My third miscarriage was kind of the pits. I should say is. My body is in the process of ridding itself of any evidence that I have ever been pregnant once in my life. I think it wants to forget. I think it wants to forget that at some point, it didn’t think mostly that babies are wretched, that they should be immediately destroyed before having a chance to be more than just cells.
I didn’t have to have a D&C with this one. I thought that would be good. I guess it’s because D&C has been my only experience up until now. Up until now, I felt like having to have a fetus extracted from your body somehow made the hurt that follows miscarriage more real. More devastating. I guess because it’s more invasive.
Not really. As it turns out, whether your body expels traces of the baby and on its own, gets rid of whatever is in there that might have been a baby, or you have to have a doctor go in and flush out the whatever-it-could-have-been, miscarriage is pretty real. Pretty hard. Pretty ugly and awful.
I see all of these posts from women who talk about how amazing our bodies are. You know what, women? You’re right. Your bodies are amazing. Mine was amazing too, once upon a time. And now you know how I feel about it? I feel like it’s a piece of garbage. It’s a big garbage sack of skin and fat and bones. It kills, and it hates babies. My body is amazing in the same way that anything that is capable of killing a potential human being is kind of amazing. Oh, right. Not amazing. Not a miracle. Very ugly.
Yes, I have a baby. I mean, as much as a giant two year old can be called a baby. She is my evidence that my body hasn’t always despised life. I should be grateful that I have one. I am grateful. Every miscarriage so far (and I say so far because I can see the other ones hanging out for me, a little bit further into hell than where I am now) has made me exponentially more grateful for the little girl obsessed with her cousins’ hand-me-downs who is finally asleep(!). At the end of the day, when I look back on the day, I remind myself of all the cute things she said, how she will not shut her eyes for sleep until she has had half a gallon of chocolate milk. And I think how grateful I am for her. Grateful x 3. But this body thing I have really blows.
And then I think about something else. And then I think about how my body must look at those cute things and decide that instead of being cute, the little things that Ophelia says and does every day to make me laugh, the way she belts out lyrics to her favorite songs on a two-second delay, are really just abhorrent. It’s the only explanation I can think of.
I don’t feel like my body is amazing. There is evidence that at some point, my body was not my enemy. My body was my ally through what I now recognize as one of the easier pregnancies a person has ever had to go through. And now we hate each other. Some people know what that feels like. Some people don’t. People who don’t might say “hate” is too strong a word. It’s not.
I’ve tried to be good. I’ve eaten right. I’ve done the exercise thing. I got pregnant, stayed pregnant, and gave birth to a 7 lb. 15 oz. baby girl almost three years ago on a steady diet of Mt. Dew, ramen noodles, and deli meat. I didn’t exercise. I barely stepped foot out of my house. So try not to tell me that what I’m doing now is making a difference to my body.
I am so angry. I cannot tolerate comments about how our bodies are so amazing. I will scream if I hear one more person or read one more blogger talking about natural childbirth being the thing our bodies were made to do. Yours was. Mine was made to abort children. Mine was made to bring me fear, anxiety, stress, all while knowing that I would never meet my baby. Knowing that my body will never give that bundle of cells a chance to be someone.
I will never in my life know what it feels like to be pregnant and happy. I will always feel like the opportunity to just be pregnant and not terrified is something reserved for the chosen. I’m sure I’ll be pregnant again. But I will never know what it feels like to have confidence in my body. To feel hopeful that the next time I’m pregnant, my body will not forfeit its right to do what so many women are proud to claim their bodies were intended for.
So, you have a body that encourages and grows life. Hmm. Must be nice.