I miscarried this week. We were due in May and we were all so excited, but then I woke up and didn't feel pregnant anymore. A trip to the ER confirmed my worst fears. There was no heartbeat. Where just a week before there had been a flitting, flickering, little hummingbird heartbeat on the monitor, now, there was nothing.
We are told that it happens all the time, that it means something was wrong and we shouldn't blame ourselves. It doesn't seem to matter how clearly you understand something intellectually, how fully you grasp the realities of biology and genetics. It is still a loss, a thing to be mourned, a pit of sadness with a cliff where intellect can get no purchase.
We are told to keep our early pregnancies quiet for this exact reason, to not tell anyone we don't feel we could un-tell. I didn't listen this time. With both O and P we didn't share with anyone except for immediate family until after the first trimester. This time I was so certain, about this baby, about May, about sharing our joy, that we told everyone who would listen.
I have spent a good part of this week in the un-telling. We are deeply and profoundly sad, and I feared the un-telling would leave me feeling raw and used-up. Instead, it has been a cathartic reminder that I am not alone, that this profound sadness is reasonable, that mourning is reasonable, that I am loved, that this family Jim and I have created is loved. Beyond the emotional buoying and the validation of my feelings, sharing this sadness has come with concrete help: meals, rides for the girls, booze, things I wouldn't have asked for but have desperately needed.
We are told to keep our sadness to ourselves, to spare others having to hear or see it. I didn't listen this time. Sharing our joy has also meant sharing our sadness, a weight I'm so glad that I am not carrying alone.
The line between sharing and over-sharing is slim and moveable, but I will never again hesitate to share my joy, out of fear of having to share my sadness as well.
