I thought after losing my baby, I would grieve and eventually move on. I couldn't have been more wrong ...
"What happened to you, where did you go?" my best friend said over cocktails, two months post my miscarriage. "Huh? What do you mean, I am right here," I said. "No. The Talitha I knew is gone. You used to be the swingset, now you're just the kid that falls."
momlogic's Talitha: She was right. For two months I have been living in a thick fog: one that turned from grief to anger to just plain fear, but one that never lifted. I have not slept through the night, my heart races, I have anxiety, my hormones are out of control. I am living in a state of "who is going to leave me next?" and it literally paints the world a color I cannot recognize, one from which I cannot hide. One that apparently, according to my best friend, has become me.
"Post partum depression," my doc says says. "Ha! That's funny, I smile through my snotty tears: Post partum depression, yet I have no baby." She continues, telling me that if I don't get myself healthy, I "will have a difficult time getting pregnant again." Now this hits me, because if there's one thing I know, it's that I want to be a mom, sooner, rather than later. Hearing her say the words "will have difficult time getting pregnant" sends me into a panic spiral: "So what can I do?" I ask her, "Just tell me what to do. What if something happens again? What if I can't get pregnant? What if I have another miscarriage? What if something's wrong with me??"
"TALITHA STOP!" she says: "After thirty years of being an OB/GYN, I have one absolute finding," she says, "Having a baby has nothing to do with science. The one thing I know is that I DON'T know -- why women can't get pregnant, why they miscarry, how a woman with a healthy pregnancy can give birth to a lifeless baby ... On the other hand I see miracles, every single day: Women who have tried for ten years, older women, women who rarely ovulate, women who were told they would never give birth. And I have delivered these women's babies."
I realize as I'm sitting there, I look a bit pathetic. Did I really need a reminder that I don't have any control over what happens? If she's telling me where I am right now, and where my health is, I have to make a choice: to find comfort in the uncomfortable, to replace fear with hope, to stay on the ground or get back on the swing.
So I climb back on. I might be the kid that's fallen, but I'm not the one that stays on the ground.