I haven’t written much lately because I’ve been struggling with putting my thoughts to paper. Hell, even making sense of my tangled thoughts has been a difficult task.
This is where I am. One year, seven months, twenty-one days since I miscarried my first pregnancy. It was a missed miscarriage, so I had known it was coming by the time this day came, but that didn’t lessen the emotional or physical pain I had to hide as I returned to the Thanksgiving dinner table.
Had my first pregnancy been successful, we would have a 13 month old right now. I’ve been grieving this loss in a new way lately. After this loss, yes, I was sad, bitter, angry, confused… but I cried once and then tried my best to look to the future and try again. After all, I hadn’t really even felt like I had been pregnant aside from a little nausea and a few missed periods. There was never a heartbeat, no ultrasound picture to take and hang on the fridge; just a silent screen, and a “Are you sure you haven’t had any bleeding?” followed by a nurse asking me when do I expect my period, and “Oh, it will just be like a heavy period.” (I’m not going to get into that one right now. Ugh.)
This last month though, the thoughts that we would have a one year old now are hard to avoid, as is the heart-dropping sadness. Multiple friends and acquaintances had babies around the time of my due date, so Facebook these last couple months has been full of smiling one year old pictures, one year birthday parties. It takes everything I have to acknowledge my friends’ kids’ first birthdays. I’m inevitably left a sobbing mess, just by saying the words happy birthday to your little one. I hate that that’s my reaction, but it is. I am oh so happy that my friends are happy, and their kids are happy and healthy, but I am so destroyed by the fact that my baby is gone.
This is where I am. Seven months, 14 days.
I lost Ava a year and a week after losing my first pregnancy, but Ava was at 26 weeks. If the doctors would have intervened, I would have a 7 month old right now. If I didn’t have CHI happen, I would have a 3 month old right now. Again, I had known the loss was coming, but that didn’t make going through another Thanksgiving in a living hell any easier. So when I say I hate the holidays now, I mean it. And no I’m not the damn Grinch, just let me be. Why must we force people to be happy during this time (or anytime really), anyway? But, I digress.
How can I be grieving for not having my one year old, when that would have meant not having Ava? It would have been impossible timing wise. And how do I reconcile wanting to have never experienced a loss, but being glad that I at least knew my Ava, even if it was only for 6 hours of holding her lifeless body?
I’m in the middle of taking on a wave of grief for not having a one year old, when a fresh wave hits me in the other direction for Ava never getting a one year birthday, or any birthdays. And, as I’m gasping for air and treading water, I swirl around in the thoughts that I may never get to see one of my babies turn one. A wave of grief for the loss of my innocence? A wave of grief for the loss of a happy future, even if all of this is just in my head? I don’t even know any more. It’s all so confusing and depressing.
So here’s where I am today.
I have a new diagnosis as of this week: Hyperthyroidism secondary to Graves’ Disease. I have started to take PTU twice a day and have instructions to see my endocrinologist upon a positive pregnancy test. I double checked with him that PTU can be taken with tacrolimus, so it shouldn’t affect the plan. He also was adamant that hyperthyroidism doesn’t cause pregnancy loss like I’ve experienced, if anything the extra hormones can be a positive thing. So there’s that. I have a giant pill box to keep track of all my pills now: Prenatal vitamin, low dose aspirin, B6, B12, folic acid, and PTU. So now it’s just a matter of waiting for a positive test and away we will go with everything crossed that this Thanksgiving I will have something to be thankful for again.