The Untold Story
(disclaimer - this is uber personal and kind of sad... so proceed with caution.)
For anyone that was reading my blog a couple of years ago, the post I wrote on that day in mid-November probably puzzled some and just plain confused others. The blog title is "Ruminations at 12:23: Things As They Are". Reading it back today, it was kind of an odd post without any context to give it its shape.
Two days prior, I had a miscarriage. I'd had friends and acquaintances that shared their stories of this unfortunate event, but I never really understood what that really meant; it was a very clinical thing to me, at that point. I knew it was sad, and meant the loss of a child, but I just didn't get it - until it happened to me.
Wednesday, November 10th: We were just three days shy of the magical "12-weeks" of pregnancy; the time when, historically, you are out of the woods and it's *fairly* safe to share your happy news. In fact, I was planning to share the news with my best girlfriends at our monthly get-together on the 12th. I was so excited because keeping wonderful things that are happening to you a secret is so challenging.
That Wednesday night, I had some spotting. It happened when I was 17-weeks pregnant with Benjamin, so I tried to stay optimistic and hopeful. But there was a part of me that felt dread - I knew that this time was just different somehow. The next morning was my day to go in to work at the hospital. I arrived at the hospital around 6am; to my dismay, the spotting had not stopped. I sat at my desk, staring into space, thinking, willing the clock to spin wildly until it reached 9am - the time my doctor's office opens. I was so nervous but yet trying not overreact. "Maybe it was nothing", I told myself, and I definitely didn't want to be that annoying pregnant lady that calls in every time something little and inconsequential happens. After a few minutes of wrestling both sides, I called in and left a message for the on-call doctor. That was at 7:02am. (Are you shocked that I can recall such specifics from a day two years ago? Not me - the minutia and events are etched into my brain forever.)
I didn't hear back from the on-call doc until 4:33pm - it was a VM on my phone saying, "Hi, I was just calling you back from your message; hope everything is ok". I was angry at him. Because by then, it was too late. But I had not waited for his call. I became that annoying pregnant lady who marched into the office - BEFORE they officially opened - and said I was bleeding. Everyone was so nice. There was a nurse with a thick French accent. She walked me down the hall and held my hand - I remember hers was very cold. But she spoke with a kind and gentle voice, as she walked me in to the dark ultrasound room. The ultrasound tech was nice too. As they got me prepped, I knew. I just knew. As the machine powered on and the fuzzy gray image appeared on the monitor, the tech began running the ultrasound wand across my stomach. I saw the image before she could say anything. There was just stillness. No movement. No life.
What happened next was a whirlwind, for which I am glad now. I remember all of the details, but more keenly and overwhelmingly, I remember being numb. I didn't cry initially... and maybe that's weird. What I can recall is that I was trying to remain standing, while processing the enormity of what had happened - disappearing due dates and unmet milestones. There was that, and I was in shock. The numbness washed over me like a dark, heavy blanket. My doctor came in and asked if I wanted to call my husband. I said no. I wanted to be safely locked in my own office when I called him, delivering the news. I wanted to be alone if I was going to begin speaking again, which would undoubtedly be punctuated with a cascade of tears.
Once back in the safety of my quiet office, I called Dave and then my boss. She is a good friend; she cried with me. And then she told me to go home. I had ridden the bus that morning, so Dave had to pick me up. The look on his face was sad, solemn, and concerned. We drove back to Edmonds but didn't talk a lot but there wasn't much to say.
I am a very private person when it comes to my emotions. Unfortunately, Dave had to finish some things at work before we could go home. We stopped by his parents' house and told me I could hang out there until he was done. Even though they were people I love, I didn't want to be around anyone. All I wanted to do was crawl under a rock and let those emotions fly - in private, my way. After dropping him off at his office, I took a lovely, meandering drive through the lush beauty of Woodway. After passing through neighborhoods veiled with thick shrubs and tall trees, the road eventually winds down to the waterfront and downtown Edmonds. I pulled into Baskin-Robbins. I didn't even hesitate; I quickly ordered THREE scoops of the most rich, chocolate flavors they had. Three scoops is a lot of ice-cream and nothing I would normally order, but I was ready to swim in the muddy waters of that stuff and totally drown my sorrows in chunks of brownies, chocolate flakes and swirls of cream.
I drove over to a park that overlooks the ferry dock. This was the place where Dave proposed. It felt safe, secluded and peaceful - a good place to be alone and think. I watched the waves pulse in and out as I tried to wrap my mind around what had happened. I sat like that for a long time. At some point, I pulled out my phone and went directly to a video on lds.org which I'd seen before: "Hope Ya Know, I Had a Hard Time". I love what it has to say and the comfort it brings; watching it the second time around, those were the words that I needed to hear. There were words of peace, faith, acknowledgment, and understanding that someone was there during one of the darkest days of my life. And above all, the words in that little video gave me hope.
The next few days were a blur: difficult, heart-wrenching phone calls to family and a couple of close friends; my body going into full labor and the excruciating pain of it; the emergency D&C surgery; breakfast with all of my friends, where I delivered the news to my tight-knit group of girlfriends. In those days, I thought a lot. About death, about life. Loss, grieving and humility.
Pain is a funny thing. It tears you apart inside, but it also brings clarity. Months later, I found myself lying in the same hospital and the same Labor & Delivery area. It was a bit surreal because I had since associated that place with sadness and loss. The memories of the pain and sorrow were still there, but the sharp edges had faded in the passing weeks and months. And on that bright, cold Thursday morning, we experienced the greatest joy in our life as we welcomed our very healthy baby girl... a year and two days after my miscarriage. The pain of losing a baby made the joy of this new life that much greater. It was a magical, beautiful and breathtaking moment as I first held our sweet little girl in my arms. It may sound strange, but I will forever cherish the experience of that miscarriage. It changed me in a way that no other experience could. And it helped me understand, on a much deeper level these words, "... know thou, my [daughter], that all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good." (Doctrine & Covenants 122:7)
I am a very private person when it comes to my emotions. Unfortunately, Dave had to finish some things at work before we could go home. We stopped by his parents' house and told me I could hang out there until he was done. Even though they were people I love, I didn't want to be around anyone. All I wanted to do was crawl under a rock and let those emotions fly - in private, my way. After dropping him off at his office, I took a lovely, meandering drive through the lush beauty of Woodway. After passing through neighborhoods veiled with thick shrubs and tall trees, the road eventually winds down to the waterfront and downtown Edmonds. I pulled into Baskin-Robbins. I didn't even hesitate; I quickly ordered THREE scoops of the most rich, chocolate flavors they had. Three scoops is a lot of ice-cream and nothing I would normally order, but I was ready to swim in the muddy waters of that stuff and totally drown my sorrows in chunks of brownies, chocolate flakes and swirls of cream.
I drove over to a park that overlooks the ferry dock. This was the place where Dave proposed. It felt safe, secluded and peaceful - a good place to be alone and think. I watched the waves pulse in and out as I tried to wrap my mind around what had happened. I sat like that for a long time. At some point, I pulled out my phone and went directly to a video on lds.org which I'd seen before: "Hope Ya Know, I Had a Hard Time". I love what it has to say and the comfort it brings; watching it the second time around, those were the words that I needed to hear. There were words of peace, faith, acknowledgment, and understanding that someone was there during one of the darkest days of my life. And above all, the words in that little video gave me hope.
The next few days were a blur: difficult, heart-wrenching phone calls to family and a couple of close friends; my body going into full labor and the excruciating pain of it; the emergency D&C surgery; breakfast with all of my friends, where I delivered the news to my tight-knit group of girlfriends. In those days, I thought a lot. About death, about life. Loss, grieving and humility.
Pain is a funny thing. It tears you apart inside, but it also brings clarity. Months later, I found myself lying in the same hospital and the same Labor & Delivery area. It was a bit surreal because I had since associated that place with sadness and loss. The memories of the pain and sorrow were still there, but the sharp edges had faded in the passing weeks and months. And on that bright, cold Thursday morning, we experienced the greatest joy in our life as we welcomed our very healthy baby girl... a year and two days after my miscarriage. The pain of losing a baby made the joy of this new life that much greater. It was a magical, beautiful and breathtaking moment as I first held our sweet little girl in my arms. It may sound strange, but I will forever cherish the experience of that miscarriage. It changed me in a way that no other experience could. And it helped me understand, on a much deeper level these words, "... know thou, my [daughter], that all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good." (Doctrine & Covenants 122:7)
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