Flashbacks
I'll admit it -- I'm a lurker. I like to read other people's blogs. It's like reading someone else's diary or mail (no, I would NEVER do that). It's becoming a habit for me -- kind of like watching a favorite television show. I can't begin my day until I've checked my daily blogs.
It started with a visit to http://www.alittlepregnant.com. The site owner is a good writer with a biting sense of humor, and over the weeks, I began to feel like we were chums. Even though she's never met me, even though I never posted any comments or introduced myself in any way, I still felt a kinship. She's a fellow smart-ass. From her blog, I followed the links to others, and soon I was reading eight or ten a day. I was a crack-blogger. All the women had that same sarcastic bent; all of them were struggling through conception, misconception, traumatic pregnancies, and what-have-you. It was so compelling -- I had to see how they were doing. Had to.
Today, I wish I hadn't. I checked one site (http://brooklyngirl.typepad.com) that I visit regularly and read today's post. Little too close for comfort. Suddenly I was back in the bad place -- the Friday that I sat home by myself watching "Maternity Ward" and patting my belly and thinking about my baby. The Saturday that I told myself I wasn't really bleeding, just spotting. The Sunday that I finally called the emergency room and the doctor on-call admitted that clots weren't a good sign. The Monday morning when my OB/Gyn confirmed the worst.
No heartbeat. No baby.
I don't think I've ever cried like that before. Not hard, not whiny, no sniffles, no hiccups. Just tears. The weeping seemed to come from this well inside me -- so much water, so deep down. And when Scholar came home, all light and breezy (because he'd convinced himself that I was overreacting), I told him the news in this grown-up, matter-of-fact voice, and I took sadistic pleasure in the shock and sorrow on his face. I don't know why it made me happy to see him affected, but it did. I had proved him wrong. Assinine way to do it, I suppose.
But what frightened me most of all was how empty I felt inside. I was full for a moment, and then I was hollow. I tried so hard to get full again, as quick as possible, so I wouldn't have to think about what I'd lost. I avoided friends with newborns (I know they understood). I continued to work, and life went on. When we got the Beagle in September, just a month before I would have been due, I felt a small release. Here was someone who needed me, and I could shower her with as much smothering affection as I could muster. I relaxed a little. Soon, it seemed like it happened a thousand years ago, to some other woman somewhere far away.
But when I stepped into the hospital last week, I had a powerful urge to run out the doors. Then today, with this stranger strumming my pain with her keystrokes, some murky stuff is stirring up beneath the calm surface. And yes, there's a whole lot of jealousy that she got to hear a heartbeat.
It's difficult to articulate. I'm not in pain. Not traumatized. It's so hard to explain the distinction -- that it's something that happened to me, it makes me very sad, and I'm okay. Not over it. It's like I have this scar on my body that people can see, and they look at it with awe, and maybe a little bit of revulsion. "Wow," they say, "that must have really hurt."
"Yeah," I say, even though I don't recall exactly how it hurt. To remind myself, I press on it a little bit, and yup! It's still there.
It's not the same kind of familiar sorrow I have when I think about other traumas of the past. It's not Outrage. It's not Fury.
It's just Sad.
I guess that's what the Buddha meant when he said that pain is a part of life, but suffering is a choice. My miscarriage is one of those memories that makes me cry, but not scream. Is there such a thing as pure pain? I think so. There's no bitterness attached to these memories, no sense that I've been wronged or victimized -- just terribly, terribly unlucky. So I move on. In a way, it's good to know that sorrow doesn't have to fester. This is a clean wound.
I'm really not doing a good job at explaining it, but writing helps. I don't talk about this as often as I think about it, and I don't think about it as much anymore. But -- yup! It's still there.
It started with a visit to http://www.alittlepregnant.com. The site owner is a good writer with a biting sense of humor, and over the weeks, I began to feel like we were chums. Even though she's never met me, even though I never posted any comments or introduced myself in any way, I still felt a kinship. She's a fellow smart-ass. From her blog, I followed the links to others, and soon I was reading eight or ten a day. I was a crack-blogger. All the women had that same sarcastic bent; all of them were struggling through conception, misconception, traumatic pregnancies, and what-have-you. It was so compelling -- I had to see how they were doing. Had to.
Today, I wish I hadn't. I checked one site (http://brooklyngirl.typepad.com) that I visit regularly and read today's post. Little too close for comfort. Suddenly I was back in the bad place -- the Friday that I sat home by myself watching "Maternity Ward" and patting my belly and thinking about my baby. The Saturday that I told myself I wasn't really bleeding, just spotting. The Sunday that I finally called the emergency room and the doctor on-call admitted that clots weren't a good sign. The Monday morning when my OB/Gyn confirmed the worst.
No heartbeat. No baby.
I don't think I've ever cried like that before. Not hard, not whiny, no sniffles, no hiccups. Just tears. The weeping seemed to come from this well inside me -- so much water, so deep down. And when Scholar came home, all light and breezy (because he'd convinced himself that I was overreacting), I told him the news in this grown-up, matter-of-fact voice, and I took sadistic pleasure in the shock and sorrow on his face. I don't know why it made me happy to see him affected, but it did. I had proved him wrong. Assinine way to do it, I suppose.
But what frightened me most of all was how empty I felt inside. I was full for a moment, and then I was hollow. I tried so hard to get full again, as quick as possible, so I wouldn't have to think about what I'd lost. I avoided friends with newborns (I know they understood). I continued to work, and life went on. When we got the Beagle in September, just a month before I would have been due, I felt a small release. Here was someone who needed me, and I could shower her with as much smothering affection as I could muster. I relaxed a little. Soon, it seemed like it happened a thousand years ago, to some other woman somewhere far away.
But when I stepped into the hospital last week, I had a powerful urge to run out the doors. Then today, with this stranger strumming my pain with her keystrokes, some murky stuff is stirring up beneath the calm surface. And yes, there's a whole lot of jealousy that she got to hear a heartbeat.
It's difficult to articulate. I'm not in pain. Not traumatized. It's so hard to explain the distinction -- that it's something that happened to me, it makes me very sad, and I'm okay. Not over it. It's like I have this scar on my body that people can see, and they look at it with awe, and maybe a little bit of revulsion. "Wow," they say, "that must have really hurt."
"Yeah," I say, even though I don't recall exactly how it hurt. To remind myself, I press on it a little bit, and yup! It's still there.
It's not the same kind of familiar sorrow I have when I think about other traumas of the past. It's not Outrage. It's not Fury.
It's just Sad.
I guess that's what the Buddha meant when he said that pain is a part of life, but suffering is a choice. My miscarriage is one of those memories that makes me cry, but not scream. Is there such a thing as pure pain? I think so. There's no bitterness attached to these memories, no sense that I've been wronged or victimized -- just terribly, terribly unlucky. So I move on. In a way, it's good to know that sorrow doesn't have to fester. This is a clean wound.
I'm really not doing a good job at explaining it, but writing helps. I don't talk about this as often as I think about it, and I don't think about it as much anymore. But -- yup! It's still there.
posted by Tierant at Monday, January 17, 2005
2 Comments:
Coupled with the conversation we had whilst you were visiting, this entry makes me understand you better and respect you even more (Hard to believe that would be possible, but it is :) )
Very well written. Very honest. Very open. I'm proud of you.
You communicate the concept well. I can relate. I feel similarly about being manic depressive and having fibromyalgia. These aren't wrongs visited on me by another hurtful being, they are simply unfortunate events in my organic living process. Yes, I sometimes suffer bitterness or envy for those more fortunate and healthy, but ultimately I choose not to suffer over my suffering here. It is hard to communicate the whole of it. There are parts that can only be experienced, not explained, but I get you.
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