I’m on a few hours sleep right now. I am surprisingly alert yet I am also not sure how long this strikingly coherent state will last. In short, I am writing this before I lose the will and/or energy to gather up my loose thoughts before they roll away into the ether mist of the back bits of my brain.

I had a missed miscarriage. In case you are not familiar, it is when the fetus dies but the body hasn’t recognized the death. The mother-to-be will still feel pregnant, symptoms and all, but in actuality, isn’t. It was something I knew of, yet apparently didn’t completely grasp.

There was no amount of self-preparation that had me readied for the ultrasound technician to softly utter, “There isn’t a heartbeat.” Of course, I knew there might be a chance for loss of pregnancy. I just turned 40. We didn’t plan this. I had still been eating and drinking like a savage before finding out that my sickness was of the morning variety. So, yes. I repeatedly reminded myself that I could lose this surprise baby at any given moment. And that logic and rationality helped to keep my composure in the face of these nameless hospital personnel peering at me with saddened eyes. I cannot stand for the pity of strangers, so “losing it” or expressing anything other than reticent calm was  not an option. I let the kindly woman know that it was okay. I knew there was a chance of this happening. I’ve been preparing myself for something like this.

And when I saw the doctor to discuss how to deal with the dead fetus in my womb, I didn’t shed a tear. She shot it straight and listed my options. I could wait for my body to expel the tissue on its own. I could take some pills to force the miscarriage to its completion. I could have the surgery which would in essence be vacuuming up the no longer useful or needed remains of a new life that just didn’t make it. I sat straight in that chair, the absolute pragmatist, and asked which was the most cost efficient.

Ah. Pills it is.

After finishing up the talk with discussion of future birth control methods and “Don’t forget to make a follow-up appointment”, I left. No time for tears. Still have to drive home. Oh, it’s nice out. Maybe we can finish putting up the lights. What should we have for dinner?

It wasn’t until the pharmaceutical assistance kicked in that I understood and truly felt in my soul what was happening. Why did I choose this? What – was I some emo depressive teen locked away in my room with my razors and angst, needing to associate physical to the emotional, or else it didn’t matter? The cramping itself wasn’t the problem. It was the rapid expulsion of what could have been.

It was after 6 a.m. My husband was barely at work 5 minutes before he jumped in his car and drove right back home. He held me as I cried and apologized for ruining his birthday. He whispered Shut Up into my birds nest of bed head hair as I sobbed quietly, not wanting to wake our other two boys across the hall. He helped to mop up the blood and gross seemingly masticated chunks of tissue that was just falling out of me sloppily, with no warning or difficulty. Once my tears stopped, in between the sorrow of loss and the mourning of a life that would never be, there happened a void. A numbness, an emptiness that carried with it no descriptive or tangible explanation. An emotional black hole – an oxymoron.

After a while, the pain and bleeding subsided. I was physically exhausted, dehydrated, and famished. It didn’t take my body too long to recover. Water, food, rest. All is well.

But is it? While life as my family knows it has continued to move forward, I find myself swimming in reminders that Hey, we never planned another child. That this is for the best. Well, now we don’t have to figure out A, B and C. Things will be much easier financially. Etc., etc., etc.

Yet, all of these constant prompts do little to quell the ache. I will finish decorating. I will grocery shop and meal plan. I will do laundry, wash dishes, make vet appointments for our cats, eventually hang out with my friends and enjoy a dinner out with a nice glass of wine. And I will take care of my two little boys while doing my best not to wonder what it would have been like to have a third in our new house that still needs so much work…

Maybe it’s not the best solution towards recuperation, but it’s the one I’ve got.