Ashes to Ashes, Cheese Doodles to Dust

When I was a little girl…oh hell may as well put her on blast too. When my sister and I were little girls, we used to play Mommy. Not just any old mommy, we were starting from scratch. I’m talking pillows and doll babies shoved under shirts with the click clack of plastic heels because of course that’s what most pregnant women wear on their feet. Sometimes there were even hospital stays for deliveries, the fake tearful joy of our babies born. (We were also very Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman in that we were often in labor at the same time but managed to doctor each other’s newborn without missing a beat because, hey, WOMEN GET SHIT DONE!

Come to think of it, I don’t think I have snapped back so quickly from a pregnancy since. Ahh, the good old days.

I have now left four hospitals following the release of a baby. Twice, with my sweet baby girls in tow. Twice, with no babies and no answers and I don’t mean this in a “why not you instead of me” kind of way, but I guess in my mind I had gained some weird statistical protection from losing another baby after the first. I am obviously capable , well, VERY capable of getting pregnant and carrying a baby to term. And I’m willing to accept a fluke, of course I am, but I would be lying if I didn’t say it was pretty far off of my radar this time. The odds were so in my favor. I guess, it turns out, kind of like in the Hunger Games.

At the hospital while I was waiting for my D&C, for the surgery to help my baby out who passed away days ago but for some reason wasn’t ready to leave me yet, I was handed two forms in front of a folder.

The folder, I was familiar with. It had all sorts of information and resources on pregnancy loss. A few of the handouts I keep in my office to give out myself to my own clients.

The first form, I realized halfway through, was for vital statistics. Like a sad birth certificate application. My info, my husband’s info, a little insult to injury with a box that for some reason was interested in how much weight I had gained this pregnancy.

The last sheet was for disposition of the baby.

My options were to leave it to the hospital after pathology.

My second was that after pathology, a local funeral home would take and cremate the remains, interning them about once every six weeks or so with others in a Christian ceremony. We could be a part of the ceremony. Or not.

I chose to have the baby interned, but I don’t want to go to any ceremony. I am comforted by the idea that my baby will be treated like my baby. That’s not a political statement, just a personal one.

One of the main reasons that I opted for the procedure, in addition to the risk posed by waiting for the tissue breaking down inside of my body, was the removal of the baby hormone factory planted firmly in my uterus, confusing my body into thinking we were still supporting a life.

Along with it came all of the usual pregnancy suspects. The extra salivation that begins along with the intractable nausea which usually warns me I’m pregnant long before a test could. The sore breasts. The fatigue. I needed them to go, and I knew that my sanity could not, would not permit me to keep suffering through a pregnancy that I already knew was over.

And so since Friday, Friday when my sweet baby left me. Friday when a baby made of the cells of my husband and myself left what should have been the safe confines of my body until they were ready to stand on their own, I have been waiting with bated breath to at least feel less pregnant.

I give my breasts a squeeze in the shower, they haven’t gotten the memo. The nausea comes and goes now, the spit still in full effect requiring quite the trail of chewed gum behind me. One piece after another, the only way I don’t become ill with every swallow.

And the cravings. They come and go. Weird things. Shitty things. Salty, carby things. Cravings that leave me requesting gas station Cheese Doodles on a random Sunday drive to see family. It’s this weird need to cater to my still hormonally pregnant body, a postpartum body that sweats and whose mood swings and who can still smell someone cooking bacon five states over. It’s tears welling up when I see babies and pregnant people or, you know, CVS commercials or really anything. It’s also relief that one way or another, grief marches forward because at least now we know what the outcome is. It’s wine I’m allowed to have but perhaps too nauseated for. It’s wanting to throw shit and burn my maternity pants while struggling to yet fit back into my regular clothes. It’s looking at my children’s faces in wonder and awe and overwhelm with the love they conjure in me still after all this time and it’s looking at our loaded car, wondering if perhaps it were only ever supposed to be the four of us. It’s wanting the world to keep turning and for people to not look at me with sad eyes while also wanting to scream, “MY BABY JUST DIED,” and see that sadness in other people’s eyes too, to know they care. That it matters. It’s wanting small talk. It’s wanting to be asked about my baby. My body. My loss.

In two weeks I will return to the doctor to find out of pathology has any clues as to why we have become a part of the unique 1% who has more than one miscarriage in their lives. Yes, I’m aware there are people with far more but as Brene Brown says, there is enough compassion for everyone, it’s not pie. Shortly after that, my baby will be cremated with others, interned peacefully and, in my mind, joining the ranks of some pretty awesome humans who have gone before. Including one of our own.

For now it’s spandex pants and foundation and lots of concealer. It’s naps and hiding and my house looking like a bomb went off in it and kids excited to eat something else out of a drive-thru window. It’s ibuprophen and heating pads. It’s night sweats and tears welling up painfully in the back of my throat. It’s relief as miserable pregnancy symptoms fade and wondering I can, or will, ever try to do this again. It’s winter break and board games and snuggles and hiding. It’s fingers too swollen for wedding rings and and the dark, hormone-induced streaks across my face. It’s knowing I won’t always feel this way. It’s being fully aware, however, that I do right now.

It’s Ashes to ashes. It’s dust to dust. And for now, I guess it’s Cheese Doodles too.

My Peleton was delivered today.