Reacurring Miscarriage

"Really, the way to get over a miscarriage is by having a baby”. My kind, purple hair, physician
explained to me. And I couldn’t agree more.

I opted against stopping at Megs to use the bathroom after getting off of the camp bus, so it was a rather hurried drive home. I was headed to a job fair in Burns Lake the following day, so I thought I’d indulge in a nights' sleep at home. And this is when it started. The relief that came from emptying my bladder quickly formed into fear at the pit of my stomach a small stream of blood pooled in the toilet after.  It didn’t happen at home, or on my work trip in Toronto, no, it happened at work in camp. But I think back to that moment and the idea that I made this happen still haunts me.

I urge Mike to help me escape our reality so we head towards Smithers. Along the way, Mike suggests we hike China Knows (or China Nose, you choose), a hike that has always been talked about, but we’ve never actually done. It’s a fairly gentle and six kilometer hike round trip.

And each step I take is harder than anticipated, and despite the heavy breathing and aching quads, I can’t get out of my own head. I can’t focus on being outside. I’m not appreciating the wind relieving us from the sun, because I'm angry. I am so mad. It’s like purchasing a red car and then suddenly seeing them everywhere: I see pregnant women everywhere and so many new mothers. I openly admit to my massage therapist how much I resented those shitty, undeserving parents who have children. It's hard not hate everyone and their petty problems. Days ago, Mike and I were perfectly fine swimming in the river, and then something shifts and takes me back to the realization I am no longer pregnant and I become quiet, because, out of nowhere, I became angry.

Finally, we make it to the top of the mountain, where the hike quite literally ends, leaving us at a cliff with the vast view of trees that are so far away they look like green icing tips and we use binoculars to see sheep scattered throughout the rocks. I would like to say the hike was gratifying and the site made me forget about my grief, but instead I feel defeated and hostile.

And then Mike starts hocking up loogies and spitting them off the hundred foot drop. I stand there baffled as his spit ball goes up instead of down, narrowly missing the both of us, and I laugh.  I start collecting saliva in my mouth and let out a slimy snot ball and I cannot believe the wind is that strong that these balls of grossness defy gravity and keep coming back as us. Mostly, I can’t believe he knows how to do this as I’ve never thought to do as a child. We do this for, at most, seven minutes, sharing and enjoying a beer to get more saliva. And for seven minutes, for the first since I woke up in camp bleeding, for the first time it was confirmed that I had miscarried, I forget the destruction of this loss. For a few moments, I forget to obsess over the future. I forget that I’m devastated.

We cut our trip short and head home not long after because I’m feeling unwell. After an emergency visit and a few rounds of blood work, my purple haired physician confirms that my HGC (pregnancy) hormones were not nearly as low as they should be. She explains that I need to take medication to empty out my uterus. I gently push back. Can we can wait a few more days to see if perhaps my body absorbs the remains? She would rather not wait, in that not taking the Mifegymiso could lead to having to have a physical abortion (Dilation and Cuettage (D&C) later on. So I agree.

The summer is not a convenient time for mental health issues. Combined with the season and Northern BC, well, much of Canada, having a shortage of mental health support, after a few weeks, I finally get in to speak with a Counsellor. I tell her that I’m angry and I want some tools to help me stop. I can hardly withstand hearing about the struggles of my own people, the issues that my handful of people I love, let alone dealing with concerns and issues for those at my job. She tells me that I need to feel and that I need to grieve this loss. She explains that four weeks is not a very long time to go through all that I’ve gone through.

So I feel and I grieve. While running on the Museum Trail I see big letters chalked on black rocks: Dad. I run past them simultaneously breathing hard and chocking on my own sobs until I finally rest my hands on my knees to let myself cry. It seems I cry all the time now.

My sister thinks this has been difficult because for so long I didn’t want to procreate. I didn’t feel the need to pass down my anxious and at times, irresponsible bloodline, and I never felt the necessity to leave behind a legacy. It wasn’t until I met Mike that I realized I wanted to have his child. This was a decision that we consciously made.  I’ll see a mother back packing with her tiny human and it will only reconfirm my desire to have my own, except it seems my body won’t let me.  I know that there are so many silver linings I could take from this loss: that my body made the decision for me, so I wouldn’t have to. With enduring this, it really confirms that I want to have a child. Now I can appreciate Canadian healthcare with legal abortion. There are options: Surly I could adopt.

But, I don’t need silver linings. I need examples of people who have gone through this and how they came out okay. I not only want to know why this happened (and my Doc with purple hair is working with me on this, so I don’t need opinions from non-professionals), but I want to talk to people who have survived this. What I need is for people to tell me how they got through this, with or without the end result being a newborn, and that they are okay, because right now, I am not.

I’m talking about this because when Mike told me that everything would be okay I looked at him and asked him if he knew anyone who has had two miscarriages without having children prior to this. His respnose was no, and mine too, but I guess now we both know.

Kirstin

Getting Pregnant and Staying Pregnant are two different things.

A Mourning Garden

All the boxes were checked. We could walk in our renoed house bare foot, and despite the lack

of closets and the touch ups needed on the ceilings, we were happy. I was settled into my Mine job and Mike was happily Incorporated and prepared to work during shutdowns while I was out of camp; he would primarily be at home. So, despite the travel doctors warning about malaria pills in our systems, in Ecuador, we laughed after Ecuadorian beers and mind-blowing travel sex, wondering, what in the world did we just do.

It took mere weeks when I peed on a stick in a camp bathroom and called Mike on speaker phone to tell him that, holy shit, there were two lines. And we laughed. Because what does one do when they have it all? Mike smokes an insurmountable amount of weed, my eggs are old, and I'm full anxiety and meds to dampen the anxiety, so we were baffled that this would happen so fast. Like everything in life, I felt pregnancy deeply. I was thirsty, lightheaded, and so dang exhausted. Like, be-horizontal-on-the-work-floor, tired. And boy, could I feel my Uterius expanding. I confirmed with Gillian, my nurse at the mine, that this was all very normal. The implantation caused cramping and bleeding and yes, I would be very tired – but only for the first trimester.

I insisted we tell our people and Mike was so hesitant. What if something went wrong? I wanted to be able to talk about physical and emotional changes, how I was feeling and what is normal. So, us hardly comprehending our new future, we told family and a few friends. It was like giving out the best Christmas present ever. Everyone was over the moon. My sister, Meg, spit out her coffee. Our response was that it just doesn’t feel real - because it didn't. It was mentioned that we were a little early, but Mike explained my reasoning. You see, I was the planner, but he was always prepared.

And so, I planned. I scored a second loved Bob stroller for running and had my sister look into chariot with skis and a bike seat.  I know this sounds insane and soon, but this is how I role. I knew that in order to survive post pregnancy I needed a plan for mental health’s sake. I stopped all the caffeine but one cup a day (and had a caffeine headache for four days), let go of my $350 adventure of rock climbing and gave up sushi.

And then I woke up my first night back in camp and found blood. Not implantation blood. Too much blood. I cried. I paced around our camp room sobbing. Finally, laying face down and letting out animalistic howls into my pillow. I knew I had lost something. The medic allowed Mike to drive to Fort St. James Hospital and prepared the nurse that I was coming in. I couldn't stay in camp, the Medic said. But, he told me it was possible that the baby was fine. The physical exam simply confirmed more blood. After 48 hours and an internal exam, the physician said she couldn’t find a fetus. But she could be wrong, she said. Logically I knew I had an empty womb. But, not getting guarantee confirmation until recently only left room for false hope. My second ultrasound yesterday confirmed that my Uterius was empty and perfect, and a negative pregnancy test echoed the same. The consult was so final, creating a new sense of loss. I moured for my pregnancy, for the horrible and potential names we came up with. I cried for a future that seems so surreal and now non existent. Miscarriage was something that happened, but for the first time since my breakdown during COVID, I was so sure my body could handle pregnancy, the pregnancy didn't want to be a part of me. The swipe of blood I found on toilet paper was the beginning of so many complicated emotions.

I wanted the opportunity to tell people I was pregnant. But, it seems that admitting to people that I miscarried is so much harder than I realized. I didn’t want to. It has been difficult to talk about. And, although hugely appreciated, there had been no helpful response when people have learned I've miscarried, which is on me, not them. Mike took comfort in telling his work people, who relieved him with some of the burden by his coworkers admitting that their partners experiences miscarriages as well. Recently I attended a graduation barbecue for a family member. Mike’s people were there, who I assumed knew. They didn’t say anything about it, but before I left, I got many long, knowing, hugs. I love them for that.

At my sister's wedding, after being asked twice about future babies or a potential current pregnancy, I talked my my sisters and a close family friend about how I was feeling. I know, at this point, it's not my fault. But, without a substantial reason as to why it happened, how do I know I won't miscarry again? I took comfort knowing the family friends is carrying a healthy baby after just loosing one before.

I’m not really sure were to go from here, because everything is fine, but I’m not okay. I was warned on a few occasions that my hormones would be off the charts for some time, but I can’t distinguish grieving from hormones and I’m angry and sad. Any space where I'm offered privacy, I'm emotional. As soon as someone asks if I'm okay, I cry. But we’ve been spending a lot of time outside in rain and sunshine, working on the lawn and garden, and the physical exhaustion of digging out sod and raking rocks has really helped. I bought some plans and started digging up the front yard. Half hazardously stabbing the spade into the ground, ripping out sod and earth and replacing it with kale, mint, and chives. I listened to mourning music on speakers in our front lawn with dirt up to my elbows sprinkling water everywhere. The last two rotations home we’ve cleaned up and expanded the garden so it resembles something complete, somethingthat will grow.

I was pregnant for a mere five weeks and one day. No body had told me the extreme physical exhaustion of growing a tiny human. Nobody told me that a miscarriage isn’t immediate, but lasts for days, weeks really; checking my panties after every meeting for blood and drinking caffeine as some form of revenge. So, I’m talking about having a miscarriage, so people can come to me and ask me questions if they would like. At one point I was telling my other sister, Shawna, how I was worried about what I was doing while pregnant would impact the baby in the future. Instead of roboticly responding that everything will be okay, she responded that nobody tells you that becoming a mother happens as early as it does.