Another warning before you continue reading- this post is personal, and very revealing of my personal experience with a miscarriage.
It was a surprise in the first place to find out that I was pregnant. It wasn't really in our plans- though I've been dealing with some sciatica issues, I'd set laser sharp focus on racing for Team USA at the world triathlon championships and on continuing to grow my business. Another kid was not quite in the mix, but nonetheless it was welcomed surprise.
We had quickly wrapped our head around the idea of a third kid... What room will they sleep in? How could we fit in the car? What if its a boy? What if it's more than one? I can't wait to snuggle! Oh no... diapers again. We can do this, we've done it twice. Once the insomnia and nausea kicked in, the excitement promptly became the expectation that now we would be a beautiful family of 5.
Fast-forward to my call with the nurse. She continued... "Ya know hun, everybody has them, they just don't tell anyone." But that didn't ring true in my mind. As it often happens to me when I'm being trampled by the proverbial horse, rather than going numb, I become incredibly lucid and present in the moment. Like when my dad or brother died, I suddenly became aware of everything that was happening- the weather, my breathing, my thoughts, etc. And my thoughts raced to thinking of how few people I knew who had been through this. I really didn't know many women who had gone through this.
I was saddened by my loss, and my mind was telling me not to share this with people because in some way it made me a lesser person; that somehow I had failed as a woman. But my ever-resilient heart screamed otherwise- I needed to be open about it share this with my loved ones-This is the time when I most need a shoulder to cry on and friends to support me. So I followed my heart.
In sharing my loss with friends, I was very surprised with the number of them whom've experienced miscarriages. It really is common. But though the normality of this was eye opening, what truly shocked me was the feeling of failure that seems to accompany most women who miscarry. In listening to their stories, the common theme seemed to be how you feel so powerless that you can't carry life, your body is not functioning properly or that your body is indeed rejecting life.
Having gone through the agonies of miscarrying, I'd like to offer a different view. Yes, it is brutal to have your body wind-up for pregnancy, only to wind down. It's brutal to feel morning sickness when you know you are not expecting. It's nothing short of horrifying to uncontrollably bleed for weeks thinking that at some point you will be passing what could have hypothetically been a human. It is mentally exhausting to know there is no reward at the end of this torture. BUT what is most humbling, is that it is truly amazing that my body is so in-tune with what makes life viable, that it is capable of discerning when my creations are compatible with life, and when they are not.
Our bodies are capable of telling whether or not a life is viable way before the doctor can. This is no small feat. I believe that discerning viable from non-viable is just as much of a miracle as it is to conceive in the first place. I praise my body for being so self sufficient and considerate of my life and that of my unborn child. It would be so unfair for the unborn to be thrust into a reality that they are not capable of handling.
Perhaps what lightens my emotional load is the belief that if there's a little soul out there trying to make an entry, it will continue to try until the conditions are right. But I am disconcerted with how as a society, we have shunned women who miscarry into secrecy because of our ingrained belief that a miscarriage is a result of a malfunctioning body. It's not. We have been taught that its natural to carry, but that its unnatural to miscarry. As women, if we felt we could be more open about this, we might all realize just how natural it is to become un-pregnant. Perhaps we might even change the word miscarriage to something a little less stigmatizing?
When I hear your condolences, your words echo the thought that something wasn't right. But it was all right. It all worked out perfectly the way it had to work. And I'm thankful that it did. I appreciate your empathy and I realize that perhaps you are stumbling for words, but sometimes just saying you are there for me is all that matters- no condolences needed.
