Friday, May 21, 2010

"I have chemo tomorrow. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help you."

Seriously, I got an email from a friend with those exact words. And she meant it.

After three weeks of bed rest and much jubilation that I had finally stopped bleeding, I found out on Tuesday that my baby (12 weeks) no longer had a heart beat.

The pregnancy was tenuous, so it hadn't made facebook yet, but my heart had already shifted from "MOE" (mother of eight) to "MON" (mother of nine). And the kids' had done the same.

I have my few baby girl clothes in the baby slot in my closet. (Just what's left from a box that got lost and never used. Everything else I gave away.) I need to put those somewhere. And put the Pack n Play deep in the fruit room. And, the double stroller. . .

I need to adjust my plans. No baby November 30th. (David could have registered to teach at AutoDesk University that week.) No redo of the family nativity picture with a new baby. A thousand very small, almost imperceptible adjustments--together they make a wave that rolls over me and back again, an invisible tide.

As a counterwave, I have my life: too many children (read: interruptions) to keep up grief for more than a minute or two.  I also have my gift for procrastination that even reaches into grieving: just like laundry, I can actually put off my grief until I'm "in the mood" to be sad. I've been doing that fabulously while I've waited for the miscarriage to start.

I decided to lay my anxiety to rest and finally had a D&C this morning. I'm relieved. And sad. It's over. She's really gone.

On my way to bed, I ruminate on how much sadness I'll allow myself to feel when I lie down. And, then my last look at email . . . and there's that line: "I have chemo tomorrow. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help you." Oh, the blessed irony of it! It's part of a very sweet note of consolation from someone who really has reasons to complain. And, because I know the life she leads, I know she means it. She threw in the chemo comment just to explain that she'd be tied up in the morning. And, suddenly, I'm laughing and crying. . . and thinking . . .

 . . . maybe I can blog about this after all.

Thank you, Deanne, and all my D6 friends and ResponsibleWomen, and family for the many comforting words dinners and banana breads, watching my kids during the bed rest even though it came to nothing. You're all part of my counterwave, the sine for the cosine of my grief.

Friendship is a rich and priceless gift . . . a kind of baby. I feel wealthy!

Thank you!

(Davie, please notice: I used a math metaphor there. I'd like credit for that. Thanks.)

8 comments:

R said...

Beautiful and tragic. We sure love you.

elnaclark said...

OK Sally - I am sobbing at my computer. You are a remarkable writer and put the experience into such poignant words. It makes me think of all that have lost by miscarriage - how hard - but especially sad to re-think the future without a baby. Thanks.

Lucy said...

You put that into words like no one could. Beautiful! Thank you for sharing that with us. You are a strong lady!

Danae said...

Oh, Sally. I'm so sorry. I admire your strength and the ability to share something painful so beautifully. My thoughts and prayers are with you. (I hope your friend is alright).

Kathleen said...

Sally, I couldn't believe what I was reading. I had to start over three times to understand that it was your sorrow, your heartache, your experience. May you and your family be comforted as you grieve for the baby.

Amy Martinsen said...

Oh my dear Sally...is this why I have thought of you so much these past few weeks? I pray the Holy Ghost will bring your heart comfort, peace, strength to face tomorrow...and the next day...and the next. He's the one who will bring the real strength.
My April lost her little Norah almost a year ago to the day - our missing little girl brings tears and hope for reunions.
I'll pray for you...

Lori said...

Thank you for sharing your life experiences and feelings with all of us. You are in our prayers!

Carol F. said...

Sally, I am so sorry. You are the ultimate lover of babies and I can't imagine the loss you feel and that you have a right to feel. Watching you with Alice this week made me love Julia more and reading about your unborn baby girl makes me love her more, also. I hope you have been blessed with comfort.