I've been meaning to write this post for a long time, but up until yesterday had felt too traumatized to reflect or share what I have been through. I feel like it is necessary, however, to do so, as when I was terrified and alone after we learned of Wild Thing's death, I really had no resources to tell me what might happen, what to expect, how it might feel, etc. I did have my good friend Laura, and thank God for her. When I lost Wild Thing, several friends came out of the woodwork, sharing their loss. I wondered, how did I not know of this before? Why is this not more talked about? I have learned through this process that by sharing our stories, we give courage to others. I recognize that there is a lot of shame, I KNOW there is a lot of shame (whole 'nother post), surrounding pregnancy loss, and hopefully sharing what I have been through will help me release some of my own shame and help others sift through theirs, as well.
Disclaimer: I will not hold any information back. I wanted to know EXACTLY what to expect or what potentially could happen to me when I lost my baby and was frustrated by people sugar-coating their experiences. If you got a weak stomach, stop here, m-kay?
We got the news of Wild Thing's passing on April 24th. Let me tell you how it went down. We went in there expecting a strong heartbeat. My doctor (nor the hospital radiologist, nor the ultrasound techs) had given us any indication the week before that we should be worried. He was little, they said, they saw a heartbeat, they said. "We will see a big, strong heartbeat next week."
So we were sitting with the ultrasound tech, and she was poking around with the vaginal ultrasound. The week before, the tech had been talking, explaining what she saw. This chick was DEAD SILENT. Uh, we are NOT stupid. I asked, "What do you see? Do you see a heartbeat?" She just continued to make measurements on the u/s screen. Infuriating. "DO YOU SEE A HEARTBEAT??" The answer: um...no. No heartbeat visible, no heartbeat we could hear. I asked her (her name was Phillipa, and I will despise that name for as long as I live), "What reasons would there be for us not to hear a heartbeat?" I was thinking, "Oh, he is still too little...they didn't actually see the heartbeat last week. We'll come in next week and it will be there." Wild Thing looked much bigger than the week before and Jason looked happy and excited that he was growing. Worst-ultrasound-tech-in-the-world Phillipa goes, "If I knew why there wasn't a heartbeat, I would be a doctor, wouldn't I?" Okay, woman, if I wasn't so scared right now, I would take out that vaginal wand and beat you with it.
So she leaves, saying she is going to go over the results with the radiologist. We KNEW. We knew, we knew, we knew. But she said NOTHING. So we waited in anguish. She comes back in, and says, "Your doctor wants to you to call him at this number to go over your results." Okay, another very not normal situation. I knew that if things had been okay, she would have just said, "Everything looks good, your doctor will call you soon," etc. Again, not stupid over here. So I call the number - shaking, freaking out. My doctor's office doesn't know what the hell is going on. Doctor Farley called me back on my cell phone right after, still in that stupid ultrasound room, still praying for a miracle, hoping he was going to say, "He's growing, he's still little, we will see an heartbeat next week." It is funny how one holds onto whatever little shred of hope there might be, forgoing all logic or intuition.
What floors me is that I learned of Wild Thing's death OVER THE PHONE. No ultrasound tech was brave enough to tell me in person, no radiologist came in to offer condolences. My doctor told me over the PHONE. Well, rather told Jason over the phone, because I started wailing the second he started speaking. My poor, sweet, steadfast husband received the news for me, took the brunt of those words, shouldered that burden so that I would not have to relive that conversation over and over for the rest of my life.
I cannot tell you the feelings I was bombarded with. I have never felt any devastation quite like it. I could not breathe. All I could keep repeating to Jason was, "I am so sorry, honey. I am so, so sorry." There is that shame element again. I don't know if I remember any more at this point. My sister was there - which was not good, because I have some deep psychological issues with showing grief in front of anyone but my husband. She tried to comfort me, but I seriously, at that point, was so wracked with pain, I could not acknowledge anyone. Somehow I got out the hospital. I remember mumbling to my sister to call my waiting parents and tell them. I told her I didn't want any calls, any texts, any communication AT ALL. Somehow Jason got me home and into bed. That is all I remember.
Okay, that is enough for the day. This has been the first time I have really shared what happened that day, and I feel myself starting to hit panic-attack mode. Lorazepam here I come. More later.
