So much paperwork...

 “So it looks here like you have a thousand dollar deductible that has not yet been met. Did you want to take care of that now?”

I was sitting there, in the hospital bed, naked from the waist down, bleeding out onto this white absorbent pad (you know the kind, like you might put on the floor if you have a new puppy you’re housebreaking), and this lady was standing there with her clipboard asking for payment like she had just rung up my groceries in the Wal-Mart line.

*****

We weren’t trying to get pregnant. In fact, to irony’s delight, we had tried for about 6 years previously, with not a single bit of luck. Paul and I met “later in life”; While most of my friends were having kids in their 20’s, I turned 30 ten days after Paul and I moved in together, less than six months after we started dating. I still remember celebrating my birthday, just the two of us drinking whiskey in the backyard of our new shared space at the little rental on Pickwick. Shortly after that we decided that I should stop taking birth control and we’d just see what happened. Over the next few years, we got more serious about trying. I talked to my doctor, I used the ovulation kits, we tried all the things short of invitro. We both wanted a child together. I’ve always thought I’d be a mom. And not necessarily because I thought I’d be good at it. Sure, I know everyone says that, that they aren’t sure they’ll be a good parent, but I really didn’t have any certainties. I like to sleep, and I’m impatient, and sometimes I just want to be quiet and be by myself. So maybe I wasn’t meant to be a biological parent. But I wanted it, so badly. I wanted to carry on traditions that my mom had with me. I wanted to be the Mom to Paul’s Dad, because I knew that where I have my weaknesses, he has his strengths, and I knew we’d raise an amazing little human together. But, we accepted that it wasn’t happening. And that was okay. We have Kelsey. And we have each other. And that was, and is, enough.

So, when September rolled around and I missed my period, I truly didn’t think much of it. I’m 37 now, and a woman’s body is a weird thing. Not to turn this into a female empowerment post, but our bodies are these insanely strong, adaptive, magnificent machines that can withstand all kinds of trauma and they just keep going. Did you know that a large majority of women who have heart attacks, don’t even know they’re having one because they just chalk it up to some kind of pain and they keep on about their day? As women, our bodies are constantly changing, our hormones are on an influx each month and when we have a headache we don’t know if we’re dehydrated because we’ve only drank iced coffee for 9 days straight or if we have a brain tumor. We just keep going, because what other option is there? So, one missed period. No big deal. And, just in case, I bought a couple of pregnancy tests. I took them on separate weeks and they all came back negative.

Finally, 9 weeks after my last period, on a Tuesday, I started to spot, a little.

Historically, my periods are pretty predictable. A couple days beforehand I get super emotional, will cry at regular intervals, snap at everyone, and crave allllll the sweets. The first day is always hell, cramping so bad I can hardly bring myself to exist, feel like I’m carrying an extra ten pounds around, and I do good to stay awake til 9pm. Then, about three days of a “normal period”, and it’s done.

So, the light spotting was new for me. So new that I even took one more at-home pregnancy test to make certain. Still negative. So, I brushed it off as some sort of This Is 30ish “fun” (like finding random black chin hairs and always having a backache) and carried on with my week, my period fluxing between light and normal.

On Sunday, when I first stood up out of bed, blood rushed out of me. It covered my thighs, ran down my calves, and dripped on to the floor. Something wasn’t right. I waddled to the bathroom, sat down on the toilet and physically felt something come out of me. After cleaning myself up, I came to grips with what had happened, and went into the living room to tell Paul.

“Ummm, I think…I just had a miscarriage…” I said, my voice suddenly breaking. It wasn’t sadness per se, it was shock and confusion, and unfamiliarity. He rushed to my side and hugged me, “What can I do?” he asked.

*****

On Monday, I went to work. Business as usual. As an elementary teacher, there is very little time to be sick, or to grieve, or to need time off. It’s just too complicated to take a day off. There’s the 10 page sub plans you have to leave for Kindergarten, there’s the calling in to 3 different places, there’s the lack of substitute teachers, there’s the guilt. SO. MUCH. GUILT. About not preparing your students for your absence. About someone having to cover your class. About your supervisor being frustrated because behaviors in your room will undoubtedly skyrocket. About the number of instances that manage to happen in your classroom that parents all want answers for. So, as a teacher, it’s almost always just easier to go than it is to miss.

Monday after school I started running a fever. I went to bed early and chalked it up to being tired. Tuesday morning, I was worse, so I got up at 4:30 and sat in my dark office, feeling miserable, creating sub plans so that I could stay home. I spent the day in bed, resting, and by that night, I felt better.

Wednesday I was feeling back to normal and wanted to return to work, but since I had a fever the day before, I had to stay home again. That evening, Paul and I took my Dad out to dinner. Life felt normal again as I went to bed that night.

At 2:15am I woke up shivering uncontrollably. I pulled the blanket over my head, curled into a ball and practiced taking deep breaths. I didn’t want to wake Paul and I was certain I was just being dramatic and that nothing was wrong. I knew it wasn’t cold in our house and was convinced that I had gotten into my own head about being cold and that thinking about it was making it worse. So, I practiced breathing and tried to calm myself. By 2:45, it hadn’t stopped. And then the cramps came. They felt like Day 1 Period cramps, but worse. I decided to get up, walk to the kitchen and see if I could stop shivering…I couldn’t. I checked my temperature and it was over 100.

“Paul, I’m so sorry, but something’s wrong,” I gently shook his shoulder. “I don’t know what is going on…I can’t stop shaking, I’m running a fever and I’m cramping. Something doesn’t feel right.”

By 3:15am we were standing in the Mercy ER waiting room, an orange bracelet with my name and date of birth being snapped to my wrist.

The next 10 hours were a blur. I’ve heard about how when you go through a traumatic event there is a part of your brain that actively works towards blocking out those memories as a way to shield or safeguard us from re-living them. I’ve only gone through a few instances in my life that I would call surreal, and this was one of them. It was like I was there, experiencing it, but also watching it from outside my own body. If you’ve never had anything like that happen before, you may think I sound crazy…but it’s a very odd experience to try and describe.

I get an IV, and am hooked up to a blood pressure machine and pulse-ox. I explain what is happening to four different people (consecutively, not concurrently) as they nod and tell me that the “computer systems are down for maintenance so everything is taking a bit longer than normal” four different times, consecutively, not concurrently.

The room is dirty. There’s trash on the ground. They need to mop. There’s a stain on the floor. Blood maybe?

A vaginal ultrasound is ordered. The tech rolls the machine in and says she’d be doing it right there in the room. I am still fully dressed, shoes and all, as I sit in the hospital bed.

“Can I, like, get up and get undressed, or…?”

“No, honey, just go ahead right there.”

…

I was laying down and only had the use of one arm since the other one had tubes and needles sticking out of it. I ended up with my pants and underwear stuck around one ankle.

“I’m going to need you elevated but we don’t have any pillows for that so I’m going to slide this *cold metal* bedpan under your bottom…just lift up sweetie. Yep, that’ll do”.

Tick-tick-tick. Pause. Tick-tick-tick. Pause. Tick-tick-tick. Pause. She moves the ultrasound wand around inside of me as she clicks on the keyboard and captures images. Tick-tick-tick. Pause. Absolute silence otherwise. She never says a word. Tick-tick-tick. Pause.

When the ultrasound is over, she slides me off of the bedpan, covers me up with a hospital blanket and leaves the room.

For the duration of my stay I sit there, on that bed, bleeding out onto the mattress. It was after I asked that they give me the puppy training pad (chuck, I guess it’s called), which I also bleed through.

Later, the on-call doctor comes in and tells me that the ultrasound showed that I was approximately 8-10 weeks pregnant and that the fetus had died, but not yet come out. I ugly-cry behind my mask. I knew that was what had happened, but hearing it out loud is too much.

A nurse comes in. I don’t remember her name. I don’t know that I ever knew it. She is kind. I apologize as she inserts three pills, (consecutively, not concurrently) into me as I bleed out. The pills are supposed to help me expel the products of pregnancy. She tells me there's no need to apologize. I apologize again.

“I need to tell you something,” she says, “I don’t know why the other doctors and nurses haven’t mentioned it, but sometimes men don’t think to say the important things…your fetus is going to come out formed.”

I don’t know what my face did then. I don’t know if I reacted, or even breathed.

“I mean, at 8 to 10 weeks, it’s of course going to be very small, but you’ll be able to see a head and body. I didn’t want you to be surprised by that.”

I think I thank her. That is important to know.

I need to pee so they bring me a bedside commode and a roll of toilet paper. I don’t even let Paul stay in the room as I go. It is awkward, and uncomfortable, and nearly impossible to clean myself properly with all the machines I am attached to. Something comes out, so I tell the nurse.

The humiliation of the next twenty minutes is intense.

The nurse puts on gloves and pulls out pieces of urine-soaked toilet paper until she gets to it. She gets the doctor on call.

Zzzziiiiippp. The folding door of the storage cabinet. Up. down. Zzzziiiiippp. Another. Zzzziiiiippp. Another. They are looking for forceps. Zzzziiiiippp. Another. Zzzziiiiippp. Back to the first cabinet. Found them. Dig around in the commode. Ask for a bowl. Pull it out and put it in the bowl. Poke around at it. Unsure if this is it.

“Might just be a blood clot, we’re not sure.” No emotion.

Everyone leaves the room. Paul chokes up and gets teary-eyed, but wipes them away before they fall. “It’s just so fucking sad. I’m so fucking sad for you” he says. I cry, realizing that my pain is his. I love him so much.

I’m exhausted. It’s 10am by now. I’m humiliated. I ask for an adult diaper because the feeling of fluids dripping out of me onto the bed is terrible. The diaper is too small. I wear it anyway.

“We’ve called your gynecologist. He will be over in a little while to talk with you. He’ll be able to tell for sure if that is it.”

The bowl sits on the computer stand, uncovered.

Someone comes in to talk about Jesus. Do I want a burial? Do I want literature on miscarriages? Do I want to pray?

“I’ll just leave this envelope with you for you to look at. If you decide that you want us to bury your products of conception, they’ll be some papers for you to sign. We do burials quarterly and we’ll send you a postcard when it happens so that you can visit.

A postcard? Visit what?

More paperwork. The lady comes to ask about payment.

My doctor shows up. Jiggles the bowl.

“Just a blood clot” he says. The mention of surgery. He leaves. I stand up and walk around, the blanket wrapped around my waist, wearing the diaper that is too small, willing whatever is left in me to come out so that I can just go home. I’ve never had surgery. I don’t want to. I just want to go home. I just want to get some sleep. I have an appointment for Kelsey’s IEP meeting at 5:00. I’ve been fighting for this for months. I can’t miss it. Someone opens the door without knocking and asks to restock the cart. I’m standing in the diaper. No privacy.

“What’s your pain tolerance like?", my doctor asks.

Back onto the bedpan to elevate. He performs another procedure to help me avoid surgery. Feels like my insides are being scraped out with a jagged butter knife.

“Breathe like you’re doing yoga,” he says, “in through your nose, out through your mouth.” I think of how I teach my students to breathe when they’re overwhelmed.

In. Out. In. Out.

“You’re doing great.”

In. Out. In. Out.

Another ultrasound. This time they have to take me out of the room. I’m naked from the waste down, covered with a shitty hospital blanket, being pushed through the hallways and up the elevator.

A real toilet. Thank God for a real toilet and a door that closes. Another ride through the hospital, back to “my” room.

Before anyone comes back into the room to talk to me, I get the notification on MyMercy app.

No noted products of conception remaining.

More paperwork.

Get dressed. Go home. It’s nearly 1:00. Pull of the hospital bracelet and set it on the sink. Pass out in bed. Wake up at 4:00 and go to the IEP meeting and fight for Kelsey to stop being mis-medicated by the school staff. I throw away all the clothes I was wearing that day. I know they’ll always be The Clothes I Was Wearing When I Miscarried. I don’t want to look at them ever again. I still have The Clothes I Was Wearing When My Mom Died. I don't need anymore sad clothes.

I continue bleeding for 20 out of the next 31 days. It'll be 21 tomorrow.

 *****

“46% of pregnancies end in miscarriage,” I remember my doctor saying at one point. 

So, maybe this can be a shared loneliness, something that one of you can relate to.