Me and my boys

Wednesday, July 5, there we were. It was beautiful, sunny and warm.

Dave took the day off and we were driving East on I-80. I turned on our CD player and instead of listening to Kyle’s Magic Treehouse CD, I randomly switched to something else. Immediately I recognized that it was one of the CDs that has been in the car for at least six months. You see, between NPR and children’s CD books, it is hard to fit in the occasional Mommy-Mixed-CD. And out of the speakers I heard Chris Martin sing,

When you try your best but you don’t succeed
When you get what you want but not what you need
When you feel so tired but you can’t sleep
Stuck in reverse

And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can’t replace
When you love someone but it goes to waste
could it be worse?

I could not stop them. As I heaved and sobbed, I shook my fist in the air and yelled,

Damn You, Chris Martin! Damn you Coldplay!

Just the night before, I mean, just hours before, Dave and I were talking about how much we enjoy sex when I am pregnant. Dave joked about how much better the love-making would be as my belly grew. We felt close and I was finally letting myself be excited about this little baby. As Dave touched the tiny beginnings of my pregnant belly, we decided that we were probably having a boy . . .

I sat in the passenger seat choking. I could not breathe. Snot covered my face.

Lights will guide you home
and ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you

I thought my head was going to explode. These past two days I have only let myself go to that place where something like a silly, yet profound love song catches me off guard.

It is happening now. As I sniff away the drips across my wet face, I know that I really can’t hide anymore. I have been hiding since Wednesday.

It happened earlier in the day when I opened a bouquet of flowers my friend left on my back doorstep. I think after she received Dave’s phone message, she knew that I could not speak, so she left the flowers in a safe place for me to find. When I found them, my tears found me. I needed those flowers. And I needed (still need) the phone calls. I needed the chocolate wheat-free, dairy-free cookies. I needed the tea. I needed those beautiful pink nutmeg-smelling irises. I needed the gentle phone call warning me that they were coming and that I didn’t have to come to the door if I didn’t want to. I needed the card hidden in our secret mailbox. I needed my sister’s email and my other sisters’ caring words. I needed little Zeke’s pink Gerber Daisy. I needed the hugs. I needed my friend Marianne, who was visiting from Minneapolis to grab me and say,

I know you can’t talk right now, but Beth, I love you.

I needed my kind doctor to choke up and lower his head as he, Dave, and I viewed my ultrasound. I needed Dave to quietly hold my hand. I am sure I will continue to need while I struggle through this.

But honestly, I don’t know how to say, “I need you.” I usually don’t need.

As I got ready to take Marianne and her two beautiful children to the airport, I was haviing a rough time trying to fit her double stroller in the car. All the pain I was holding in was ragefully rushing out as I fought with this stupid, gigantic, awkward, idiotic, four-wheeled, piece of shit.

Marianne finally got me to stop long enough so she could say,

Beth, I am here to help. I know you want to do it all by yourself, but you can’t. I understand. I do the same thing.

I needed to hear that.

I know you know where this is going, but I have to say it. See, Wednesday I was headed for my ultrasound. All the calm I had felt this last month was washed away by Eli’s freak-out as I tried to coax him in the car.

[screaming] Mom, I can’t get in the car. Kyle’s Popsicle is bigger than mine.

What? You can’t be serious? Eli, those Popsicles are precisely measured by a machine. They are the same size. Now stop it and get in the car!

I was nervous about being late. I needed to drop the boys off at the park. My mom was waiting.

[crying] Mom, I can’t buckle my seat belt.

Eli, just do it! Please. We are going to be late.

Immediately I felt bad for yelling. I felt bad for letting my nerves take over.

Eli, I am sorry. I love you.

Mommy, I love you too.

I think Eli knew. I think he knew something was wrong.

It was so weird. Instead of waiting the usual forty-five minutes. My doctor was on time. He whisked us back. I emptied my bladder, undressed from the waist down and hopped on the table. Quickly he inserted the ultra-sound device and immediately I knew, and so did my doctor. He desperately fiddled with the device, trying to see if somehow he had done something wrong. He hadn’t. We both saw it: There was no baby, just an empty egg sac. In the last few days my body had absorbed the baby. Sick! And why the hell did I ever have to see an embryo and a heartbeat? Seriously, why?

Instantly I was positive and pragmatic, assuring both Dave and the doctor that all would be ok. That was until my doctor lowered his head. I watched him as he sat there so quietly and still. His wise silence was forcing me to take it all in. He knew our journey well. He knew that this wasn’t just a miscarriage. He knew about our years of trying, years of doctors, treatments, x-rays, blood tests and huge disappointments. Kindly, he raised his head and said.

Beth, if you don’t let yourself grieve, you will not heal.

Those simple words broke through and the tears began slipping out. I tried to hold them back. I urgently tried to force them back down. I needed to be alone. I felt humiliated. “Good God I am still getting comments about my Two Pink Lines post,” I thought to myself. I suck!

Dave and I spent the next few hours alone while my wonderful mom entertained my boys, Marianne, and her children.

What will I tell people? Just yesterday I was telling people how safe I thought I was because I had made it to my twelfth week. I can’t . . .

See, my body still thought there was a little baby growing inside. It did not want to let go either. And there I was. Because I don’t handle anesthesia very well, my doctor opted to give me pills to start the process. Though the embryo was gone, all of the tissue that supports the embryo’s growth remained, and my body was holding on.

We put the kids to bed, went over our back-up plan in case there were complications and I needed to be rushed to the hospital, and Dave helped me with the little pills. I had to insert six of them vaginally. It was supposed to happen fast. We started watching Must Love Dogs, because that was what was on. As the movie ended, I felt the cramping and we decided we would try to sleep.

As I lay there, I felt just like I did when I went into labor with Kyle. This time, instead of having a big belly, I was small and completely alone — no doctors, no nurses, no excited well-wishers. It was so still. In our dark room, I felt the contractions. They hurt and progressed, as any labor should, for a long long time. And then I realized that there was a problem. I was so tense. And because I was so tense, nothing was happening. I knew that nothing was happening because I wasn’t letting go. With Dave sleeping by my side, I talked myself through what needed to happen. I unclenched my hands, let my body relax and finally let myself feel this sad, sad heartache. I said good-bye to this new little part of me and then I lay there until I couldn’t handle the pain any longer. I ran to the bathroom and as I sat on the toilet, I felt the gush of blood, I felt the passing of a large mass of tissue, and then I heard it drop heavily into the very bloody toilet. I saw enough without turning on the light. If the room had been any brighter, I would have to face how bad it really was. I had faced enough. I repeated this process of running to the bathroom over and over for hours until I could not bear the intense contractions any longer and literally passed out.

Today at the doctor’s office I had another ultrasound. He wanted to make sure all pieces were gone, and they were. We talked about my options. We decided that I would continue seeing him and that I would also see another specialist. We even made an appointment with the other specialist, who will be squeezing me into his schedule. I was actually feeling hopeful. And then Dave and I went to dinner. As I watched the parents with their babies and thought about what I lost, I realized that this is just not going to be that easy to get over. I am still barely letting myself touch the devastation. I mean, come on, I haven’t even been able to tell most of my friends and family about this. Dave or my mom have had to speak for me. And if you are finding out now, it is not a slight. I just don’t know how to say it in person. What do you say?

I feel like shit. I feel lucky that I have Kyle and Eli. I feel blessed to be alive, but am still so sad. I am grateful for friends, who keep calling me, even when I cannot talk to them. I am grateful because as alone as I feel, I know I am not. I am grateful for those who have found out, who have approached me, even when I am not approachable. See, when people actually reach me with their kind words, I am reminded of what I have lost. When I actually feel their love, I can’t escape the pain. And right now, the pain is almost too much.

I want to run away, but really, where would I go?