Not as Sad, But Not Quite Whole

A gripping person essay on grief, loss, and miscarriage.

What a strange feeling it is to be empty and full all at once; grief is such an oxymoron.

"I felt like I was possessed by the sorrow. Like this dark and snarling creature had taken me into an emptiness where all I could feel was loss and pain and sadness."

Last semester I enrolled in an introductory writing unit. The semester started late in February, and it began with some exciting news that my husband and I were expecting our fourth child in September. At about week four of the study semester, however, my husband and I had a routine 13-week scan when we discovered some crushing and heart-breaking news. I felt like giving up. I wanted nothing more than to wither away into nothingness. But I didn't. I clawed my way through life and came through the end a very changed woman. I used my experience and channeled all of my hurt into my writing, which formed the final assignment for the unit. It is here where true healing began. Enjoy.

Not as Sad, But Not Quite Whole.

By Leah Skinner

I lay flat on the clinical bed staring at the screen that was meant to display my baby, desperate to believe that maybe I hadn’t drunk enough water. Yeah, that’s why I can’t see the baby, I haven’t had enough water. Besides, my uterus is retroverted so it’s common not to see anything. But there was an image last time at eight weeks, and bub had a heartbeat. This time, there’s no flicker and no movement, and the sonographer has that look in her eyes; she’s searching for the right thing to say.

“It’s not looking good is it?” I whisper, as my pulse quickens and my palms prickle with sweat; my throat has that strange lump that forms right before you cry.

“No, I’m afraid not.” She replies, as she clicks and fumbles at her strange keyboard. Staring at her screen desperately, she knows that there’s no good news to share.

This was meant to be the thirteen-week scan, so we brought our three children along to see their new forming sibling. That was a mistake. I try not to look at them. If the pain on their face reflects even an ounce of what I feel, I’ll lose it. I can already feel the tension in the room and I’m certain everyone is holding their breath. I was certainly holding mine. I felt if I exhaled sobbing would begin and I was afraid it wouldn’t stop. I avoid my husband’s eyes too. He’ll have that look of desperation and sorrow on his face. You know the one that men get when they know that they're helpless? No brute force, no manner of words can change or fix things. He's just useless and hurt as his heart is pulled from his chest from seeing me struggle to hold it together. Nope. I can't. If I look at him and see that face I’ll fall apart, and I can’t fall apart right now. I need the kids to see that I’m okay. If I’m okay, they’ll be okay. I need to be strong.

I see him gather the children up in his arms, squeezing them tight as he braces them for the sadness.

“It looks like bub doesn’t have a heartbeat,” He whispers to them.

My gut ties into knots, and the lump in my throat threatens to choke me. I can hear my eight-year-old crying off to the side of our dark room. I’ve failed him. I bite down hard on my lip in an attempt to hold my quivering chin. I'm still holding my breath and I'm clenching my toes now too. My body starts to spasm from fear, from pain, from stress. Out of the corner of my eye I see my daughter now, too. I think she’s gone into shock as this awful emptiness blankets her face as she stands stiff and motionless. I force a smile and reach my hand out for them.

“Hey, it’s okay. We’re okay”.

But I’m not okay. A deep emptiness fills me with a pain I’ve never experienced. What a strange feeling it is to be empty and full all at once; grief is such an oxymoron.

“A missed miscarriage”, she says.

What does that mean?

“We’ll send your results to your GP. You’ll need to see her today to find out how to manage this.”

Manage?

Suddenly it occurred to me the gravity of my situation. I’m meant to be thirteen-weeks, if I haven’t naturally lost the baby- I mean foetus- now, when will I? What happens if I don’t miscarry? As it stands right now, I still feel pregnant, or at least my body still thinks it is. I even threw up this morning, and I still can’t stomach the smell of coffee.

Could all of this be a mistake?

All of this happened on a Friday; arguably the worst day for something like this to happen. My GP referred my case to the maternity ward at the John Hunter Hospital, and I knew I wouldn’t get a call until Monday. That seemed like a lifetime to wait with a dead baby inside of me-

I mean foetus, must stop calling it a baby now.

I couldn’t eat much, and when I did food seemed dull and tasteless. Sleep had a tight hold on me too, but sleep was easy…peaceful; being awake was torture. I felt like I was possessed by the sorrow. Like this dark and snarling creature had taken me into an emptiness where all I could feel was loss and pain and sadness.

I told myself over and over, you’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.

I chanted it like a mantra in the desperate hope that it would become true. I seldom believed it. I felt like I would split in two with half of me being full of understanding and the other half filled with grief. These two feelings wrestled inside of me, tugging me in opposite directions. One minute I was okay, and I could rationalise that miscarriages happen all of the time. I could even believe that a miscarriage was a good thing; nature’s way of telling me that the pregnancy wasn’t healthy. The next minute I felt desperate to have the pregnancy back, and wished it wasn’t me going through this. I went over every detail in my head. Maybe I did something wrong? Ate something wrong? But I know that’s not true. It’s not my fault.

Is it my fault?

Then I felt guilty that I was so consumed by my grief; I had no right to feel such sadness. After all I have a great husband and three healthy children. I have so much to be grateful for. Some women don’t have that, how dare I feel sorry for myself. But this is my pain, my loss, and my grief. I wanted that baby so much and it felt so right.

I’ve never been good at being vulnerable, but this type of grief was so beyond my control. I struggled to pull myself together. I desperately tried. I wanted nothing more than to feel normal again and to just forget this ever happened. But how can I do that with this baby still inside of me; with pregnancy hormones still rampantly telling my body it has a baby, whilst my mind signals that the baby isn’t alive. I know what I need to do now. I need this ba- I mean foetus gone. I need the pregnancy gone. Dissolved. Tied up in a neat package along with my feelings so I can get back to being me. I’ve got a life to live, and a family to cherish. I need to focus on what I have as opposed to what I don’t have. Besides, everyone expects me to be okay, right? After all, I was only thirteen-weeks.

The night before my operation- I chose to do a Dilation and Curettage (D&C)- I started to have contractions. My gut was twisted in pain, just like previous labours but this time without the reward of a baby in the end. I was both relieved and depressed. Relieved because the pregnancy was dissolving naturally and depressed for the very same reason- any hope of this missed miscarriage being a mistake was gone. I went into hospital the next day still needing the D&C because there was a lot left behind; or so they told me. They gave me Endone for the pain and I was glad to accept its offering of carefree numbness. But that didn't last.

I vaguely remember being wheeled into the operation room. The Anaesthetist introduced himself and began to ask me questions: “any allergies? been under before? family history of reactions to anaesthesia?” I started to cry, terrified and overwhelmed with the realisation of what I was about to do. The room is sterile, and tools lay unopened in their packets on top of stainless steel benches. That typical large hospital light looms over the area where they will eventually position me to scrape and vacuum my womb. But perhaps the most disturbing part about the room was the controlled coldness which ensured further sterilisation. But even without the air-conditioning I felt fear’s icy grip all over me.

A Midwife started to ask me a series of questions and I answered absent thought. Then she asked me if the pregnancy was planned. It was. We’d been trying for nearly two years, and we fell pregnant just as we started to give up.

“Will you be trying again?” she asked.

I was jolted into the here and now. The thought had crossed my mind during the havoc-filled days prior to this, but I replied honestly with that same lump in my throat again,

“I’ll need some time.”

She tells me that’s a good thing; my body needs time to heal. She recommends waiting for at least three periods before trying again. I start to calculate in my head. I’m 32 and it’s April now. In three months it’ll be August. That’s September to start trying. It took almost two years to fall pregnant this time, so that’ll be 2020. My youngest is nearly six and my eldest is nearly twelve. That means they’ll be eight and fourteen, and that’s only if I can fall... I suddenly felt hopeless. This was the last chance for another baby.

Sitting in the parent’s lounge of the maternity ward is a much-needed break from the confines of the six compacted ‘rooms’ that seal you in by curtains and reflect an artificial purple glow. A gentle shuffle echoes down the hall before a woman appears; belly still swollen from pregnancy, only she carries her baby on the outside now. She’s smitten with her little creation and sports that new-mum glow. I wish with every ounce of my being that I could be her. Because even now, with my tidy package of grief and sorrow tied up neatly and packed away, I feel the emptiness of what will never again be. I'm not as sad now, but I'm not quite whole either, and I'm not sure I ever will be.