March 20, 2011

We used to be three and not two.

I lost my baby at 3am yesterday morning, Saturday, March 19.

I had her in my bathroom. The pain was horrific and the scene was grisly. Most of the time I made Ivan wait on the other side of the door. I didn't want him standing in my blood or seeing and hearing the things that I was seeing and hearing. When I called his name he was through the door in a flash, folding me in his arms. The rest of the time he stayed outside, taking my instructions for what I needed and whom to call.

I want and need to tell my story of what happened in this apartment between 1 and 4am yesterday, but I don't know the right person or venue. I can't bear the thought of my friends who are mamas or mamas-to-be to read these awful things.

I can tell that she is gone. There is a terrible void where she used to be.

I feel such strange things toward my body. On one hand, it has been through so much in the last couple of days and I want to be gentle with it. But on the other, I feel betrayed by and angry with it. How could it fail to keep my baby safe?

I want to scream to the world that she existed. That she grew and fluttered in my body. That she was so important to us and already loved very much. That I thought of her nearly every moment, waking and asleep, and wanted to be a better person for her.

I have some irrational thoughts. Heroin addicts can shoot up while pregnant and still manage to have healthy babies. People can be unknowingly pregnant for as long as I was and longer and still manage to have healthy babies. Dogs can go off by themselves and burrow under porches and have healthy babies. But I--while taking the best care of myself that I could--managed to fuck it up.

I have some hateful thoughts, too. I wonder if the people who weren't happy for me before will be happy now that there is no baby.

I can sit and stare for hours at a time. I feel guilty if I smile at anything; my child is in a jar of alcohol in the bedroom. The grief and the anger come in tidal waves, and I am drowning. There just aren't enough tears in the world right now.

4 comments:

TTCfoodie said...

CALL ME. I am not joking. You can tell me everything that you need to say & I will not think you irrational or crazy. Everything you just wrote ^^^ , I have FELT and I know, & you know this. Amie, hun... please call me.

Turtle said...

Oh love,

You left a message on my blog and I wanted to read yours. I am astounded at how similarly our miscarriages unfolded, though from what I'm understanding, ours was a bit earlier than yours. Those thoughts you're having about your body, I have them about mine too. I frequently referred to my body as "the morgue."

I remember saying I can understand why people start drinking after traumas like these-- because it's easier than feeling what we feel. I hate that you have had to go through this, that any of us have. It brought tears to my eyes to read your experiences, but that's okay--

I think there's strength in talking about this, in getting out those tiny details that get stuck in our hearts and minds, and celebrating our children, even though we never got to formally meet them. They were precious lives and they ARE our children. Your tiny baby girl touched my heart.

I am following your blog now-- and I'm here for you. I'm a month ahead of you, and can only offer that the ache gets better with time... but your child will always be your child, and you'll never ever forget that. Take your time, and take care of yourself and of Ivan. And let him take care of you.

Also, cupcakes helped me... a lot. I am ALWAYS here to read along.

Sending love.

I'm just me... said...

Amie, I am so sorry. Please don't feel like you can't tell your story for fear of offending anyone. If you need to tell it, you just go ahead. We all love you and are here for you.
Your baby also touched my heart and I am heartbroken too. Call me anytime you need to talk. I am always here for you. Love you girl.

Waltham Hum said...

my arms are hugging you across a continent.