Ah, Black Friday. A day of early morning deals and furious lines into the biggest of big box stores. On this Black Friday, while everybody else was out supporting consumerism, I was in the Northwoods having a miscarriage.
Our super awesome Thanksgiving weekend started on Wednesday with multiple positive pregnancy tests and a lot of surprise. I was on zero fertility drugs and we weren’t really trying because we had planned to go back to the fertility doc in January. But to our surprise, there was a 4 week 2 day old bun in this oven.
Of course we decided to tell people right away. We were very excited, but we were also heading to a family Thanksgiving filled with bottomless old fashioneds, gallons of coffee and a hot tub—my lack of partaking would surely give us away. So we told people and were met with hugs, clapping and joyous celebration. Thanksgiving went on as normal—minus soft cheese and booze—and all was well. Until I woke up in the middle of the night to my period.
Except… this was not just a period. I will spare you the gory details (remember when Will Byers coughed up slugs? That times 1000. And not out of my mouth.) but I was clearly having a miscarriage. At my in laws’. In the Northwoods. After we had just told our families that were were having a miraculous angel baby.
My overactive brain did all the things I’m assuming are normal in this situation. I cried. I got angry. I shook my fist at the sky and asked what I did to deserve this—on top of all the fertility struggles with Lucy. I told myself that it could be worse. I wasn’t far along. I already have a beautiful, magical angel baby. Things could be worse.
Except having a miscarriage is the worst. It’s sad, painful, disgusting, lonely, heartbreaking and every other way to say that it fucking sucks. I tried to think of the bright side.
“Hey, we got pregnant this time with no meds, so it can happen.” But it can also unhappen.
“Hey, we already have a miracle baby and she’s so great and lovely and fun and amazing.” But, I want to have more great, lovely, fun, amazing babies.
“Hey, you aren’t the only one this has happened to in the history of time.” Yes. But it still fucking sucks.
The only bright side that I can come up with is that it is so common that I had some really amazing, strong, lovely ladies that I could text as I was hemorrhaging and sobbing uncontrollably alone in the Northwoods. Without them, my husband and my delightful toddler, I would probably be laying in a psych ward somewhere.
So as I must do—and as I did when we struggled to get pregnant for four years before—I will just keep existing. I will wake up every day. Go to work. Play with my baby. Walk my dogs. Binge watch Netflix with my husband. And hope beyond all hope that some day we can have another baby.
