It is no secret that I have been taking my miscarriage hard. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about Max. I guess I never really thought it would happen to me. I made one healthy baby with almost no effort on my part, why should another be in any way difficult?
I have been sleeping a lot. I have been yelling a lot. Mostly at Jason, because Violet is my beautiful baby, what if she is the only one I ever have, I cannot stand to see her sad, don’t make me discipline her! In fact, about the only time during the day I come close to happiness is the time between getting home from work and putting her to bed. She is the only thing that can make me laugh.
Everything is hard. I have put on make-up once this week, which is unheard of in my world. The last 10 years, I have not left the house without at least eyeliner. There is a pile of clean clothes on my bedroom floor that I lackadaisically sort through to find something, anything to wear as I drag myself through the day.
But I didn’t notice. Maybe I chose not to notice. A lot of women have miscarriages, and they can totally handle it, right? They can manage to get through their life without falling apart and bawling twice a day and having panic seize your chest because, look, there is a pirate and I wanted to decorate Max’s room with pirates, or, hey, this sounds like JLo and didn’t she just have a son named Max, and hey, it is Thursday, and I would be 13 weeks along now, and here come the tears.
But my lovely Jason pointed out that, hey, dude, I already had a chemical imbalance. I am still a victim of Post Partum Depression, and y’know what? This JUST MIGHT be affecting that.
And, gracious, lady, my body just went through a pregnancy. Albeit a short and unsatisfying pregnancy, but one nonetheless. And there are all these hormones flying around my system that need some help to get back to normal. That there are some physical side effects that go along with this grief of losing a child that I never even got to kiss.
I spoke to my doctor and upped my dosage of antidepressants. Sure, this is not the direction I hoped to be going a year after starting them, but by golly, I sure can focus a lot better.
It still hurts. I am still crying as I write this. But it is getting a little easier.