Memorials (Part 3)

Now that this time of year has rolled around again, I'm not sure what date to identify as the anniversary of my pregnancy loss. Today, Feb. 6, the day the doctor broke the bad news? Feb. 12, when the bleeding finally started? Feb. 27, when it finally stopped?

This whole month is an anniversary, I guess. But today's date seems to carry the most weight.

Like my due date, it's been surprisingly ... OK. (The lead-up to it was worse.) And despite what I wrote yesterday about triggers, the "gentle, wistful sadness" is the main mood that's been here today, and especially tonight.

I won't write much about it. I doubt that words can capture the mood as well as this one image can. It's from a locket, which says "I Love You to the Moon & Back" inside. I printed the image and pinned it to the side of the prayer box (not quite sure what to call it) that my best friend made. It's like a little altar where I've gathered a few important things and where I light candles sometimes.

There are candles burning there tonight, as I look out at the winter moon.

by EverAndAnon

Triggers

Pregnant women and babies don't hurt me. I'm used to them, prepared for them, and usually not too unsettled.

Most of the time, what I feel is not much at all. Defended numbness. Sometimes a passing joy. Sometimes a gentle, wistful sadness for what might have been and obviously is not, so there's no point in brooding about it. No point in focusing much on the future, for that matter, since who knows what might end up happening then. Best to conserve my energy.

Then something blindsides me and flattens the careful defenses, as this beautiful post about the difference between grief and trauma describes:

"I've learned to walk and talk and laugh around the grief and while I never let it go, it's become easier to carry, to shift to one side when necessary. I wear it like the bracelet on my arm that has Eliza's name. It no longer feels like my defining characteristic, even though I carry it every day and it's become part of who I am.

The trauma lurks, sharp and scary and real, and when it surfaces, it takes me out."

It's true: the smallest things can hurt the worst, because they're so unexpected and so visceral. They're sensory things. A certain song that was popular when I was pregnant. The smell of hand sanitizer, which I used a lot that winter in my quest for perfect pregnant health. There are visual things, too, the worst of which hit me again this past week:

They're baaaack!
(source)

February 6—a year ago—was the date of that awful, silent ultrasound. After the OB's Doppler picked up no fetal heartbeat, there were actually two ultrasounds, an abdominal (just to make sure that everything was alright), followed by a vaginal (to confirm the worst).

A weird, stoic numbness started enfolding me right away. The OB looked worried, as if he'd rather see me cry or rage, but I didn't even have the energy for a bitter "oh SURE" when he asked if I was going to be OK. Was there a choice?

I just wanted to go home. But it was afternoon, and on the 40-minute drive I got stuck behind what seemed to be every school bus in the county. Numb, numb. I could feel my heart closing and shrinking more with each passing mile. Then I stopped at the grocery store to pick up the diapers ultra super-size menstrual pads I'd need for going home to have a miscarriage.

And there was that wall of cheerful balloons. They were shaped like giant glossy hearts and kissy lips. I stopped in my tracks, struck twice, first by all the imagery of hearts ("I'm sorry, but your baby's heart has stopped.") and then by the whole concept of Valentine's Day. Oh yeah, I thought. Almost forgot that part. I'm going home to have a miscarriage ... alone, on what would have been our anniversary.

Time does soften the rough edges, and it will probably continue to do so, but as long as I live I'll never see Valentine's Day in the same way again.

The Sadim Touch

Someone just pointed out this Slate article about a new website called Modern Loss. The article says:

"Americans love to talk about people who overcome the odds to survive serious injury or illness, but we don't cope with death very well. Enter Modern Loss, a new website dedicated to helping us stop treating death and grief like embarrassments to be hidden away, and instead have an honest conversation about what it means to mourn. 

The site was started by two women, Rebecca Soffer and Gabrielle Birkner, who lost parents at an early age and who are clearly opposed to the toxic forced optimism [emphasis mine, because I LOVE this phrase] of American culture that can make grief all the more difficult. They promise a website that will be free of people adjudicating how sad you're allowed to feel and a complete ban on the phrase, 'everything happens for a reason.'" 

Did you hear me cheering at that last line? Please, oh please, can we get rid of that platitude?

There, now it's fixed!

So I had to check out Modern Loss, and right away I found a lot to like, especially one post: The Reverse Midas Touch.

While my recent string of losses hasn't been as drastic as what author Abby Sher describes, it has made me wonder if I'm—if not cursed—maybe attracting bad stuff into my life in some subconscious way. Short answer: NO, I don't believe in hocus-pocus. But still, honestly, there are times when I have kind of felt like a freak. There are times when I've been ashamed of my own apparent Sadim (the reverse of Midas) Touch.

Right after my miscarriage, I happened to see this video about stillbirth. The parts that resonated most were the parents who talked about feeling like a bad-luck charm, and those who said that the worst thing was when people refused to talk about their child at all. That is "toxic forced optimism" at work.

I do understand the impulse; I've been guilty of it, too. But I've come to see another way: simple, loving presence. Abby Sher offers it to a sick friend at the end of her post. Others have offered it to me.

One particular time stands out: after the baby’s heartbeat stopped and before the bleeding started, a friend put his hand on my belly and just held it there, silently, head bowed. That simple act of acknowledging that he/she was real and still mattered, even after death ... of coming closer instead of running away ... it was one of the most healing things anyone has ever done for me.

Remembrance Day

After being away for a while, I just realized recently that today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, a day intended "to help families live with their loss, not 'get over' their loss."

Today, I'm thinking of my Baby P, who would have been 6 weeks old now. I'm also thinking of a good friend, whose miscarriage ten years ago I virtually ignored in a clueless attempt to help her "get over" it. I said that I was sorry, then focused on her next pregnancy and never brought the first one up again.

Later, I apologized. She basically shrugged. Everyone grieves differently, and she said that my reaction hadn't felt hurtful to her at the time ... but it wasn't helpful either, I know now. Of course, she may have preferred not to talk about details. Still, I wish that I'd reached out and just asked, you know, "How are you really doing?"

Today, I still try to respect people's privacy, but I'm no longer afraid that simply talking about a loss causes grief. The grief is there anyway. For me, talking about it can feel better—more alive—than the dullness of trying to distract myself with less-important things.

So to all who've lost babies before or after birth, I'm thinking of you and them tonight.

source

August 26, 2013

It's finally here: my would-have-been due date. If not for the miscarriage, I would have been 40 weeks pregnant today, if the baby hadn't already arrived.

Strangely, this date hasn't been as upsetting as I'd thought it might be. It's just another day in limbo, and I'm used to that. Yes, I'm thinking about the baby with love. I do that every day. What I don't do is spend much time dreaming about the details of what might have been. Years of infertility have trained me not to get too attached to dreams.

Yes, after 8 or 10 weeks of pregnancy, when I started needing to map out future medical appointments on the calendar, I was bold enough to note all 40 weeks. But I did it in pencil. Wow. It didn't occur to me until today how telling and sad that really is. My due date was never marked with a celebration of circles, exclamation points, and smiles, just a businesslike "40" with a mental asterisk and footnote saying, "if I should really be so lucky after all..."

Nope. 

Daydreams of motherhood require some details. I could fantasize about everything that might have been ... but the truth is that I have no real details about the life who was so briefly here, really here. All I have of him or her are questions. And the only way I can honor him or her is to hold the questions in my heart and just let them be.

Questions and love. Today and every day.

Genetic Screening

Creating a Family posted an excellent program today on the latest developments in the diagnosis and prevention of miscarriages. You can listen on iTunes or right on the linked page.

They'll apparently be doing an entire program on genetic screening of embryos next month. Meanwhile, the discussion around minutes 42-44 and 59-61 of this program really caught my ear.

Here's Dr. Richard Scott from the Reproductive Medicine Associates of New Jersey:

I think at the current time there are now a number of randomized trials which show benefit. In fact, a study which is not out yet ... actually shows that it reduces costs of treatment to screen embryos genetically, because you do so many fewer cycles. I think that patients look at these charges, and … it's a great deal of money, and that has to be respected, but the reality is your pregnancy rates per cycle go up dramatically, the number of embryos you put back goes down dramatically, your multiple pregnancy risk can be virtually negated … It makes a 42-year-old's risk of an ongoing Down Syndrome pregnancy less than when they were 21 … If you screen the embryo genetically, you can do as well with one as you do with two. And so now, all of the sudden, you can have pregnancy rates which, even in women in their 40s, can be in the 50-60% range or higher from a single embryo.

Later, he addresses what concerns me most:

When a patient goes through a clinical loss, by the time they go through a cycle, transfer those embryos without knowing if they're normal or not, go through a pregnancy, have the miscarriage occur, have their recovery interval (letting their hormones come down and their body reset), the time before they recycle on average in our clinic … is almost six months. It takes about five months, because there's an emotional healing. For a patient who's 39 or 40 ... those six months are not free. So now, instead of treating a 39-year-old, you're treating someone who's 40, and if they have two or three of those, they're 41 or 42 ... you are actually intervening to lower her cumulative long-term probability of delivery.

Yes, I'm leaning toward stimulated IVF with PGS (if we end up with enough embryos to make testing worthwhile), for exactly the reasons above: mainly a preference for single-embryo transfer and fear of another miscarriage with no time to waste. Next week, I have an appointment with my previous RE (the one who managed the IUI cycles before the natural-cycle IVF). It's time to start writing some questions down.

My Other Half

One of the tasks I've been putting off in recent weeks is picking another sperm donor (my "other half"). The one I've used most often, including last time, has been listed as "Temporarily Sold Out," which I've been hoping would change back to "Available" soon. But the status hasn't changed in weeks, and no expected release date has been added. Today I finally called to see what's going on.

And what an interesting call. As it turns out, they're going to pull him from the catalog due to ... wow, I'm still in shock here ... a higher-than-normal miscarriage rate—of which my miscarriage was one! There's no proof of any particular cause, but they've been investigating and have decided to err on the side of caution.

After this news, a bunch of thoughts crowded into my mind all at once:

• Maybe my bad eggs weren't the problem after all?
• Oh GREAT—maybe there's more hope for the next try!
• Oh NO—maybe there would have been hope for the last try, if only I'd made a different choice!
• How did they let this guy onto the catalog in the first place?
• Because there are always some unknowns. I picked this bank because they're reputable and keep track of data far beyond the initial BFP, and good thing they do.
• Good thing I reported my own pregnancy and loss.
• Now I'll have to pick someone else.

I'm afraid that some of the words above ("pick someone else") may sound flip, like I'm just changing a restaurant order when my favorite pizza toppings are sold out. Nothing could be farther from the truth. The words may be simple, but the process is intense, important, and deserving of a full post of its own ... some future day.

ICLW

If you're here as part of ICLW, welcome! (If not, you're still welcome! And you might want to check out the ICLW list, since it includes a lot of great blogs.) I signed up for a second time because last time was so worthwhile.

You can read the basics of my infertility journey here, and my first post explains why I started writing about it.

What's new this month? I'm still sitting out the recovery time after a miscarriage, which means there will be more than a 5-month gap between my last cycle and next. I have mixed feelings about the next.

On one hand, I wanted to start trying right away, because last time (almost) worked and that was awesome—it felt like a miracle. Also, there's just no time to spare; I have severe DOR, and it's probably time to move on to the most aggressive options.

Which leads to the mixed feelings. Surely I'm not the only one feeling discouraged, afraid, and overwhelmed sometimes? When those feelings are at their worst, I want to curl up under the covers and avoid dealing with anything else that's painful (enough already!) ... even if there may be rewards beyond the pain.

So last weekend, in my best kind-but-firm "mom voice," I had a little talk with myself about the avoidance habit. It was an infertility intervention—a name I borrowed from this post at The 2 Week Wait, which says:

I know firsthand that it's easier to hope that things will work out somehow. That maybe next cycle, somehow, I'll get pregnant if I pray really hard or maybe I'll get pregnant while I'm in Disney World or maybe I don't have a problem and I just need to eat more chocolate.

No one wants to have an IVF. No one wants daily blood work or to be regularly intimately involved in vaginal sonograms. It sucks, it's not fun and it's not the way you expected it to be. The fact is though that if you're not getting pregnant, this is my personal urge to you to fight. Fight hard. See another doctor, get another opinion, be your own advocate and don't waste time avoiding what may be the very thing that can help.

That last sentence was just what I needed to hear. My own "intervention" involved several days of medical research and financial planning. (I've done all that stuff before, of course, but it's been a while.) It helped me separate feelings from facts. (Both are valid, but it's important to understand which is which.) It was unpleasant. It was also necessary. I now have a much better list of things to consider and to ask my REs.

So that's what's new. When I'm not obsessing about TTC options, I'm probably thinking about fostering options or just trying to maintain some sense of humor and perspective. Feel free to look around and comment on anything new or old. I'll pay you a visit in return. Sharing this journey with and learning from others has been one of the main forces helping me stay sane.

Happy ICLW!

April is the Cruellest Month

Since a friend quoted that line recently, I've had it on my mind … and had to roll my eyes at my own melodrama.

Seriously, though, this April has been hard. I would have been more than halfway to full-term now, and everywhere there are reminders of what should have been. This crazy profusion of sunlight and flowers and babies outside in strollers—lovely as it is—is also jarring. It makes me feel out of step with the world.

No, it's no longer winter in my heart. Now I see my state of mind and heart reflected best in the thawing mess of very early spring—the conditions of about a month ago. Remember? The first buds were venturing out, and some didn't survive the frosty nights. The ground was still littered with last year's leaves, plus the mud that might someday allow something new to grow.

Last weekend I drove my mother to a nursery to pick out some new flowers for her yard. I didn't expect to buy anything there for myself, not quite yet. But there was one thing that caught my eye and ended up coming home with me:

No, I can't keep living in the past. I need to move on and make the next TTC decisions very soon. (More on that to come.)

But moving forward doesn't mean that I'll forget.

Redemption

When my grandfather died a decade ago, I cut off most of my hair. Sitting on the bedroom floor, crying but calm, I plaited and cut off two 20-inch braids that had taken my whole young adulthood to grow. It was a way to honor the impact of his loss—the first loss that really knocked me flat. It was a tangible way to split After from Before. Not that I thought of those words at the time. In the moment, it just felt necessary to DO something. As it turns out, cutting hair in mourning is an impulse that's certainly not unique to me.

Afterward, my hair evolved into an edgy kind of pixie cut, then eventually grew out again to its default look: natural waves down to the center of my back. That's how it has remained.

Until a month ago, when I found out that my pregnancy—my new and fragile hope after so much time TTC—was about to end. Then I cut my hair again. This time there was no ceremony, no thread of love and thankfulness woven through the grief, as there had been with my grandfather. There was just me, wild-eyed with sharp scissors. I hacked so impatiently that some handfuls of hair I grabbed were much too thick to cut. They ripped and tangled, leaving crazy tendrils behind.

It was only a decade between these two events, but a decade with enough letting go of dreams that I now felt desolate. What was left? In that moment, looking forward, it was hard to see purpose ahead. I was a thousand years old. A medusa, a crone carrying a dead baby in her womb. It was only right that my outside should match the inside.

Then my eyes caught and held their own reflection in the mirror. That was enough. I looked like an animal with its leg caught in a trap, trying to chew its way loose. How could I add to this injury? I let the scissors fall.

But by now, hair filled the sink. I fought to keep from throwing up as I gathered golden handfuls of it into the trash. Then I wrapped my head in a scarf and was too ashamed to uncover the damage for days.

Finally, I unwrapped and washed it, brushing out the last handful of loose strands. I let the snaky tendrils dry. Then I looked in the mirror, afraid, and was amazed by what I saw: lots of hair still falling past my shoulders, plus a new, soft cloud of waves around my face.

It was beautiful.

Freed from their former weight, the sides had more volume and curl. My hair was so thick that, even with literally half of it gone, there was still plenty of it left. You know that saying about how struggles "build character"? My hair has plenty of character now.

When I look in the mirror, I still relive that awful day. I'm also able to laugh—believe it or not—at the absurdity of hacking half my hair off in an effort to look ugly, and then somehow looking better afterward. I have failed at THIS TOO.

Most importantly, when I look in the mirror now, I relive that moment when I let the scissors fall. It’s a constant reminder to be gentle, toward myself and toward anyone else who is in pain.

One Month Out

It's been a month since that awful, silent ultrasound.

No, I'm not "over it" yet. In fact, you don't want to know how many times I snooze the alarm before dragging myself out of bed each day.

AND—I'm learning to say "and" instead of "but," which brushes off the truth of everything that came before—tonight I took a shower (the one I had no time for in the morning) and made a big glass of green juice. It has kale, broccoli, cucumber, celery, and apple in it, and it really is THAT green. It actually tastes pretty good (light and refreshing) for something that looks like it came out of a swamp. I made juice all the time when I was TTC and pregnant. Since then, I haven't done that or really any other healthy stuff.

The thing is, making these commitments to health again feels like I'm also committing to TTC again … which, of course, is true. The clock is still ticking and there's absolutely no time to waste. The idea of trying again, so soon, is what really feels overwhelming right now.

AND … all the same … here are the commitments I've made tonight:

• Cut out the physically unhealthy habits. That means all junk food of any kind, including the tasteless chips with only five ingredients.
• Add back as many healthy habits as I can without feeling too resentful. I'll get back on the prenatal vitamins, and I'm still looking forward to that kickboxing class. But no, the hippie deodorant can wait until CD1.
• Put together a list of follow-up questions about maternal testing for my OB. Our appointment today got rescheduled due to the snowstorm of the year half an inch of slush outside.
• Put together a list of TTC options and questions for my RE. 
• Take a close look at my finances, which will determine which of the TTC options are even possible now.

Oh, that last one is a killer. I've been avoiding it because (especially on top of the pregnancy loss) it's so depressing and scary. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go throw up that glass of juice now…

I am a Walking Cliché

In the grocery store last night, I felt like a walking PMS cliché. I used one of the self-checkout machines so that no-one would see the contents of my basket: a pint of ice cream and a bag of chips, topped off by a Diet Pepsi (to magically cancel out the calories in the other stuff).

Do I actually have PMS? Who knows? My last period started 21 days ago … and then lasted for 16 days. After the miscarriage, I have no idea when it will reappear.

I'm just eating this junk because it's a small pleasure, and pleasures are scarce lately. Also, I was so very health-conscious for months without a break. I gave up coffee (which shocked my friends), gave up soda, gave up sugar and most carbs, ate more protein than ever before, drank more water, made fresh juice from organic vegetables, switched to a "natural" deodorant that worked half as well and cost twice as much … I was so careful. And what did it matter in the end?

I just came across this story, which really hit home:

At twelve weeks you are supposed to be safe … You have walked in the world differently and you have no idea how no one has noticed.  For weeks you have wanted everyone to know about the little life growing inside you but at the same time you have loved it being just you two … You have touched your non-existent belly to comfort the baby inside ... You have become a better person simply because THEY deserve a better person. You do everything you can … And then you find out nothing you did worked, nothing mattered. The spinach you ate, the walk you did briskly (but not too briskly), the vitamins you took, the good thoughts you made yourself think. All the love in your heart…

Someday I hope to have enough love for myself to take the actions I was willing to take for my child. Even now, I still do sometimes. The chips I bought last night were the tasteless kind with only five ingredients, for whatever that's worth. And tonight I bought veggies for juicing for the first time in a month. I really had mixed feelings about it. I haven't done anything with them yet except throw them in the fridge and shut the door.

Maybe tomorrow. One day at a time.

The Bitter End

After more than two weeks, the bleeding is finally over and this is it: the bitter end of pregnancy. I miss the bleeding. I'd actually rather have that sad reminder than nothing at all. The only good news is that it looks like I've managed to save $1,000+ by getting by without the D&C.

My doctor didn't recommend the "natural" route, and now, having taken it, neither would I. But my high-deductible health plan (no IF coverage) had a lot of deductible left, and I'd much rather spend that money on another IVF, because I must be a total masochist the first one did work, almost. I'm not ready to think about it yet beyond that point.

Also … it took a long time to get pregnant. My attitude was that if it took a little extra time to get un-pregnant, well, OK. Maybe a part of me needed to see the evidence before really believing it. I did fear the physical pain, which was intense, but the emotional pain and emptiness now are worse.

Now that the risk of hemorrhage is over, I don't have to be so careful physically. I can exercise. I may need to. At the start of the last cycle back in November, I noticed a new gym in my neighborhood that offers "fitness, fighting, and self defense." On a whim, I decided that if this cycle didn't work, I would sign up there and take out my anger on their punching bags instead of on my furniture, friends, and so on.

While that all sounds very badass, I remembered that I already have a gym membership I'm not using, because I'm researching protocols and driving four hours round-trip for treatments instead. So I might as well just go take one of the classes at the place I already know. Something different, though—no yoga (prenatal or otherwise) this time, but something with "Combat," "Attack," or "Xtreme" in its name.

Because, as disappointed and depressed as I am, I'm angry too. AM I ANGRY.

Memorials (Part 2)

After ordering this print and debating with myself some more, I also ordered a little pendant that says "Forever Loved." Picking one took a while.

I debated about it because the idea of buying something for an "occasion" like this just felt wrong. There are actually a lot of things a person can buy, from tacky to beautiful to extravagant. Shopping tends to overwhelm me even in the best of times. In this case, not only was it not fun, but it also made me feel queasy and even, I have to admit, a little ashamed.

Wasn't it morbid or—worse—frivolous? Why spend hours shopping for something when I could just spend the same amount of time crying privately for free? Was I distracting myself with stuff at this least appropriate of times?? Well, not successfully, that's for sure, since I cried through the whole experience…

I don't actually believe these judgments that came up reflexively. I just want a physical reminder because I miss the baby who was physically here. I want so much to have something to touch and to keep, literally, close to my heart.

So when the necklace arrived today, my first emotion was relief … followed by an aching knowledge that this is NOT what I actually want. This is not holding my child in my arms.

"Miscarriage of Justice" by Lina Scarfi

Memorials (Part 1)

The Lumineers' song "Ho Hey" ("I belong with you; you belong with me; you're my sweetheart") was special to me while I was pregnant. Lately, I haven't heard it much—maybe once in two weeks. The break from it was a relief. Then on Sunday, in just a few hours of flipping through radio stations, I heard that song five times.

I had been planning to order a little print with the lyrics to put in the baby's room. On Monday, after some internal debate, I went ahead and ordered it anyway. It belongs in my memory box along with the ultrasound pictures, the journal I kept for the baby, and the magazine I couldn't resist stealing from my RE's office in December because the cover headline said "2012: A Year of Incredible Miracles!"

Gathering these things helps me to focus on the baby instead of on my own general hopelessness. It's actually a comfort. It’s one of the few actions I can take that still feels motherly.

Always

by Sweet Lemon Art

Dignity

"As you face loss, hurt, and conflict, invite a sense of your own dignity. Sit up, stand up tall. Have respect for yourself, and patience and compassion." (Jack Kornfield, A Lamp in the Darkness)

I like this quote, so I've been thinking about what it means to have dignity … and I'm honestly not sure. At what point does "invite a sense of your own dignity" become "pretend that you are fine when you are not"?

I'm pretty sure that dignity does not just equal decorum, which means conforming to all the rules of polite society. Dignity has more to do with honoring a person's worth, which is something inherent, I guess. But what does that mean in real life? After two pain pills and a sleepless night, these distinctions seem pretty obscure. They still seem important, though. I need some kind of guidelines to follow.

Staying in pajamas all day does not conform to the rules of decorum, but when is it actually undignified or unhealthy? Does it matter whether I've consciously chosen to be gentle with myself, or whether I've just given up? And wouldn't scolding myself for feeling defeated be undignified in its own right, if dignity requires patience and compassion like the quote above contends?

See? It's confusing. When I get caught up in these questions, my mind eventually drifts back to the days right after getting the bad news. I found myself responding to everything with an attitude of "So what, who cares?" I'd look at my unmade bed and think, "It doesn't matter." I’d look at work piling up and think, "I don’t care."

Then it felt very important to stop, even physically put a hand over my heart, and acknowledge, "I DO CARE."

No, these things can never mean as much as my baby's life. I may act on them (the work) or not (the bed). In any case, I cared enough to notice them.

The point is that the part of me that cares (to whatever small degree) about other things is still alive, and it wants (to whatever small degree) to stay that way. Maybe that is dignity.

Hello, Blank Page

"For some reason, just before I take a look inside myself I always think it's going to be fun." (Alan Alda, Things I Overheard While Talking to Myself)

OK, I know that this is not going to be fun. I was planning to write a fun blog—maybe one about renovating the old house that my partner and I planned to buy, or maybe one about parenting (the project I looked forward to the most). I pictured myself learning things and spilling over with eagerness to share them. I was ready to jump in and get my hands dirty, literally: I would hang drywall and change diapers. I would take pictures and lovingly document the building of our life together.

That was the plan. In reality, the home is not to be, my partner of more than a decade is gone, and I'm miscarrying the much-loved baby who took years to conceive. Yes, right now. After 12 weeks of pregnancy, miscarriage is far from a quick thing; it's been going on all week. So no, this is not going to be fun.

And my first impulse is certainly not to write about it. My instinct, like most people's, is to escape from pain—to lock the door and turn off the phone, have a stiff drink or five, and smash things, then hide the baby keepsakes in a shoebox in the back of the closet somewhere.

And then … what? It's a dead end.

That's how I grieved the loss of my partner and home. Not only did escaping from the pain not work, but the efforts just hardened my anger and grief into bitterness and despair.

My heart, as I picture it now, is not like a faucet with separate controls for hot and cold. There is only one source, so to turn off the grief is to turn off all potential for joy as well, to turn off giving a shit, and even to turn off the energy I need to get out of bed and get through the day.

If it sounds like I'm still learning things and sharing them, however much the lessons differ from the original plans, I should warn you that trying to sound in control is a habit and a defense. The truth is that this is as lost as I've ever felt.

One new thing I've done this week, though, is to stumble across other people's blogs about baby loss. And that's how I came to be here, starting a not-fun blog of my own. Other people have put the unspeakable into words that are raw and still somehow beautiful. To borrow a line from The Velveteen Rabbit: "Once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand." These other people's writing has been one of my few comforts this week. Maybe it's been a comfort to them, too?

If anything is guiding me now, it's this thought: I don't want to freeze up with bitterness and despair. If I have to feel these things, and apparently I do, then let the feelings stay fluid. Let me do what I can to keep the faucet open, if that makes any sense.