In all reality, it wasn't even a fetus. It was an embryo, no bigger than a poppy seed. In all reality, I only had a few minutes to feel like I was pregnant before the doctor said that he was worried and I immediately felt afraid. The blood came quickly and while it wasn't bad at first, it was bad by Saturday and by the time I went to the hospital for followup I knew it was over. In all reality, _______ and I have only been together for two months, I'm traveling to Tucson and New Orleans this spring, moving into my little house in June, etc.
In all reality, my brain doesn't get a say in this one. I am utterly heartbroken.*
If someone asked me to sum up how I've been feeling for the last few months, the first word that comes to mind is isolated. I've completely spun myself into a cocoon and as I slowly emerge from it, I realize that I didn't know that I was so far away. Everything around me was still functioning and I imagine I was as well - I was got up and went to work every day; I hosted two poetry events and even played a gig with my band. I attended birthday parties and hung out with my compañero**, family and friends. I was fine - at least, that's what I kept telling myself and everyone around me - except for the fact that in early February, I found out I was four weeks pregnant and within three days of finding out, I had a miscarriage.
I've written several versions of this blog. I wrote out all the details of finding out - going to the doctor for what I thought was a urinary tract infection (which I did have) and walking out knowing I was pregnant - and possibly miscarrying. I wrote about the medical ordeal and wrote a long description of the emergency room and the characters that were there. I wrote about sitting in a nearly empty church on Holy Thursday almost two months after the miscarriage and having an argument with Creator asking why? Why would you let me be pregnant if you were going to take it from me? How could you? You knew how scared I was of that happening - why would you do that to me?
I haven't been able to finish this post because I am still figuring out how to be fine.
I had a chemical miscarriage, which my doctor described as something wrong with the embryo and my body rejected it. "It happens to about 25% of pregnancies," he said, "it's just that no one talks about it." While my compañero, mom and the rest of my family and close friends responded with a lot of kindness and tenderness, as quickly as the miscarriage happened, I wiped away my tears and told everyone I was fine. I blamed my sadness on the hormones and once those leveled off, I told myself to shake off the pain that I felt deep beyond my heart - it seeped deep into my womb and washed over me like sheets of cold rain. I convinced myself that I was being dramatic - I was only four weeks along and didn't even have a chance to adjust to the idea of being pregnant. My Catholic-Chicana sensibilities told me that there are people who have suffered much more than I had, and therefore I had to get over it.
None of that mattered, however, because I wanted this pregnancy and this baby.
A few weeks after the miscarriage, I went to the doctor for a follow-up appointment. The clinic, which is a women's reproductive health clinic, was much nicer and calmer than the emergency room I had been at a few weeks earlier. The doctor I saw once again explained what a chemical miscarriage was, but she also said "just because you weren't that far along doesn't mean you don't get to be sad." I felt tears well up that I quickly swallowed and just nodded. She left the room so I could change into a hospital gown and as I lay back on the exam table, I noticed there was a mobile hanging above me. Little paper hummingbirds floated above me and I felt a brief moment of happiness and peace. I took a picture of them because I wanted to remember them.
The Mexica (otherwise known as the Aztecs) believed that hummingbirds were the spirits of warriors who died in battle. I have always loved hummingbirds but when I learned this, my respect for them grew even more. I even have a hummingbird and the word "guerrera" (warrior) tattooed on my right bicep. If I was writing a fiction piece, that would have been the moment that my character would have had an epiphany about her loss, but in real life, it took some time to realize that not only was I a warrior but so was the little spirit that was intertwined with my own.
When I sat in a church on Holy Thursday, I asked Creator why, but when my anger quieted, I found myself having a conversation with that little spirit. I apologized for not communicating sooner and I thanked it for coming to me. In a flood of tears I released everything - the baby, my anger, my fear, my sorrow. I allowed myself to be torn wide open by my own emotions. When I spoke with my compañero about it, I could almost hear the relief in his voice and he said I even looked lighter.
I still find myself feeling angry sometimes. I fantasize about being pregnant and sometimes feel impatient about our decision to wait - my compañero and I decided that we need more time together to cultivate our relationship. I'm afraid of miscarrying again. I'm afraid that it was a fluke and I'll never get pregnant again. I'm afraid that I'm waiting too long. I don't know how to not be afraid and I'm fine with that - only this time I'm really fine and not telling myself that I am in order to survive.
I am a warrior and while I am forever changed by having a miscarriage, I can only move forward. Completely afraid and brave all at once.
Next time: Mean Girls
*This is text from an email I sent to my dear friends D. and B. about a week after the miscarriage
**Compañero literally translates to companion, but it's the term I use for my boyfriend