It happened again. For the third time we have lost another pregnancy.
This makes two just this summer.
When I had our first miscarriage in between our second and third born children, I believed the whole song and dance of how this is common but it probably won't happen again. I am very good at winning all the wrong lotteries, so leave it to me to beat the odds here.
Grief is a long process, but it is nearly impossible to heal when the traumas keep coming. Factors are different with these two losses that pose their own challenges for healing. A key difference between our first loss and these last two is we are now part of an extremely fertile parish. It's babies and pregnant women everywhere and all the time - including many who share(d) my due window.
When we had our house fire in the early Spring, no one would have put me in a position of having to talk about fires and house renovations at every gathering. Certainly no one would have decided other fire victims would be best to facilitate our healing. Because that's tacky, insensitive, and, to a great extent, illogical.
But that's what we do around pregnancy loss.
When you are living a nightmare, it's extremely hard to relate.
Right now, I don't want to hear your complaints about your perfectly healthy pregnancy when my babies are dead.
I'm not ready to push through my grief for the sake of your joy.
I don't want to see the growing bellies of all the women who would have been pregnant with me. There are zero ways for that to not make me flashback to the losses.
If this is sounding like trauma and raw wounds - it's because it is. This entire summer I have been a living breathing war zone and burial ground.
I wish wearing morning dress was still a thing. At least then I would have a way to externally signal to the world that I'm not ok, handle with care. Instead I look like a mom with three young kids who can totally handle one more thing.
To a great extent, I am bearing it well. I'm getting up every morning. I show up when scheduled. I smile. I joke. I talk about other things. I teach my kids. I handle new projects. I go where I am needed.
But I'm not ok.
"Just because you carry it all so well, doesn't mean it's not heavy."
This is heavy. This has been going on since June 1st, y'all. Yet I, and many of the other people around you silently suffering losses, feel intense pressure to be fine. To be normal. To be recovered.
I don't know about everyone, but I don't recover well without space. Space is something I haven't had much of over the past four months.
This past week, my husband and I took a couples getaway to the North Shore on Lake Superior. This trip had been planned since July, when it became apparent that we needed something to look forward to in this summer of grief. I had no idea it would end up being the week after yet another loss.
It was three days of extremely limited internet and phone access. Spending nearly all day outside. Having time and space with just our marriage.
I came home feeling much more connected with my husband, but so much more averse to pretending with everyone else. Instead of feeling like I could take on reconnecting to the level I was pre-back to back losses, I feel the need to reclaim space.
Grief makes you feel small and insignificant. It makes you recoil and shy away from being "too" anything. It leads you to act like your person is less than everyone else. Not in a virtuous humble way, in a way that doesn't acknowledge your own dignity.
So for at least the next 4 months, the rough amount of time I have spent miscarrying just this year, I am going to reclaim my space. It's time to acknowledge that while my pregnant friends do not mean to make things hard for me, it is hard to be around right now. They didn't ask for that anymore than I asked to be a multiple loss mom, but here we are regardless. I have come to realize it's more spiritually expensive to pretend fine and let resentment build up. Sometimes taking a pause is the option of minimal harm.
Here are the 7 things I wish people knew in this time of prolonged loss and grief.
1. Communication is key. It's a lot of mental and emotional bandwidth to do all the communication from my end. It's incredibly helpful when people reach out and check in, or check their perceptions, without me having to initiate everything myself.
2. Silence isn't a rebuff, it might be a pause. I'm still homeschooling and juggling all kinds of things on my end. I often don't get the time or energy to respond to communications until a break in the day or the week. Be patient with me.
3. See the whole person. I love going to young adult events right now. Not just because they tend to be attended by people unlikely to spring a surprise pregnancy announcement. With young adults, I get asked about myself as a person. Not solely as a mom. It's a blessed break to talk about history, current events, hobbies, or all the many things that are a part of me.
4. I'm still postpartum. There is, rightfully, a huge amount of grace extended to women in the months after giving birth. My body has gone through massive hormonal shifts, surgery, stress, and a whole pile of struggles just like any other postpartum mom. But because I don't have a cute baby to show for it, it is very easy to forget I'm still a person going through a postpartum recovery.
5. Having first trimester losses carries it's own kind of trauma. I have no grave to visit. There are no sonogram pictures of my living babies. The lack of closure there is something that doesn't go away.
6. Grief and loss impacts every part of my life right now. I don't have the reserves to deal with people reacting badly. I have barely written because I can't deal with the trolls and people just having a bad day at me.
7. This isn't forever, but it is my now. I couldn't tell you when it won't physically hurt to be around pregnant women. I wish I knew too.
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Linking up with This Ain't the Lyceum for 7QT.
