A Reflection on Trauma

for 9/25/12 & 5/4/14
(My son my daughter)

Healing from grief is not dependent on the passing of time. Time is not a variable linked to mourning. As time passes there isn’t an assured promise of a positive end result. The progression of time is not a magical fixer upper or an indicator to when grieving is over. Death and loss is a patch the soul will constantly tailor lightly to, and it will be in a constant state of repair.

I have firsthand insight on the process of physically and emotionally dealing with the death of someone through miscarriage. I compare that pain to the trunk of a tree being initialed deeply into. The progression of time will allow that tree to grow and flourish. However, it takes only one person to look high enough to find that those initials are still there. It takes a keener eye to notice despite the growth made there is no fruit.

That is the constant fight. The weight of grief, loss, or sadness can be heavy to carry. Achieving anything still leaves a soft vacancy inside that bursts. That vacancy doesn’t leave me with a lack of self-love. I’ve learned how to balance acceptance. I also learned how to embrace the imperfections healing leaves behind. There is immense growth that sputters when one has the will to continue, but the scars stay forever. The important thing to remind yourself is… scars are okay. There is absolutely nothing wrong with them, and they should not be fixed, or hidden for the comfort of other people.

The moment my second miscarriage happened, I knew I would never be the same person I was prior to that event. I woke up at seven in the morning on a Saturday. I felt agonizing stomach cramps and back pain. After I wiggled around too much in bed, my partner woke up, because he was concerned. Five days ago, we were told by the ultrasound technician of how he was unable to find a heartbeat. Two days prior, my blood results came, and revealed my HCG levels were dropping. Monday we were going to have another ultrasound. I wasn’t ready, we weren’t ready, because we both still had hope.

I went to the restroom by myself. After heavily bleeding for forty minutes, I realized what was happening, my body was going through a spontaneous miscarriage. I called for my partner. He rushed in quickly. We were there in the room looking at each other frightened. We let my body do what it had to do. My doctor had told me that this would happen, and not to be alarmed if it did, because the body would take care of it. I lost it when I began wiping myself and saw pieces of skin. I wasn’t sure whether it was uterine lining. I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to address the possibilities. I had my husband help me wipe the blood away because I couldn’t do it.

Suddenly, 7:40 A.M. became 10 A.M. and it was over. After resting and drinking lots of fluids I went to Target. I needed to get pads, pain killers, and Pedialyte. My father drove me there. It never occurred to me that I didn’t have to go. I could have stayed home. I could have asked my dad to get the things for me. My mind couldn’t process what happened earlier in the morning. It continued a false routine that didn’t belong to me. It was a defense mechanism.

When I got back home my mother cooked me dinner. I rested more. I didn’t cry because I was so numb by the physical pain. I had no energy to spare into the emotional aspects of my loss. After dinner, I wanted to shower, and as I did I began feeling faint. When I looked down at the bathtub I saw blood again. I yelled out for my husband. He came in. He helped me walk out of the restroom, got me dressed, and carried me down the stairs. We headed off to the hospital. The hospital consisted of more agonizing pain, mainly physical, because there wasn’t a second to stop and catch my breath to cry. I was there from 12:45 A.M. until 11 A.M. By 11:15 A.M. the hospital staff decided I was okay to be released. I would just have my D&C Monday morning with my healthcare provider.

My parents drove me to Rite Aid. While my parents and I waited for my Vicodin prescription I bled again. I felt a thick gush of blood travel down my thigh. It actually stained my pants. I called for my mom and told her what had happened. I went to the restroom to put a pad on that we ripped out of its packaging. She went to pay for them while I cleaned myself up. My family and I rushed home with my prescription. I went to the restroom to change my pad when I arrived. Ten minutes later I had to go into the restroom again. I had to change into another pad, but as I was getting ready to switch I saw a thick brick sized pool of clotted blood, and I realized the bleeding wasn’t going to stop. Again I yelled out for help. When my partner came in and saw the amount of blood, the thickness of it, and the previous pad he dialed 9-1-1.

I was taken back to the hospital for an emergency D&C surgery in an ambulance. I could tell you about the amount of blood, or the lack of ability I had to articulate my sentiments due to the physical stress I was under, but I started to cry once IV fluids were in me. Beyond that point, I don’t want to remember how I felt, because those are the fragments I’ll never know how to reflect on without falling apart.

The only thing I remember was my D&C surgery. I had eaten something, because all of Sunday I had ate nothing. All I had was crushed ice. I had a small bite of a Stromboli from Frumento’s that my partner fed me. It was the smallest bite. I paid for it by having to stay awake during the D&C. While numbed from the waist down on the surgery table, I had so much time to think, because I couldn’t feel physical pain anymore. Every second that passed the pressure of death and loss smothered me. Every minute tormented me. After 25-30 minutes, I turned my head to my left, and saw a glass container filled with my blood. One of the nurses apologized. He didn’t expect for me to turn the moment he was closing it tight. I asked for him to leave it where I could see it. I had to keep the concrete visual of loss in front of me, so I could process, and slowly accept my miscarriage.

Little did I know then, that my entire D&C surgery I would relive in nightmares for almost six months, and how much sweat I would wake up with because of them. My second miscarriage was on May 4th, 2014. The reason why it changed me was because of the trauma that came with it. It also changed me in the sense of... I have hope in motherhood, but I keep that hope close, even if it scares me. I fear the loss that can come with it. Mainly because I know the magnitude of that loss. There is no promise of life, as there is no certainty when death, or loss will come.

It’ll be three years in May. Yesterday was five years since my first miscarriage. The realization hit me hard but it came at me softly as my husband held my hand. I’ve planted a lot of seeds last year. Some friendships have withered, some have blossomed, but the root of my husband's love for me, and my love for him has continued to grow. God has also grown and has been welcomed into this household.

I cannot nourish myself completely yet, because I still struggle with my loss, but I’m not afraid to talk about it. The scars, each one, they are a part of me. I learned to love and survive with them. I want to be the echo, the voice among other women who have lost like I have, and encourage not to feel too discouraged to discuss their loss (with their family or partner).

As for those seeds, the ones I have planted and will plant, they will be enough for me to nourish myself, and others as well. The only thing I can do now is patiently wait for the fruit to come.