There are moments when I think I’m okay. I’m able to speak about the logistics of this loss without choking up—or I’m able to hold entire conversations about something completely different. I think that maybe I’m entering a new stage of grief.
And then the weight comes crashing down around me, and I can’t stand under the pressure. It is hard to know what I should be doing now. Decisions of waiting or scheduling surgery linger, and there is no real guidance. I’ve been told I’m allowed to wait as long as there are no signs of infection. But there is no predicting when that point may be. I long for a natural labor. I want to hold my tiny Avelyn in the palm of my hand, but there is no promise of that. No sure sign that my body will act as it should.
I search diligently for signs of blood. I stop and pay attention to my body, studying to see if I feel cramps or tightening. They come throughout the day, but always too slight. Sometimes I’m not sure whether it is truly my uterus or simply psychological. Can you feel cramping simply because you wish to?
I learn over and over again that we don’t really have any control in life. But after so much has been taken away, I long for the ability to control this—to dictate to my body that it can and must begin labor. It, of course, does not listen. Instead it remains eerily silent.
Author’s note: This is the sixth in a series on pregnancy loss/miscarriage. Read the first post, “First ultrasound,” here.