Miscarriage and Feminine Identity

This will most likely be my last post specifically about miscarriage, but it's the one I've been trying to write all along for this blog. 

****Disclaimer***I do not claim to be an expert on this topic, and am only addressing my emotions and feelings on this topic.

There's something powerful about a positive pregnancy test.  If the baby is wanted, it is a moment of awe, fear, and triumph.  If the pregnancy is unwanted, it is a terrifying sword of Damocles hanging over your head.  I've peed on many a stick in my day (my picture should be next to the words "pregnancy hypochondria" in the dictionary) and I've prayed for both results over the years.

On August 30th I saw my first positive pregnancy test.  I used the clearblue easy digital model, which is kind enough to just say "pregnant" or "not pregnant" instead of giving you lines or dots or some other morse code.  In 30 seconds I think I experienced at least 50 different individual emotions ranging from glee to terror.

Underneath it all, though, was a uniquely feminine sort of pride.  I had accomplished my biological imperative, my hypothetical biological destiny, and spawned.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not advocating that every woman get knocked up, but it is something that only we can do, and regardless of what the most stubborn person would say, it's a magical realization to know you'd done it.

I felt more feminine than I ever had, even more than when I'd lived out my fairy tale princess fantasy on my wedding day.  Becoming pregnant was a special sort of validation that I never knew existed.  Unfortunately, that pride was exceptionally short lived.

I had my first cramps within a few days, and went in for a second blood test on September 3rd.  My hormone levels were shooting up, and the nurse reassured me that everything was fine, and that the pains I was feeling was probably just my uterus moving around.  But within two weeks I was in the Emergency room with pain and spotting.  The baby was measuring a week and a half too small, but as I'm irregular we weren't too worried, yet.  Last Thursday was the ultrasound that resulted in a negative prognosis.  Only 48 or so hours ago was the moment of hope-a heartbeat.  But it was too slow, the baby was too small, and the pregnancy was moving down towards my cervix.  On Thursday came blood, and the end of our dreams for our first child.

The thing about miscarriage is how much it robs you of your femininity.  You go from believing you're some kind of fertility sex goddess to a failed mother in an instant (or, in my case, over 12 long days and nights).  Regardless of how common miscarriage is, it's impossible not to take it personally, to grieve, and to hurt.

I feel robbed of that special feminine power I'd tapped into. 

Defective.

No one needs to quote statistics at me.  I know them.  I know that 95% of all pregnancies that end in the first trimester like mine are because of a bad sperm/egg match, or a glitch somewhere in the formation process.  I know that up to 50% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage.  I know a number of women whose first pregnancies ended in miscarriage, and who have beautiful children today.  That doesn't make it easier.

For me, the prohibition on sex and orgasm made it all worse.  I'm not just my sexuality, but it is a huge part of who I am, and how I relate to the world around me (obviously, or I wouldn't be here).  Losing that part of me, especially as I was losing my child as well made me feel lost, isolated, and like I was locked outside in the middle of a blizzard.  I remember putting on jeans, sneakers, a long sleeved shirt, and a jacket, and stepping outside into our unseasonably warm weather, feeling confused.  How could it be warm and sunny-hell, perfect beach weather-when I felt so cold on the inside.  It should be pouring, thundering, a hurricane, a blizzard outside, not this perfect blue sun and obscenely bright sun.

I'm angry.  I come from a long line of fertile women, with the last miscarriage in my family belonging to my great grandmother (although my grandmother's first child died within 2 days of birth) over 60 years ago.  Why the hell couldn't I pull this off? 

I did everything right.  I hadn't had a drink since our anniversary in July.  I stopped drinking caffeine entirely, even though all I had to do was cut back to like a can or two a day.  I started eating vegetables, and I HATE vegetables.  I drank enough water to fill an ocean.  I walked every day.  I started on prenatals over a month before I got pregnant.

It wasn't enough.

I'm jealous of every pregnant woman I see.  When I see a baby, a wave of intense longing and a small voice saying "I was supposed to have that" washes over me.  I try to remind myself that I don't know how hard won those pregnancies or children are, but it still hurts.

I have a hard time accepting the condolences of my friends.  They try so hard to make me feel better, but the comments don't always help.  One friend said something about how "it's not really a baby yet, just cells" and I almost hung up on them because they don't get how real the baby was to us.  It's funny because it's the same argument I'd make about a woman electing to have an abortion at this point in her pregnancy, but I realize the difference between an unwanted invader and a desperately loved and wanted child.

I wonder if anyone will remember me on mother's day.  I became a mother the second I got pregnant, and I embraced it the second the stick read "pregnant."  But I know that to most people, Sexyhusband and I don't have children and we're not parents.  I hate those people.

The loss of our child is a wound, both on my heart, and on my femininity.  I know from losing my grandmother when I was a teen (who was essentially a mother to me, and who I was incredibly close to) that these wounds eventually heal, and while the person we lose is never forgotten, the anniversary of their death and the dates important to them become less painful over time.  The wound on my heart will heal.

The wound of my femininity will also heal, but only completely with the live birth of a healthy child.  Sure the odds are good that it wasn't my fault, but I'll only *really* believe it when I can hold the evidence of that.

I have a feeling it will be hard to win back my sex goddesshood.  I've been knocked off my pedestal, and my own ego made it a pretty high one at that.  I'm bruised and standing on the ground, unsure of how to climb up the smooth sides of my pedestal.

The first step on that journey, though, is to allow Sexyhusband to give me an orgasm in a few days time, followed by our sexual reunion next weekend.

Here's to letting the healing process begin.

***********************************

I will most likely not be blogging for a few days.  The surgery is tomorrow afternoon, and I'll be groggy tomorrow, and probably not in the most emotionally healthy place.  I start to resume my normal life on Saturday, and will hopefully be hearing about a job I've been interviewing for throughout this whole mess early next week.  Part of me resents returning to the "real world" so soon, but after sitting at home gestating and crying and hoping and spending waaaaaaay too much time online trying to figure out my baby's odds and reading far too many infertility blogs and miscarriage blogs and boards and sites, I can tell you that obsession isn't a terribly pretty place either.  I don't believe that the road of healing will be easy, but I at least know that it exists.

Comments

[Lyrical Fool]

This is very likely the most eloquent explanation I've ever heard. You are not alone in your jealousy of pregnant women, in your wondering about Mother's Day, and your feelings of having your femininity robbed. I didn't have the vocabulary for it when it happened, but I think it sums it up perfectly.

There is something so powerful in being pregnant, something that even on my best days I can't put words to. To have that feeling of power taken away, in addition to the already horrible loss of a child, makes it all the more terrible.

My best wishes for a quick physical recovery and healing on all levels for you and Sexyhusband.

[Elisa]

I had a very similar miscarriage experience. My first pregnancy was a breeze - the second ended at 11.5 weeks - after 11.5 weeks of being very excited and happy (and sick) but all of that went away when we could find nothing on the ultrasound.

That little one would have been 3 next month and there are alot of days that I think about that. It is a moment that makes me sad.

I can say that I reclaimed that feeling of elation and power with the birth of our 2 year old - but still it is hard knowing that there was a little someone that I will never know.

My heart goes out to both of you.

[Musns]

I would have hung up on the person who said it was 'just cells' - because it is what YOU acknowledge it to be. You acknowledged it as your child, one that you were excited about - you have EVERY right to be indignant, hurt, upset and angry at those that are pregnant or running frazzled and stressed at their kids (like me)and you're thinking those women ought to appreciate what they have.

Traumatic events such as these make or break marriages, my prayer is this strengthens yours and the two of you come closer than ever during your grieving, and reawakening of your sexuality. You are still a sex goddess and I'm sure SH will do his best to see that your identity is reaffirmed of whom you are. I'm glad that you will be able to resume sex, for if nothing else, it's intimacy and reassurance that comes from a partner during a time of need.

With love to you & SH

[Shari]

I'm sorry, that is so hard. I went through something similar. DO NOT let it rob you of your joy. Many many women loose a baby here and there. The more you know about it, the more amazing it is that anyone ever has a baby! My mother-in-law had 4 kids - 3 kids and then 10 years of miscarriage before the 4th. We lost for 5 years before we got our heart's desire. I hope that you get the same.
Shari

[Unknown]

Thank you for helping me not feel so alone.

No words can aide a pain like this, time makes the ache dull, but never go away.

You have touched my soul.

[Deliciously Naughty]

Everyone---thank you, so much for your comments. I had to wait awhile to read them, but please know that I always do.

This has been such an isolating experience that it really helps to have others reach out and share/talk/cry/whatever with me.

[havingmycake]

It was a child that was moving around inside you and you loved it, no matter what. That is the most feminine thing that anyone can do... loving something that you lost and mourning for it. Only someone who has never experienced a pregnancy could be so harsh as to deny its existence as a child. Give yourself time to grieve and you will rediscover your joie de vivre.
Wishing you well x

[tom paine]

While this is small comfort, many doctors say a miscarriage is often a "trial run" for the plumbing that will result in a successful second act. Good luck with the process, and know that you'll eventually get there.

[Nadine]

I'm so sorry for your loss. I've lost three babies...and it never gets easier, sorry to say, even after my daughter was born. I still feel defective because I couldn't carry those three. The wound heals but the scars remain.

[uhavegot2bkidn]

I don't know what to say. I never had trouble getting pregnant to carrying my son to term. I just feel so awful for you. I wish I could say or do something that would make you not hurt, or that would get your 'femininity' back.
I am at a loss.