Monday, March 21, 2011

Thank You

I'm feeling overwhelmed by all the love that has been pouring in over the last 24 hours. Thank you for your unbelievable kindness here and elsewhere. I feel the weight of your messages like arms around me, I really do. I'm so grateful, and I wish I could send each of you a handwritten thank-you note and a batch of cookies.

Today has been a day of comfort food, baths, and heating pads. I think I've only burst into tears four times. I keep losing track of time and my appetite, but right this minute, I feel surprisingly okay. My body seems to be doing exactly what it needs to do. I'm exceedingly thankful for that.

The ER doctor prescribed misoprostol to help me expel the "product" (thank you, sir, and your unfortunate medical terminology for ruining future trips to the salon). I politely declined it. He asked me, ever so sweetly, to please at least take the prescription home so I could fill it later if I changed my mind. I agreed, but noticed immediately that the form that came with my discharge papers also included a prescription for Vicodin. Because, you know, misoprostol can cause "some" cramping.

Yeah. None for me, thanks.

* * *
At the hospital, I told Westley what happened. I didn't want to use the word "miscarriage," but what I said ended up sounding extremely harsh: "Westley, we have some bad news. The baby died. The baby inside Mommy wasn't growing right, and it's not going to grow any more."

His eyes filled with tears, and he said, "I think it will! It will grow more!"

"I wish that too, honey, but it won't." And I did the thing I'd stopped myself from doing for hours: dissolved into sobs in front of my child.

My beautiful, sweet, helpful, healthy child. Who was so, so good the entire day and never had a meltdown even once. Not even a little. My dear, good boy who saved his sobs and screams until we were safely home, on our couch, relaying the day's events to my parents. After dinner, after cookies and ice cream, Westley exploded bigger than I've ever seen. He wailed and thrashed. He roared.

He looked and sounded exactly how I felt.

* * *
I'm surprised at how peaceful I feel, so soon. It's incredible the difference being in my own home surrounded by kind words and thoughts makes. Rob has been incredible. He seems sad, but surprisingly normal. I told him I don't understand his "man emotions."

We're surviving on convenience food, gurney humor - there was a running joke last night after Westley went to bed about smoking while jumping on a trampoline, possibly at a "crack bounce house" - and knowledge that we've been through shit before, together.

There ain't no hill or mountain we can't climb.