The hard things

It's been a few days since my miscarriage began. They've been hard days. Emotionally, physically, mentally - hard.

Dealing with the physicality of the miscarriage is difficult, although thankfully, I seem to be having a quick time of things - I was warned that the bleeding would likely last for a week or possibly even two, but after four days I'm down to just spotting. I'm grateful that I didn't see an identifiable sac or tadpole fetus as some women do - I don't know how I could have dealt with that. But I'll still be glad when this is done - one of the worst parts is the constant reminder of what is happening every time I go to the bathroom.

Losing the sense of feeling pregnant has been hard as well - my symptoms are dropping off, in the reverse order that they arrived. First to go was the breast sensitivity and backache, and now the bloating and food aversions/cravings are fading. There's still some gassiness (remember how burpy I was?) and a lot of fatigue, although I suspect that's due to emotional stress and not hormones. I never thought I'd miss having sore breasts, but I cried the first time I touched them and they felt normal.

My doctor warned me that for a while, it will seem like that everywhere I look, there will be babies. She was right. Even just on the short drive home from her office, I saw three separate women out with their babies in strollers. The stores are full of women with round bellies - there seems to be an epidemic of pregnancy in my town.

One of the toughest things has been going out in public. Even pregnant women and babies aside, it's so strange that everything should be the same, that people can go about their lives, laughing and talking. Don't they know what's happened? How can this not affect them? It's like when you're so in love with someone that you just can't understand how not everyone else in the world isn't in love with them too - only instead of love, it's pain. How is it that something that hurts so much, something that has changed our lives forever, has no effect on everyone else? Can't they tell what's happened just by looking at me? Can't they feel this too?

I was talking to a friend who has previously miscarried, discussing the most difficult parts of this process. She said that the worst part was the feeling of losing her "innocence." I have to agree. Before a miscarriage, even if you're a hypereducated person like myself and Divasaur, everything you know is still academic. You know all the things that could happen and you feel the fear of the Unknown (it's a very real fear - I loved Diva's post and am not belittling that in any way), but after it happens, there's a difference. I will never feel so carefree and confident about a pregnancy again, not ever. I will always be cautious, anxiously wary of any sign that things might be going wrong. My friend mourned that when she heard a coworker giddily announce her pregnancy at only 7 weeks, her first thought was not, "How wonderful!" but "I hope nothing happens." You feel jealous that anyone can be so securely happy, and then feel ashamed of feeling that way.

And you feel enraged with the pure unfairness, the sense of arbitrariness in your loss. We did everything - everything - right. Why then did we have to lose our baby when there are so many women out there who fall pregnant that don't even want a child, who smoke and drink their way through their nine months?

I know this will get easier. It will. But getting to that stage, making it through this initial time is difficult. It might sound silly, but I keep singing 'Tomorrow' from Annie to myself.

It was a movie I adored as a child, and somehow this song has really helped me through the last couple of days. Things will get easier. I just have to hang on 'til tomorrow. It will get better.