feast of St. John of the Cross.
I feel as though a rare songbird landed on my finger and then flew away.
I am sorry for your loss.
I'm with you in thoughts and prayers, but just from the practical POV, don't regret going to the ER, even if the results turn out to be normal. It's worth a great deal to be reassured in this aspect - especially as not turning to the medical experts in a false confidence can end so much worse.
Deeply sorry for your loss.
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