Tuesday, May 28, 2013


Considering the title of this particular post, I'm going to try to make this not quite as depressing as one might assume it to be at first glance. I am, however, not going to mince words for the sake of anyone who stumbles upon this.

As of Wednesday, 22 May, 2013, I was 11 weeks pregnant. As of Thursday, 23 May, 2013, I was not.

Yes, for those of you sitting there scratching your heads, I miscarried. Don't feel dumb for not understanding, just go with it.

Apart from the completely indescribable amount of pain I was actually in, and the incoherency of much of the evening between those two dates, I clearly remember sitting on the toilet, barfing out everything I'd had for dinner, thinking to myself and the universe, "goodbye, Tadpole... take care of the animals for me."

Some make read that and think, "oh my god, that's the first thing that comes to mind at a moment like that?!" Others might think, "stupid woman, animals don't go to heaven!" If you're of the later persuasion, leave your contact info for me, I'd like to pay you a visit. I'm not in a forgiving mood at the moment.

My point, however you read my one lucid thought, was that in the first moments on anguish, grief, and pain, I was mentally peaceful for a split second.  That was my first reaction to this situation.

I don't know the pain of loosing a child that's been born, so I won't even try to pretend like this was some epiphany of how to get over a loss like that, because I think I'd be strapped to a bed, heavily medicated in a plush padded room. Some minutes, I still feel that's where I belong.

After lying around in the ER on an oddly comfortable bed with an even oddlyer comfortable pillow- yes I made that word up, don't judge me- my mind started to fragment and I went from peaceful to stupidly silly. The stress I'd previously felt was lifting and the panic I'd felt from the second I found out I was pregnant to the second I realized it was over was dissipating and felt like I could float. It's a good thing they had the cuff-of-death on my arm and the silly  heart/o2 monitor adorably decorated with balloons on my finger... otherwise I would have been floating around the ER like a blind Peter Pan.

I remember trying to think of the stages of grief whilst Jay was raising the head of the ER bed, which didn't bend to make it more comfortable, trying to see if the mattress, and with it, his wife, would slide off the bed frame and onto the floor. Had I been pointed toward the door, I might not have been so unamused at the prospect, but as it was, I was pointed at the biohazard trash bin and the wall.

I can't say I've ever figured out the 5 stages of grief... I know I know them... but whatever they are, I'm revising them.

  • So, first we have acceptance. I'm fairly certain this is supposed to be the last one, but honestly, have you ever known me to do much in order?
    • Now, we approach relief, or maybe this should be a subpoint of number one... let's see if I can make it that way. Ok, screw and dots, I'll do it myself!
  • Now the damn dots work. Anways. Secondly, we come grief. I don't be the boo-hoo I'm sad kind. I mean the kind where you cry so hard snot is coming out of every orifice and you can't breathe and when you do, you're hyperventilating so hard the world gets fuzzy and that just makes you cry harder.
  • Third comes depression... or as I refer to it, take things that will make you sleep all day and all night for about four days.
  • Fourth could bounce around anywhere in here - quasi-acceptance. This could also be referred to as denial. It's where you tell people you're fine, but you are getting good at holding your breath before you cry in order to try and stop the tears.
  • Fifth and last is the sociopathic normality you once lived so naively in before you began the spiral into grief.
In all seriousness though, these seem to the be jacked up stages of grief, and the order in which I am currently handling them. I don't even want to pretend to tackle Jay's... mostly because it would be kind of boring and sitting here with my bangs in a pony tail and my hair in the process of being parted to be braided, I'd rather sit around and yank out single strands of hair than think about boring things.

What is so awful when I sit down to write something and my brain begins to spin- which it sadly doesn't do very often anymore- is that I so loose my train of thought that if I'm not careful I'll start a verbose ramble on why my TV decides to go into power saver mode even though I'm still sitting in front of it. Doesn't it realize I'm busy at the moment and that by turning itself off it totally inconveniences me?

Now that my thought process is totally gone and my hair is almost too dry to braid it wet, I'm going to call it a day and go be unproductive. I hope my little window into the wonderful world of grief as I see it has been enlightening... I know it was for me.

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