I have always considered myself a brave person. Not in the traditional "ride my faithful steed into battle" sense (although, if it came down to it, I don't think I'd have any trouble ending someone), but in the sense that I've never had trouble facing situations bigger than myself. I take pride in my Viking blood. I might shake in my boots, but steadfast I stand. I am open and honest about who I am, I am willing to make myself vulnerable at the risk of mockery and abuse, I am willing to take on any responsibility that may find itself at my door, and I am willing to admit my faults and my mistakes. Every time life has stuck a lance through me, I've stood back up, wiped off the blood, and snarled "come at me, bro". I like to think I do this with grace, but more often than not it is a bloody affair, grotesque to behold. I value my scars. I take strength from my courage.
But today I don't feel strong, and I don't feel brave.
As I type this I am shaking, my palms are sweaty, and my heart is pounding.
I have many reasons for writing about this now. None of them are for attention or pity. I despise both of these things. I write this because, while I may be private, I am not secretive. I write this to hopefully curb insensitive questions. I write this because there is therapy in confession. I write this because I am not ashamed. I write this because it is my truth. And the truth will always out.
On the 1st of April I suffered my first miscarriage.
I had found out three days before, on the 29th, that I was pregnant with our second child. I was due on the 1st of December, my Grammy's birthday. I was elated. Rod was elated. Thank the gods Ricky knew no better. The 30th of March was my 30th birthday. I was still ignorant then of the pain to come. Small mercies.
For all intents and purposes I was lucky. A sharp cramp which, in my folly, I mistook for gas, five minutes of bearable clenching, and then it was over. So quickly, and almost no pain, as if it weren't ever there. There were cramps that followed as my body tried to expel what was left of my shattered dream, but nothing hurt more than the empty sac on the ultrasound screen half an hour later. A blighted ovum, my doctor called it. I lay on the bed in her exam room, trapped under the weight of what had happened, and wept. The only thing that curbed me was Ricky. His wails pulled me out of my self-indulgent pity and back into the role of mommy. I had to hold it together for him. He didn't know why his mommy was crying. So mommy stopped crying.
That Friday was Easter weekend, and we were expected in Klerksdorp to visit Rod's folks. We went. If we cancelled and told them why, the phone calls would eventually drive us mad. So we stayed silent. Silent to avoid hysteria. Silent to avoid condemnation. Silent to avoid pity. I had no energy to nurse anyone else's emotions about the fact. I was still in recovery after a D&C, and tried my best to pretend that everything was fine. I packed my loosest clothing to hide my swollen belly and halt the inevitable "are you sure you're not pregnant?" questions. But I could feel my mother-in-law's eyes following me. I asked Rod to tell her. She agreed to stay silent, but her reasons were selfish. She didn't want to deal with her husband's emotions, and she didn't want her daughter frightened off from having children of her own. For the rest of our stay she avoided eye contact with me and wouldn't speak directly to me, even though I had tried to make myself available. She seemed to blame me for doing this to her. Her first words to me were four months later. I'm yet to hear anything in the way of condolences. That is the most she ever hurt me.
Ten days after the fact we had a baptism to attend. Luke is a sweet child. It was painful to watch the celebrations, but not unbearably so. There was a well-stocked open bar. I drank a lot.
Life went on, as it does, and silent I remained. I was scared. Scared of the fallout. I had spoken about it with Rod, at length. I had made it my norm in an effort to take away the power it had over me. We moved house, we settled in, I laboured intensively to create a beautiful and safe home for our family of three. We hoped for another child, we hope.
But on the 5th of October my womb made a fool of me yet again. It was Ricky's first day of school. We had only known for a little over a week. I was due on the 28th of May. Dinner was almost ready, 7pm. That familiar full feeling. Clenching. Blood. Lots of blood. It was all over in ten minutes. I must applaud my body on its German efficiency.
A private hospital room. Small mercies.
The second was harder. I wept, I wailed, I gnashed my teeth. And for a week I lived in a veil of shadow, hardly sleeping and walking the length of the house in a daze. And then the strangest thing happened. The shadow left. I woke up feeling fine. Happy. Optimistic. No, more than optimistic. At peace. It's over. And it won't happen again. Tamlyn is back!
Did you know that only 2% of women of childbearing age will have two or more consecutive miscarriages? Two. Percent. I am officially a minority.
But just because the worst is over, doesn't mean I don't still feel sad from time to time. So many around me are falling pregnant or having babies. I log on to Facebook and hordes are joyfully announcing births or pregnancies. Women peeing on sticks and posting pics as soon as Clear Blue gives them good news. I envy your ignorance. Statistically speaking, one in five of those pregnancies will be lost. Those are odds I won't gamble with. I need to see a heartbeat before I will share my news. And this is why. Three pregnancies, one child.
I don't begrudge my friends and acquaintances their happy news, I will celebrate right alongside them. One of my dearest friends is popping next week, and I am truly excited for her. But it is a stark reminder of my losses. If I don't click 'like' on your happy news, forgive me. It does not mean I'm not happy for you, it just means that I am not ready in that moment to celebrate someone else receiving something I have wanted for so long.
One of my many faults.
Maybe that makes me a bad person. I think it just makes me human.
You are in no way obligated to say anything to me. Do so if your conscience dictates, but I expect nothing of you except for you to behave appropriately. I write this to inspire understanding.
I have no idea if anyone will even read this post. I don't think it even matters. Just having written it makes me feel strong again. I am washed clean.
Now I have no more secrets.
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