Earlier this month I did something I would have sworn would never happen. I ran away from an infant. Instead of cooing over his little cubby thighs and adorable little cheeks then looking at Bunny and telling him it made my ovaries hurt, I took one look realized I wasn't ok and left the room.
I'm a little embarrassed about my behaviour, actually. Walking out of a room full of members of the my extended family in law without so much as a goodbye or a by your leave is not my usual style, and though I can be moody and annoyed and need lots of down time I will push my way through most social situations that are important to friends or family.
Seeing a brand new baby right exactly when I would have become a mother was a little bit more than I could handle, though. I went to the bathroom to try to get myself together, and that didn't work. Then I just walked out the front door because I didn't want to cry in front of everyone. Never in my life have I ran from a baby crying instead of being inclined to just snuggle and coo. Instead of wanting to hold the baby and be in awe over his little bitty human being-ness (because how much of a miracle is that, people coming so small?) I ran away crying. Later that night I made Bunny take me out for Thai, because I needed something happy and Sambal noodles with cashew chicken and tom yum soup sounded like it would make me feel better. (It did. I shouldn't comfort myself with food, but when it's that good, who cares?)
The bad moments come out of nowhere. It's like a storm that breaks out midway through a bright sunny day, shattering what was previously going beautifully. When things are going worse the dreary atmosphere sticks around for awhile, lingering and leaving me feeling empty and drained. On a good day the storm clears as quickly as it comes, and going out for a fancy coffee allows me the space to calm down.
Somehow, reading a book that talked about miscarriage helped carry me through. When I came to the first suggestion of miscarriage I was tempted to put it down but instead found myself devouring it.
It's hard to talk about without making it seem like I'm dwelling. Because I'm not, really, I promise. More often than not it doesn't take up a lot of mental or emotional space in me, but the moments that it does are overwhelming. Then just as quickly they are gone and I'm back to myself. It's odd how out of nowhere the world is a black and stormy place and the loss feels brand new again, walking out of the hospital parking lot with the world falling down around me. Minutes or hours later the intensity is nothing but a memory with that not-quite-real quality that any intense emotional experience takes on after the fact.