The good news: I officially have an IUD now. No worrying about what legislators are going to do about access to birth control.
The bad news: Well, that’s twofold.
Owie
First of all, I did not handle the pain well.
My friend had said there was momentary-but-blinding pain, but I wasn’t concerned. Between the pain of five miscarriages — so uterus-direct pain — and the excruciating pain from Guillain-Barre Syndrome, I thought I’d sail through.
But as soon as they got inside the actual uterus, I yelped and jolted. And with the other pain, I could tense up to get through it. With an IUD, they can’t do much when your entire body is tensed up. So they had to keep urging me to unclench.
It was pretty embarrassing. And afterward the doctor assured me that I did great, which of course they never tell you when you actually do great at handling pain.
So that was a blow to my ego.
Bad memories
More importantly, the first contact with the inside of my uterus and the initial placing of the IUD — just the insertion, nothing afterward — caused cramps exactly like my miscarriages.
If you’d asked me five minutes before the appointment, I’d have assured you that I’m well and truly over losing the pregnancies.
Each one was heartbreaking — from the time I found out the sex of one of the embryos (after the fact) to that last one when we finally saw a heartbeat and then, the next week, nothing. But I’d have told you that I was okay now, had made my peace. Heck, that I was somewhat relieved.
Because, while I’m sure I would’ve loved any child I had and be unable to imagine life without them, after my marriage with Tim spiraled into his near-complete dependence, it’s truly wonderful to only ever have to take care of myself after the marriage.
So I was fine with not being a mom.
But apparently also not. Because I spent the rest of the day intermittently weeping. And I do mean weeping.
One distinction
I guess the difference this time is that I wasn’t crying for the losses, so much as my past pain.
As soon as I felt those sensations, I was catapulted back to times of not just physical pain, but also grief, despair and, as the miscarriages piled up, an increasing sense of hopelessness.
I don’t think there’s any other way to put it: I was utterly soaked with sadness.
It hit me in waves.
I had a few tears on the table after the doctor and nurse left, but I couldn’t linger. So I dried those, got redressed and numbly made the follow-up appointment. But as soon as I sat down in my car, I sobbed for a few minutes.
I got home and answered emails, and it hit me again. I lay down and cried, then gave up on a nap and ordered consoling food via Instacart. I lay there for a while, then went out to the living room to wait for my food/find something to binge watch/keep an eye on emails.
The food got there, I ate, and I was fine for a couple of hours. Then Josie flopped into the crook of my arm and I called her a big baby, and the sentence “The only baby I’ll ever have” flashed in my mind and I started bawling again.
Then more quiet. And so on.
Unfortunately, Pirate Party Guy (PPG) and Fellow Dating Warrior (FDW) were both out of town. Which was a relief in some ways because, while I desperately needed a hug, I also didn’t want anyone to see me like that. I felt raw and ragged. (Not to mention that I looked like hell.)
Doing the healthy thing
I made myself at least reach out to PPG to vent a bit. He said he was so sorry but of course there wasn’t much he could do. I ended up telling a couple more people by the end of the night — including one gal I’ve hung out with at multiple MeetUp events (and who’s close to PPG, so a sort of inner circle, I guess) but she happened to be minutes away from leaving for the airport.
She offered a phone or video call if that would help, and I thanked her. But really I just needed someone to hug me while I bawled a little.
Alas, ’twas not to be.
There’s one gal I know through FDW, but we’re still pretty preliminarily getting to know each other. And even if I’d felt comfortable losing it in front of her, she doesn’t drive, and I was not up to leaving the house.
So I hugged myself as best I could and went back to bingeing Better Call Saul, then just tried to get to bed at a reasonable time.
What does this mean?
I have absolutely no idea what the implications of this meltdown are.
I don’t know if this was a one-time thing, or whether this means the grief is still unresolved. I woke up feeling fine today — though typing this post made me slightly teary in a couple spots — so maybe it was a one-time eruption of emotional outpouring.
Maybe I never let myself be sad enough for my actual suffering because I was too busy grieving what could’ve been, and I just needed to stop and truly grieve the rest of the pain that came with that process.
So maybe that night was all I needed — or maybe the geyser will turn out to be Old Faithful-like and this will come up again.
The fun thing about the past is that you can’t predict when some random event will trigger old memories. Memories that you thought you’d dealt with. That you thought were part of the emotional baggage you’d unpacked, then neatly repacked and stored in the overhead bin.
I actually just started back in therapy this past week (for other reasons), so I’ll bring it up with my therapist at our next appointment to see if there’s anything I need to ruminate on.
But I think sometimes life just re-breaks your heart for no apparent reason. And you just have to let yourself feel it and then get out whatever the emotional equivalent of Superglue is and put yourself back together.
That said, thank god this IUD lasts 10 years, Because at that point I’ll likely be done or almost done with menopause and not need another one, so that I don’t have to experience that sensation again.
Has anyone else had something trigger past grief lately?
Every funeral I see reminds me of mom. Every wedding reminds me of losses. I’m struck by deep grief at very random times for utterly inane seeming reasons.
I’m learning many times over that grief is not linear and it makes sense that this physical pain reminded your body of your past grief related to your uterus. And it would make sense even if it didn’t make sense, because grief doesn’t make sense. That was such a hard time for you, even if you are NOW glad of the outcome, that experience was so tough. I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there for you but you know I’m always *there* for you virtually ♥️
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You’re right on all counts. Sometimes I still get upset when I see Cancer Center of America ads talking about how beatable cancer is. Because almost half my lifetime ago, my grandmother turned out to be the exception. She was told you pretty much always beat bladder cancer the first time, so we were concerned but didn’t worry overly. And then… yeah. So the ad comes on and I just think “Well, where was this crap when she was sick?” Even though I’m 99% sure that’s not who she even saw. Sigh.
Grief definitely isn’t linear. Or sensical. But lord it’s exhausting.
And yes, thank you for always being there for me virtually. Especially with everything you’re always juggling.
I’m sorry this hit you so hard. I’m glad you reached out IRL and virtually. (((Hugs)))
Aw, thank you. I’m trying to ask for what I need rather than just sitting around and hoping someone reads my mind. You’d really think the latter would be harder than the former but… Nope.
Dearest Abby, I completely understand. Admittedly not your specific situation (my random triggers aren’t for miscarriages, specifically), but I completely relate to the whole random triggers re-breaking your heart. I’m so sorry to hear this happened. I may just be a Random Internet Stranger, but if you want to talk, I know you can see my email on your end of WordPress. 🙂
Also, I think it sounds like you did a great job with the pain—I’ve heard so many horror stories about IUD insertion that I am definitely too afraid to go through with it! So I really think it was brave of you to do it.
Thank you so much for the support. I’ll keep you in mind for sure. And yeah, it’s so strange how small things twang us like we’re some kind of tuning fork and suddenly our whole being is humming with it. Ugh.
I am 65 years old and it has been 25 years since my last miscarriage. I feel sad every Thanksgiving because that was the due date for the child I lost that year. I am grateful for the two children I was able to keep out of six pregnancies, but still I long for the lost ones. Since that time I have lost both parents. From all of this I have learned grief never goes away, we just learn to live with it. And sometimes it rears up and bites us!
I’m so sorry that you’ve had so many losses yourself. It’s just so much. And yeah, I guess grief becomes a part of you, whether you want it to or not.
Long time reader, and I hardly comment…but came here to say I’m so sorry and wish I could give you a hug:(
I lost my mom (my best friend) almost three years ago to cancer, and while most days I’m *fine*, the sadness comes flooding back whenever I see an adult daughter and elderly mother out somewhere…doing whatever: living their lives, hanging out, seeing the grandmother with her grandkids. It’s hard. My mom was the only person who loved my kids the way I did and it breaks my heart that she’s missing all the milestones.
Also – I had a miscarriage last summer. It was heart wrenching, but I often feel guilty discussing that grief mainly because I already have two beautiful children. However, it was a wanted pregnancy and I was devastated, nonetheless. I thought I’d gotten over that hump, but I still get triggered and upset when someone I know announces their latest pregnancy or birth. I feel awful for that…but I can’t help the comparison/feelings of jealousy. I’m human.
I hope you feel better soon — and I agree that grief never ends; it hits you in waves and becomes like hardened scars, reminders of the unbearable pain.
I’m so sorry for both of your losses. And both are losses. It doesn’t matter how many children you already have or go on to have. I obviously kept it at 0, but women who already have children or do end up having some after the miscarriage still suffered exactly the feelings of loss I did. Never feel guilty for mourning your loss.
I’m glad to know this isn’t abnormal, I suppose, but lord I thought all this was behind me.
I saw a random Internet post that said grief does not get smaller, we just grow around it. And I think of it every time someone is grieving. You’ve grown around the sadness/grief but it does remain. Sending you love and positive vibes.
That’s quite beautiful, thank you for sharing it. I’ll try to remember that because I suppose it’s more accurate.
I like that idea. A tree will grow around a nail that someone hammers in, and if enough years go by you won’t see the nail at all. But it’s still there.
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Such pain…such loss. I do feel badly that you’ve had to reexperience it all over again.
I’m sorry, my dear.
It does show you’re alive, and your feelings are still there, in spite of the fine job you’ve done coping with issues that would have put others in the loony bin. You really have had some tough challenges!!!
And there are people struggling with the same issues that you can reach, in a way others cannot. I do believe that God gives us strength to get through — but He also brings people into our lives that we can help, because we understand.
It doesn’t excuse the pain, or make it go away permanently. But after a while, it does ease up. (I lost a baby two, early on. I have always wondered what they would have been, had they grown up. ) Do hang on, Abby. Hang on.
Thanks, Cindy. I’m sorry for your loss as well. Thankfully, the feelings haven’t resurfaced — though the ultrasound was a little tough, so I just looked at the ceiling — but it was rough. I appreciate all my readers’ support for things like this. It helps more than you know.