Behbeh Love Part 4

Part One   Part Two  Part Three

** Trigger Warning: Miscarriage and grief. **

The past 24 hours have been one of the best and worst days of my life, simultaneously.

I may not have a lot to say, or I might have waterfalls of words. I’m not sure yet. I thought I would need more like a whole week to process this and write about it, rather than a day, but I’m just going with it for now.

It started at 1am on Wednesday. I was called out to go assist with my very second birth as a doula. I was very excited because I’d spent some time getting to know this new “client” and they had become friends. They were planning an at-home water birth (another first for me!), so I safely raced to their house. I told them that if she was still labouring around noon, I would unfortunately need to leave for about an hour for my own ultrasound – but I would be back no matter what.

I needn’t have worried. I witnessed a beautiful, healthy baby girl come out of the water and into her parents arms by 9:30am. I’m not totally sure what I think about good vibes or energy or juju, but I thought that my morning certainly couldn’t be a bad way to go into my next appointment.

Steve was there with me this time. We knew that this ultrasound would be the make-or-break-it, and he wanted to be there. He expected to be brought into the ultrasound room later to hear a heartbeat if there was one.

Instead, I left the clinic and took him out with me. I waited until I reached the bottom of the stairs where I knew there was a bench we could sit on. And there, I told him.

There is no Baby Button. Technically, there never was. I experienced what is (terribly) called a “blighted ovum,” which means that our fertilized egg never quite made it to embryo stage. However, it stayed inside my uterus and formed a protective sac around it, as it would normally.

This was enough to keep my blood hormones skyrocketing, my breasts growing, my heart certain that everything was okay.

It was probably already over by the time I took that pregnancy test on Father’s Day weekend.

I’m sorry, but if you’ll allow me to speak freely…

I fucking hate my body right now. Sure, it did its job and didn’t keep a non-healthy embryo growing. But to lie to me about it? To trick me for the past 5 weeks? That’s just bullshit. Trust the hormones, we said. Trust the growing boobs, we said. Sure.

Do you know what I have to do now? I have to take a bunch of pills that will make my uterus cramp and contort like I’m in labour. Over the span of 24 hours (hopefully) I will most likely be doubled over in pain while my body expels the tissue of a sac, a placenta and a defunct egg. And THEN I have to fucking collect it in a Ziploc or a Tupperware or whatever, and take it back to the hospital so they can examine it to make sure that nothing got left behind to try and infect me. Because as long as that godforsaken sac is there, my body will continue to believe that it is pregnant – and it will also prevent me from becoming pregnant again, should I try.

This changes everything. I was starting to buy maternity clothes, and getting rid of old clothes I knew wouldn’t fit me anymore. I quit my job. I wrote a pregnancy diary. I shared my hopes and dreams with my husband, my friends and family.

And now, I don’t even want to see or talk to anyone. I just want to be alone and watch Netflix all day, but know that my people are still there should I change my mind.

I’m scared out of my mind. I’m still tired from the birth the other night. Throughout the day, I roller coaster between staring numbness and unstoppable tears.

I still feel pregnant. That’s the whole problem.

And Steve…Steve is my broken hearted rockstar of a man. He has been unreal throughout this whole ordeal. He’s letting me do whatever I want/need to, and making sure I still eat, still sleep. Part of me wishes he wouldn’t, because then I could start wasting away to ghost level; then everyone could know how I feel inside. He said he didn’t realize how attached he was to Baby already, until yesterday. Neither did I, really.

Thankfully, every doctor and assistant at the Maternity Clinic in the hospital has been like a grief counselor. Giving free pills, and hugs, and sympathetic looks. Calling it a loss, and not just telling us to get over it and move on. Encouraging us to do something together that will create closure for us.

I’m thinking about getting a tattoo.

And…that’s it. In a nutshell. I don’t know what else to say. Thank you for reading.



21 thoughts on “Behbeh Love Part 4

  1. I am so very sorry for yours and Steve’s loss. ((careful hugs))

    Do what you have to for you right now. Netflix, couch, cry, scream. Whatever it is in the moment. But also remember to be gentle with yourself during all of this.

    Sending you strength and love, and keeping you all in my thoughts.

  2. Oh honey. I’m so sorry for your loss. For Steve’s loss. For your heartbreak. Goddammit. I’m so, so sorry. (And I really fucking want to bring you tea and cupcakes and just leave them on your doorstep. Like nicky-nicky-nine-doors, but with pastry and hot beverages!)

    Lots of love and warm and fuzzies.

  3. Hi,
    You don’t know me or I you for that matter but I’ve been following your story.
    I send you lots of love. I have been in your exact situation and understand your heartache completely.
    I’m not going to tell you that you’ll forget it. You won’t. This baby will always be in your heart loved as much as if it had grown to be delivered.
    But I can tell you… You are strong! You will get through it. Together.
    I wrote my baby a beautiful poem. Sealed it up with a picture of my pee stick and that’s what I will forever keep of it. Someday I will get a tattoo for this baby too. Haven’t settled on what yet. But I do have a necklace with its birthstone (the month it would have been born)
    It will be completely horrible to see your baby come out of you. But you are strong (and I can tell you are loved) you will make it.
    Your baby was sooo special that god needed it in heaven early. And it knows your love and is watching down on you with just as much love for you.

  4. You don’t know me Carly, but I’ve seen you at my daughter’s music classes and at the Willows. I just wanted to say I’m sorry for your loss.
    Unfortunately, I’ve been through this many times, I experienced infertility as well as repeated pregnancy loss. Not only could I not get pregnant, but when I did I would miscarry. I’ve had the exact feelings of how my body let me down, having the miscarriage at home, collecting and going in to the lab. It’s not easy.
    You’re lucky to have friends you can talk to as you go through this.

  5. Blighted ovum has to be one of the most awful terms they could ever come up with. Potatoes and tomatoes get blight. Not babies. Because it was fertilised, ergo it was, at one point, a human being in its earliest form. I have no idea if mine were the same – I suspect not, as I lost them so much earlier, but I had the same symptoms and all the physical (and emotional) markers of pregnancy, and it just sucks. It fucking sucks and I hurt so much for you right now.

    Mark it and honour it how you feel like. At the moment there is no ‘should’, in fact the only thing I would say you ‘should’ not do, is continue as if everything was normal or try to keep it together. Because just don’t do the same stupid things I did. Don’t pretend it’s not happening. Fall apart and recognise that for that time, whilst your body was lying and your tiny wee one had already sadly passed, your mind and soul and heart were being a mother.

    Oh Carly I wish so much you didn’t have to go through this. I wish I could un-do it all for you and make it right. I wish that this kind of shitty thing never happened, and that the world wasn’t broken and such a mess. Just do what works for you.

    And if you want to, get a tattoo. Definitely. Because this baby, this tiny, tiny human, nonetheless made you a mother, and Steve a father. And it’s absolutely heartbreaking that its ended this way.

    And if you want to try again, do it when you’re ready.

    Oh, and bear in mind that grief over this is a strange, irregular thing, which may well behave differently at different times of the same day, even, and just don’t question yourself for feeling anything you feel – it’s all fine. It’s all valid. It’s all part of the process.

    Sending you huge, huge hugs and so much love…and (hesitantly) prayers. ❤

  6. You quit your job?! Carlyyyy! Awww honey I feel so bad!
    It’s just devastating. For someone who has never experienced something like this, I shouldn’t say anything at all. But I’m just sorry you have to go through all this pain. I know you will probably look back at it and see the positives (the baby could have survived but be abnormal) but I know you’re feeling a lot of grief right now.
    I am sending you love and light to help you deal with all this xoxoxo

  7. I remember sitting down with my children to tell them that we had lost the last baby. My body hadn’t picked up on the fact that the baby had died, and we made it three more weeks before it even began to notice. I remember trying to tell my kids that our bodies are amazing things, that they know what they are doing, that we have to trust in them.

    It was such bullshit at the time. I was angry with my body. I felt betrayed.

    Grief if an odd thing. It will sweep in and out. Take a break from everyone, or surround yourself with people. Watch Netflix all day and eat cupcakes. Get a tattoo. Do what feels right to you. This is all about learning to forgive your body. And forgiveness takes awhile.

  8. This is my first time stumbling on this site. I didn’t expect to read such a heartwrenching, raw story. I’m very sorry you’re going through that. I do hope and believe you will be rewarded with joy in time to come for facing this ordeal with such grace – because, really, Netflix and a tattoo is not the worst thing you could do while grieving. Good luck to you Carly.

  9. I am so sorry for your loss! Grieve and cry and seek comfort. I am praying for peace for you and Steve. You are such a wonderful, courageous and vulnerable spirit and I feel honoured to read about your experiences and I cannot wait to hear more of your life’s story unfold here.

  10. Netflix has gotten me through some dark times. I don’t know how you are writing this right now. I am holding space for you and your husband.

  11. Oh, Carly, sweet Carly. I wish I could take this away from you, this hurt. Just know you are loved and thought of and held by me and the rest of the SW’s. We are here if/when you need us. I am so thankful that you have such a “rockstar” husband to care for you and to mourn with you. I will keep him in my thoughts as well. Sending you both my love.

  12. Pingback: Behbeh Love Part 3 | she's a butterfly, pretty as a crimson sky, nothing's ever gonna bring her down.

  13. I’m here just to say I’ve been reading your posts, and I find you astounding. But more than that, I was so, so happy to have a FB chat yesterday where you played and joked. All that junk food must be doing you some good! I’m hopeful time will do even more.

    Love. For realz.

  14. Pingback: Behbeh Love Part 4.5 | she's a butterfly, pretty as a crimson sky, nothing's ever gonna bring her down.

  15. Pingback: This New Year | she's a butterfly, pretty as a crimson sky, nothing's ever gonna bring her down.

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