Loss.

How do you explain loss to a person. Or a group of persons. Or even a toddler? How do you explain it to someone who hasn't gone through it, or who has gone through it, or even to yourself? To your spouse... Family... Friends... I can't even come to a definition or explanation myself. Not one word, and I am living the hell of it right now.
Friday, December 2cnd, 2011.
The morning is normal. We wake up, I shower, get ready, the three of us eat. Zacharie has his two year pediatrician appointment this morning, and the results are great. Perfect health, has met and surpassed his developmental goals... A super duper two year old, precious in all his glory. We are ecstatic. Zee is dropped off at daycare for the day, and Martin takes me to work for the remainder of my shift. Work is busy already, and I look forward to my semi-busy day. Tomorrow is the work Christmas party, and we are all excited! I work for one hour... Then, life takes a turn.
It's 12:30 pm. I'm with my client, both of us are in a zen state and I am enjoying helping her relax while I set to work on her foot care. And that's when normal ends. Normal takes it's exit and leaves me center stage in a world I have only heard about. A world that can be summed up in one word: miscarriage.
Friday I had reached thirteen weeks in our pregnancy. That's when your chances for miscarriage are cut drastically in half percentage wise. Thirteen weeks is a time of celebration, the last haul of the first trimester. The night before, I had gone out and picked up some new toys for the crib and bassinet. The week before I had picked up a bouncy seat. We ordered new cloths and blankets online. Had picked out a stroller, and were deciding which bassinet would be best. We were excited, planning, praising, and talking to our son about the upcoming baby. Our soon to be two year old was excited to be a big brother. Then this nightmare begins.
I called my boss in to get an ambulance as soon as possible. One of the perks of working downtown, you can get in an ambulance in five minutes and to the hospital in another ten. Lickity-split. My boss I had told one month previously about the pregnancy due to extreme nausea and in the case of this happening. He has lost three babies to miscarriage, and is a great help to me. After this is all starts to happen, I close my eyes and start to pray. This is one of the times of my life where I am so thankful for the strong faith that we have as a family and individuals. Where would I be if I didn't have God on my side? In prayer I ask for him to show me what I need to see, let me hear what I need to hear, let me connect with those I need to, and let Martin get to me as soon as possible. I pray for Him to be near me throughout all of this, to hold me in His hands, and keep me strong. I pray for things without words because I don't even know what to say. I just pray. The EMS team comes up and takes me down to the ambulance. It is utterly embarrassing to be wheeled out of my work on a stretcher. No one knew I was pregnant... Well, they know now.
The one thing I felt so embarrassed about was that I had been keeping the pregnancy hidden from a coworker. She was trying to get pregnant, and I didn't want her to feel bad that she wasn't yet. Getting pregnant can be a long and emotional time, and I didn't want her to feel pressure or any negative emotions. I wanted to protect her. But now, I regret not telling her. Because now she found out through one of the worst things happening to a pregnancy. A coworker who did know I was, she said that that girl felt awful. They felt sick to their stomachs. I really wish that hadn't happened there. Just so she didn't have to experience that on top of the waiting for the pregnancy to happen for them.
Down in the ambulance on our way to the hospital, I saw many beautiful sights of sunshine and scenery. I felt completely at peace. I know that God was with me, holding my hand. I was unafraid. In the triage I waited to be admitted, looking at pictures of Zee on my phone. Memorizing his face, his smile, the photographs of our lives together as a family. I just wanted to get home to my family. It killed me that there would be no baby in those pictures any time soon. Martin got to me shortly later. I was taken in to care by a nurse and soon after saw a doctor. Examinations were made. She did the first ultrasound. And couldn't find a heartbeat. Sent to a more in depth ultrasound to check for a better position, to finalize whether or not it was or wasn't a miscarriage. Martin had to wait in the lobby, while I went in myself. The technician was nice enough, although she could have chosen her words more carefully. The scans determined the pregnancy was ending, that the tissues were beginning to deteriorate and this was indeed a miscarriage. I asked to see the images. She points out to me the egg yolk and the embryotic sac. Tells me the sac is empty and that there never was a baby. Ouch. Don't tell me that. There is tissue deteriorating underneath in the amniotic fluid of the womb. She doesn't know what it is, but tells me that this is the best case scenario for miscarriage. That at least this way the baby was never there to not survive. Ouch. After she leaves to send the scans off, I stare at the images (which are now embedded in my memory forever, so I will always remember the only picture of my baby) and shed a few tears. I pray again for strength and wait to see my husband.
While we wait again in our room for the doctor to confirm the results, Martin talks to a friend who had gone through this ordeal. He doesn't know what to do or think, how to connect. I really think that phone call to his friend has helped him in so many ways. I stay positive, smiling and talking to him. We are at peace with things. The doctor confirmed our tragedy, but kindly points out that the debris in the uterus was indeed our little embryo baby. Our baby had developed to nine or ten weeks, just before the time of transition to fetus, and just stopped growing. I thank her for the explanation and for saying indeed there was a baby. She puts us through to early pregnancy loss.
How does your body go for weeks thinking it's still pregnant? My stomach was growing, my nausea still strong, my cravings still there... And then to find out it had been weeks since the baby was even still alive. That you were then just holding your dead baby inside of you until the surprise announcement that you were miscarrying? Nine or ten weeks... We would have just seen our midwife at our first appointment. Too early to hear a heartbeat. We made plans and preparations. The water birth was scheduled, the midwife was available, our questions answered... And then to find out the perfect date for a birth, the midwife, the birth plan, the new addition to the family had all just ended? Words cannot describe that empty feeling, the heartbreak, the sorrow, the loneliness that is left over. The knowledge that you now have to pass that baby through and give it up because it was not meant to be.
I wanted it to be. We wanted it. We dreamed of it, talked of it. The night before we were talking about plans and imagining what the baby would look like, what gender, what things we would do... We had names picked out. And now it's all gone. Our baby is gone.
Thankfully we have a life rich in faith and prayer. It has gotten me so far. I have a huge prayer family and support with our small group, I have friends who have been through this, and I have family and the friends who have not. The friends I met who have gone through this, it must have been in His plan to meet them for moments like these and others. We all interlock for reasons we cannot see until those connections are visible. It's beautiful. Yet despite everything and my attempts to be normal, there have been hard moments. We explained to Zee what happened to the baby, and act as normal as we can for him. I don't want him sad. When we snuggle at night, he stroked my face and I thank God for that little boy.
It's the quiet moments that stop me. The moment you catch a glance of yourself in the mirror out the corner of your eye and you look so different to yourself. Moments when you lie down to sleep but your mind starts running on with thoughts of what has just happened and what you have lost. Moments when you feel like breaking things or hitting a wall just to feel something. Moments when you don't want to feel anything. When you want to feel everything. Times when you catch yourself cradling your stomach and remember there is nothing there anymore. Times when you talk to other people who are pregnant and share the excitement, when they do not know you just lost your baby. When a friend who has also gone through the loss sends you a song to help you along, and you connect so deeply with that song and just lose it. Moments when you don't want to lose it, when you want everyone to stop looking at you and just act normal like you are. Even though you know you look like a fake.
I told my boss I am coming to work on Thursday and Friday for half days. I don't know what to expect when I go back. Awkwardness with staff? Maybe, and that's okay. But walking into that room where I work and knowing that that sanctuary of mine is now the place where I started to lose my baby is going to be so hard. I'm trying to power through and make it happen. But I don't know what it will be like. I don't know how I will react. I don't know if I will ever be completely the same again.
Loss leads you to that saying that people share when something tragic happens. Nothing will be normal again, you just find a new normal. It's true. I do everyday things still, like get dressed and brush my teeth... Mundane things. But I know I did them that day, and I do them now. But they are all so different now. Nothing is the same. Nothing is the old normal. Now we just have to get to our new normal. And when the due date passes by next June 9th, 2012... We will start all over again.