Where I should have been

It’s been a month.

I hadn’t realized that, hadn’t realized just how much time had passed or what day it was today, until I was on my May 2011 birth club and the daily good thing thread turned into a pregnancy update thread and the woman who is due a day after I was posted a happy update with a belly shot announcing that she was at 14 weeks and into the second trimester.

I couldn’t breathe for a moment.

And then I thought about fourteen weeks versus ten weeks, and then I looked at a calendar, and then I realized that it was exactly a month.

I’m supposed to be prepping for a class I have to teach tomorrow, but instead I’m on here, trying to write things out so I can stop crying and concentrate on the rest of my life.

I’m not ok.

I’m so far from ok I can’t even begin to express it.

Most days I probably look ok to other people.

Some days I even feel like I’m ok.

Those are the days where I’ve managed to bury it so deep I don’t even think about it, when I keep myself so busy with teaching and the dissertation and home stuff and E.’s new room that I don’t give it any space in which it can come out.

The day after it happened, Q. gave me a card for Valentine’s Day. In it he wrote that while it wouldn’t be my happiest Valentine’s Day ever, it would be a better day than yesterday, and each day after that would get a bit better.

Grief isn’t linear like that.

I have mostly ok days.

And then I have days like today where something ambushes me and I can think about is I should have been at fourteen weeks, I should have been posting belly pics too.

I should be happy.

The birth club is a near-constant reminder of what could-have-been. One of them is due at the time I would have been if the first FET had worked. Another is due when I should have been if the second FET had worked. But the one who is due the same week that I was is by far the worst. She’s a walking reminder of what I thought I was going to have.

***

I think I need to break up with my endocrinologist. I’ve written on here before about how he is the rudest man on the planet (but apparently didn’t tag those posts with my ‘thyroid’ category because now I can’t easily find them). I’ve put up with his total lack of bedside manner, including the time, less than three months after E. was born, when he made me cry, because he is a good doctor. But I’m convinced there has to be another option out there. I live in a big city. He can’t be the only endocrinologist. And the appointment I had with him this week, where he AGAIN didn’t remember that E. was an IVF baby or that I am the reason we need IVF (and not my husband), where no one had written down on my chart that I’d lost the baby when I’d called them, so I had to tell the doctor who works with him, and then had to tell him when it became clear the other doctor hadn’t bothered to mention it, where he turned to the other doctor and said, “Well, it’s only the first miscarriage, so I don’t think we need to do anything too drastic”, and where the ONLY thing he said to me about the miscarriage, as he turned to leave, was “Better luck next time”, really should be the final straw. Surely there is another doctor out there who can monitor my thyroid while still treating me like a human being.

***

E., at lunch, out of nowhere: “Tell me again, Mummy, why there will be no baby in September.”
I tell him, the same thing I always tell him, that sometimes we think there is going to be a baby, but there isn’t. That babies are very small at first and have to grow and grow and grow before they can come out, and that sometimes this doesn’t happen.
E.: “I’m sad.”
Me: “About the baby, E.?”
E.: “Yes. The baby won’t grow and come out. It won’t get a name. I think it should have a name.”
We’ve never talked about the baby not having a name with him.
Me: “What do you want to call the baby, E.?”
E.: “Lobster lobster!”

***

I’m reading Lauren Sandler’s One and Only, a book about only children.

A month ago I was reading Siblings Without Rivalry.

That about sums it up.

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5 Comments

Filed under 2.0 Pregnancy, Friends, Grief, Loss, Thyroid

5 responses to “Where I should have been

  1. It really does get better, I promise. Not right away, and definitely not in any kind of linear fashion. But it gets easier. The clouds don’t cling nearly as much, and you start to breathe a little easier without the grief sitting on your chest, and those moments – while always there – are less of a kick to the gut and more just gives you a bittersweet tinge, you know?

    It just takes time and distance. And yes, a new endocrinologist.

    xoxo

  2. Couldn’t agree more with Serenity. I think Q was right in that every day that passes gives you more strength, so even if the grief doesn’t follow a line you have greater strength with each day to cope with it.

    I know there’s nothing that can take away the incredible awfulness that is realizing others are where you would be. But after a while it won’t sting as much.

    Do you need a separate endocrinologist? I’m slightly hypothyroid and it’s just tracked by my RE/OB. You may need a specialist, just throwing it out there in case there’s a way to just drop the bad endocrinologist.

    You’re going to be okay. No matter what. I promise.

  3. I think you should quit the birth club, at least for now. Too many triggers. Thinking of you.

  4. Your endocrinologist is an asshole. Plain and simple. There are lots of them out there.

    I agree with the previous commenters- it does get easier. But it doesn’t ever go away. It’s been a more than a year since my last loss, and almost 3 1/2 years (!) since my first, and there are still triggers. After all this time. The good news is that it’s getting less frequent and less intense when it does happen. It will get better for you. I promise.

    The birth club- I would avoid it. It is almost impossible to move forward with those constant reminders.

    Sending lots of love, hun.

  5. Oh, my dear. I have been thing of you a lot.

    While our situations are not the same, I am also experiencing the non-linear nature of grief. Some days are just awful, and I don’t feel stronger than the day before. I, too, think that I probably look pretty normal to most people. I wish we still wore mourning clothes, so that I could show them that I am not.

    PS, your endocrinologist is an asshole. DTMFA.

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