The Cold Feet

This one's about me. Written in July 2015.

And Trigger Warning: This post discusses pregnancy loss, and includes profanity.

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That morning, I remember my feet feeling cold.

In a rush to leave the house, I hadn’t thought to wear shoes. I hadn’t thought of much at all, really. I slipped on my sandals out of habit, in an unfamiliar daze. At that point, I was blissfully unaware that we’d be in the hospital that long. As I ran out the door, I had no idea what was coming: How walking into those huge doors would be like crossing a threshold into a parallel life I had never imagined for myself. I couldn't foresee how quickly the nurses faces would twist into panic at the check-in counter. I didn't know I would abruptly be sat into a wheelchair, rushing through the buzzing ER, cutting the line of distressed patients who had undoubtedly been waiting for hours. I couldn't have imagined what it would be like, receiving unwanted stares from other patients and staff who overheard our news. I didn’t know I’d soon be bleeding in the ER bathroom, too embarrassed to walk out because I had stained my gown.

When I put on my flip flops that morning, I didn’t know I had lost my baby. I didn’t know how cold my feet would feel. I should have worn shoes.

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I laid there in the hospital bed watching my husband. He sat in silence, unmoving. He had pushed his chair across the room to be as close to me as possible, and buried his face into his hands. I wondered if the chair was more or less comfortable than the bed. I wondered if he was okay. I wondered if he knew that I wasn’t.

As my fingers glided gently through his hair, I silently prayed to anyone who would listen. I begged the higher powers to save my baby. I bartered with whatever I could think to give. I promised I’d be the best mother, I promised I’d take my vitamins everyday, that I’d never let a moment of ingratitude exist in my entire life. I would have given up my own soul, if anyone had walked in at that moment and made an offer to exchange it for what was coming.

But in hindsight, I was pleading to rewrite a story that had already concluded. And I knew it the moment the Doctor walked in the room, staring at the open file in his hands. As he took a breath, his eyes darted, making contact with seemingly everything in the room except me. And even though I knew almost exactly what he would say, every single word hit me like its own singular blow. I was suddenly thrust into a fight with my arms pinned behind my back, competing against my biggest fear. He continued, over-explaining what happened, and with each word I was beaten further down to my core. He finally made eye contact to tell me he was so sorry, that it wasn’t my fault. This just happens sometimes, they don’t know why. He said there was nothing I could’ve done differently. He said that sometimes, babies just don’t make it.

He continued to explain what would happen next, and it dawned on me after hearing “prescribing pain medicine” and “the worst is yet to come”, that I was nodding along to his words, out of purely habitual politeness. What was wrong with me? This man was the referee in this fight I never asked to be in. I was the broken one. I owed him no gestures. Fuck that. Fuck politeness.

And then that realization, like a bizarre magic trick, caused a brand new experience to explode out of me. The self-defensive wall I had spent years building inside myself, the one that protected me from crying in front of strangers, the one that instilled in me to nod like a good girl so others could read my listener cues - it all disintegrated. And the flood waiting behind it burst through like a tidal wave.

And so I sat there in the cold, lifeless room, and balled. I cried so hard my ribs became sore. I felt the air leave my lungs, feeling unassured it would return. And the tears would only stop after what felt like hours, when the energy in my body depleted so low, that I couldn’t bare to push another out.

My husband sat there in his chair so close to me, feeling utterly helpless trying to figure out how to touch me, how to hold me. The bed that divided us was an impossible obstacle. And so he tried to hold my hands, he tried to tell me it was okay. I wanted to be alone. I wanted him to hold me tightly. I wanted to scream, I wanted to be in silence. But we could only sit there, side by side. As we held each other’s gaze, we saw one another break in a way we had never imagined. We could only cry, and break, and repeat. We watched each others faces become swollen, our eyes turn red. And when my bleeding had slowed enough for me to walk again, I slipped my cold feet into my sandals and walked out of the hospital, the emptiest I had ever been in my life.

In the aftermath, we were forced to numbly tell each family member and friend that the baby we had announced so joyfully to them just weeks prior, had turned into a morbid statistic. I experienced hours of labor contractions, wondering if the pain would ever stop. I took as many pain pills as I physically could handle. I received texts and calls of support from those who didn’t really know how to help. I turned my phone off. I was no longer a woman growing a person inside of me. I was meaningless. I was a failure. I was truly broken.

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Now, I sit in my living room, on the same couch I laid on to miscarry five years ago. But here, now, I watch my three young children fill our home with life. I watch their cheeks lift with each innocent smile. I hear their feet hit the floor as they chase each other gleefully. I see their beautiful, curious eyes absorbing the world around them. I see them bounce on the cushions beside me, blissfully unaware of what both this couch, and I, have been through.

I thank every facet of the universe for bringing me three healthy babies. I forgive it for the miscarriage. I forgive it for the 4 that others that followed, and for the recovery and toll each one took on me and my body. As I hear my children's laughter bounce off the walls, I consider it my debt paid. We are even now. But most of all, I sit here in forgiveness of myself. I absolve the guilt I have carried, for blaming myself, for believing I was a failure. And while I wear the statistic on my soul like a brand, I know now that it is a very real part of my life story. It will always be with me. I will always grieve the babies that I lost. I will mourn the innocence each loss took from me. I will feel empathy for the women who have experienced the same, for those that don’t yet know they will. I give my love and sorrow to those who will not go on to birth healthy children as I did. I know now that I was never alone, despite intensely feeling that way. And I promise to help those who feel the despair of pregnancy loss, to know that they were never alone either.

And I now allow myself to feel gratitude for that wall breaking down. So my husband and I could see ourselves and each other in the most raw human form, and then rebuild from rock bottom, together.

Should anyone ever read this; I hope this lets you know that you are not alone, you never were. And I love you.

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