Hidden Fear
So I am officially into my second trimester and what a relief to be three and a bit months pregnant. Two years ago I suffered a miscarriage and I did not realise just how much that loss affected me psychologically. That pregnancy came at a very bad time in our lives as we prepared to move our lives and home to “World’s end” and in hind sight our first year here would have been that much harder with a new born in tow. So I rationalised then that perhaps it was for the best and I still feel that way now and I don’t “regret” the miscarriage. I had an awesome doctor whose clear thinking and ability to explain the “why” and “how” of the miscarriage helped me immensely to cope with the trauma and I will always be grateful to her, and her phenomenal pain killers! The Mauritian, never someone to make a fuss of me, watched my every move and constantly checked on me asking how I was feeling and I even got away with being a nag for a while. I rationalised then that I coped with it all because it happen very early in the pregnancy and that it would have been worse had this been my first pregnancy. I remember telling a friend that I never felt a connection to that pregnancy like I had when I was pregnant with the Butterfly; it was almost like I knew something would go wrong. Now don’t get me wrong, I was not blasé about the miscarriage it was a traumatic and painful experience that I would not wish on any woman. The feelings of loss and emptiness are real and unexplainable and they stay with you for life no matter the circumstances. I was lucky, I had an awesome doctor who dealt with me with frankness and empathy, and I have the best support structure in the world in the shape of my family. My parents listen, commiserate and empathise and then carry on as normal, life after all will continue with or without you in the end and of course my husband with his strong shoulders and indomitable sense of humour were an incredible source of strength. I made it through the most traumatic time in my life almost unscathed, or so I thought.
Fast forward exactly two years and I wake up one morning and realise that it wasn’t something I ate that made me queasy yesterday. So we follow all the steps and confirm my suspicions and settle into accepting and dealing with the consequences of raging hormones, low blood pressure and lack of oxygen to the brain. Then it hits you: “What if something goes wrong this time?” and out comes the pregnancy books and Google gets fired up. Time to inform yourself! I was in a frenzy and “knee deep” in information and managed to tie myself into knots of confusion and panic because I went against my golden rule of never saturating myself in too much information. I was unwilling to let anyone know about the pregnancy until the first trimester was over and irrationally made my poor Mauritian swear to be silent, even though he was bursting to tell someone. He of course agreed to respect my wishes until it was safe for him to rationally explain why he needed to at least advise his colleagues at work in case he needed time off. The “morning sickness” was severe enough to make me wish I’d never fallen pregnant, then on the days I felt fine in the mornings I’d panic that something was wrong and be unable to do much except worry all day and look out for other warning signs. Then the next morning I am again paralysed with nausea and cursing hormones and the Mauritian of course. Up and down I went back and forth I swung for close on eight weeks, “what ifs” floating in and out of my head all day, every day. Until one morning I was so caught up in my own panic that I, for the first time in her very short life, raged irrationally at my Butterfly and actually scared her to tears. It was worse than a punch in the gut, a punch that was both necessary and deserved. Bang! Suddenly there I was cradling my sobbing precious Butterfly while realisation and rational thinking replaced panic and stupidity. I realised then just how much the miscarriage had frightened me, that I had locked away my fear and fright behind a door of reason. I realised that though due to our circumstances at the time we were better off without a child then, I had suppressed my real feelings. In short, I just had not dealt with the psychological trauma of losing a child. I had submerged myself in our move, in making a new life for us and in the doings of the Butterfly. I had allowed the “scars” to fester quietly in the background, and there they stayed until twelve weeks ago. So there I was sitting on the bathroom floor, the Butterfly on my lap, her tears soaking through my top while I apologised through sobs of my own for my selfishness and self absorption. I got so caught up in my irrational panic that I lost track of reality and what was really important. The reality is that no matter what I did nothing would prevent the miscarriage or “blighted ovum” which is the medical term given to the type of miscarriage I suffered. In short, before it is a foetus it is a “zygote” a collection of cells that multiply rapidly and sometimes for no known medical reason the cells stop dividing and the zygote “dies” which triggers a process that we call a “miscarriage.” The important thing was to concentrate on being a mum and try explaining to my child what was going on even though she may not fully understand. The important thing was to learn from my past experience and realise that this time round I felt that same connection as I had with the Butterfly. The reality is that nature will run its course despite me, the reality is that life continues forward without a backward glance and so should I.
So I resolved there on the bathroom floor to embrace the fear and discard the panic, to put away the books and delete the information, to just follow my instinct and trust that all will be well. Then I took my Butterfly by the hand as I headed to the kitchen, took the ice cream out the freezer and two spoons out the draw and we sat on the kitchen floor eating ice cream out the tub while we talked about the day Mummy would bring a baby brother or sister home to the Butterfly.
Fast forward exactly two years and I wake up one morning and realise that it wasn’t something I ate that made me queasy yesterday. So we follow all the steps and confirm my suspicions and settle into accepting and dealing with the consequences of raging hormones, low blood pressure and lack of oxygen to the brain. Then it hits you: “What if something goes wrong this time?” and out comes the pregnancy books and Google gets fired up. Time to inform yourself! I was in a frenzy and “knee deep” in information and managed to tie myself into knots of confusion and panic because I went against my golden rule of never saturating myself in too much information. I was unwilling to let anyone know about the pregnancy until the first trimester was over and irrationally made my poor Mauritian swear to be silent, even though he was bursting to tell someone. He of course agreed to respect my wishes until it was safe for him to rationally explain why he needed to at least advise his colleagues at work in case he needed time off. The “morning sickness” was severe enough to make me wish I’d never fallen pregnant, then on the days I felt fine in the mornings I’d panic that something was wrong and be unable to do much except worry all day and look out for other warning signs. Then the next morning I am again paralysed with nausea and cursing hormones and the Mauritian of course. Up and down I went back and forth I swung for close on eight weeks, “what ifs” floating in and out of my head all day, every day. Until one morning I was so caught up in my own panic that I, for the first time in her very short life, raged irrationally at my Butterfly and actually scared her to tears. It was worse than a punch in the gut, a punch that was both necessary and deserved. Bang! Suddenly there I was cradling my sobbing precious Butterfly while realisation and rational thinking replaced panic and stupidity. I realised then just how much the miscarriage had frightened me, that I had locked away my fear and fright behind a door of reason. I realised that though due to our circumstances at the time we were better off without a child then, I had suppressed my real feelings. In short, I just had not dealt with the psychological trauma of losing a child. I had submerged myself in our move, in making a new life for us and in the doings of the Butterfly. I had allowed the “scars” to fester quietly in the background, and there they stayed until twelve weeks ago. So there I was sitting on the bathroom floor, the Butterfly on my lap, her tears soaking through my top while I apologised through sobs of my own for my selfishness and self absorption. I got so caught up in my irrational panic that I lost track of reality and what was really important. The reality is that no matter what I did nothing would prevent the miscarriage or “blighted ovum” which is the medical term given to the type of miscarriage I suffered. In short, before it is a foetus it is a “zygote” a collection of cells that multiply rapidly and sometimes for no known medical reason the cells stop dividing and the zygote “dies” which triggers a process that we call a “miscarriage.” The important thing was to concentrate on being a mum and try explaining to my child what was going on even though she may not fully understand. The important thing was to learn from my past experience and realise that this time round I felt that same connection as I had with the Butterfly. The reality is that nature will run its course despite me, the reality is that life continues forward without a backward glance and so should I.
So I resolved there on the bathroom floor to embrace the fear and discard the panic, to put away the books and delete the information, to just follow my instinct and trust that all will be well. Then I took my Butterfly by the hand as I headed to the kitchen, took the ice cream out the freezer and two spoons out the draw and we sat on the kitchen floor eating ice cream out the tub while we talked about the day Mummy would bring a baby brother or sister home to the Butterfly.
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