Anembryonic gestation (also known as a blighted ovum) is a pregnancy in which the very early pregnancy appears normal on an ultrasound scan, but as the pregnancy progresses a visible embryo never develops or develops and is resorbed.(From Wikipedia)
That little blurb there, says something. It's scientific (which should be appreciated here) but also lacking something. It lacks the grief, and disappointment. It lacks...punch.
This is the new information I was gifted on Xmas eve this year. I was going in for an ultrasound, expecting to be able to finally tell my extended family the news I had been sitting on for weeks. Ultimately it meant that every single picture of me this holiday season has me looking a little sad and distant.
My mother feels that this is the time I should turn to god. That this, a humbling experience, should temper my pride enough to want to return to the deity of a book that curses women to tears and pain for the gift of knowledge of good and evil. She, along with a few others tell me that god must have had a reason.
Meanwhile, in reality:
Miscarriages from a blighted ovum are often due to problems with chromosomes, the structures that carry genes. This may be from a poor-quality sperm or egg. Or, it may occur due to abnormal cell division. Regardless, your body stops the pregnancy because it recognizes this abnormality. (From WebMD)
It may seem like a small fact, but it is one that carries great importance for me. My loss is not some petty omnipresence trying to bully me into returning to mass, but my body, my beautifully complex, sad, empty womb recognizing a problem. That womb, which carried my beautiful son to term in full health, did its job and stopped developing a fetus that could have had any number of ailments.
This is nature, it is evolution. Our bodies, which birth the young of our species, evolved to recognize a viable pregnancy from a non-viable one in utero. No ancient curse upon my gender caused this. My body did what it had to without me making a choice at all.
Of course, where does this leave me?
Emotionally I'm all over the place.
I'm sad of course. It seemed for a while there, that we had finally conceived the second child we wanted so badly. So I've had my tears of disappointment. Make no mistake about this: there were MANY tears.
But my tears are largely a personal coping mechanism. I don't enjoy crying to others because I get easily annoyed by:
I've found that the quickest way to end a friendship is to tell a friend to "fuck yourself forever," while they are attempting to comfort you.
I tend to be more along the lines of "Facts, just the facts," when telling people about my miscarriage. So instead of the above I get:
*Drums fingernails on desk."
Of course, blowing up at these people is "completely uncalled for." After all, all they are doing is saying incredibly awful things to me in order to elicit the grief response they feel is appropriate. Maybe the reason I'm not covered in soot while rending the clothes from my body is because I'm too stupid to know I've lost something.
If they didn't anger me so much I could probably tell them calmly:
"I am 31 years old. I have seen death and loss. I have had three decades to figure out how to "grieve in the way that makes me happy." I have talked about it with those I must talk about it with, as well as with who I want to talk about it with. There is some emotional scarring that remains, which is why you know about my loss. It is not an invitation for you to save me, it is a warning that I may not be giving you my full attention. I am not broken, I am not in denial, I am not in need of saving by your deity of choice. I'm going through some stuff, so if I seem uninterested in your obsession of the week I assure you... I am uninterested in your obsession of the week. Give me some time though, and I will once again be able to muster up some fake enthusiasm for whatever hashtag-renewable-organic-crowdfunding you're babbling about."