"That little baby saved your life." That is what my gastroenterologist said to me yesterday. Her words felt warm and reassuring, even if the sentiment didn't completely resonate. She said it with a smile, after talking to me about how the Lord works in mysterious ways and about how lucky I am that they caught it early. All good things. As I left her office, I too, had a smile on my face. But then I tried to make sense of it all.
I was hoping the appointment would provide me with more answers, or a magic pill that would permanently cure me of my pain. I've been in so much pain. But this little pill is one I'm not sure how to swallow. I digress.
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In late August of this year, a week before my 28th birthday, my husband and I unexpectedly discovered that I was pregnant. This, what should've been happy news, came at a time when we were almost certain that we were already losing the baby. After 3 days of hoping and praying against all odds, that Friday, a doctor confirmed that we had, infact, lost our first child. It was a very confusing time for us. Everything happened so fast. And because of that, I made sure that my grief period was just as fast. I know many people that have lost pregnancies much farther along than mine, and I was sure not to let my emotions lose that perspective. I never let myself view this loss through any other lens than "it could have been worse". I didn't tell many people because I didn't want anyone to feel sorry for me, or think I was trying to make it bigger than it was. I didn't even really let myself sit with the size of it for very long. Sure, there were tears and moments of great sadness, and I played the "what-if" game and asked God a lot of "whys", but I quickly told myself how much I had to be grateful for. I made a habit out of counting my blessings.
That Tuesday, my birthday, I started a new job. A job I was very excited about. I was going back to the classroom. Oh, the classroom. I didn't even know how much I missed teaching preschool until I stepped foot in my new classroom. It's a safe haven. Full of love and learning. Laughter and friendship. So I let myself hit the reset a button and decided my grief period was over. 3 days seemed appropriate, since that's as long as my pregnancy lasted. I decided the best thing to do was to keep myself busy and love on my new kiddos. That lasted me until Friday (3 days later) when one of our sweet little students asked me to swaddle and feed his baby doll. Babies. I lost it. But this "losing it" looked like excusing myself to the bathroom, taking a a deep breath and fixing my make-up. It should have dawned on me that if the sight of a baby doll brought tears to my eyes, that maybe I wasn't as far along in my "grief period" as I was telling myself I should be.
And so I worked. I took any extra hours I could get and did a little babysitting on the side. "Just keep busy." And then October came. Around mid October I became very ill. "Stomach bug", I called it. I had horrible pains in my stomach and could barely walk upright. I had to take an entire week off work (and then some) and saw my doctor more times then I'm sure she cared to see me. I was a mess.
After weeks of tests and blood work and scans, and ruling out "stomach flu", pancreatitis and appendicitis (many times), my lovely doctor decided to send me to her personal gastroenterologist. She thought maybe I was suffering from a bad case of Crohn's disease. What happened next, I'm still trying to digest. (Pun intended.)
I went to my new appointment thinking, "Ok, I'll probably have a blood draw, talk about my innards and set up and an appointment for some new kind of scan and go back to work." And I wasn't entirely wrong. What I hadn't accounted for in my calculations for the day was Dr. Kim-Deobald. My new gastro (I'm hip with the lingo now) is a kind, spunky, slightly psychic, petite woman who holds nothing back. I stepped into her office and sat while she read aloud the pages and pages of doctors notes from my last bazillion doctor visits. She then looked up at me, cocked her head to the side, smiled and said, "I'm so sorry for your loss." What? Weren't we supposed to be talking about my bowels and their movements or some other incredibly uncomfortable topic to be discussing with an absolute stranger? "I believe everything happens for a reason. Do you believe in God?" she asked. "Yes, I do." And right before I asked her if she was going to pray over my abdomen, she took my hand and very sweetly said to me, "That little baby is with Him now. You don't need to worry over it anymore." And then I lost it. Only this "losing it" looked like losing it. By the time she handed me some tissues, I had snot running down my face. "I'm going to order a colonoscopy, but your prescription is to go home and pray. Trust in the Lord and trust that I'm going to get your body strong and healthy again. And pray for your husband. Pray together. Grieve the baby. Oh, and be mindful of the yoga you do. You may have a small abdominal hernia and certain stretches can make things worse." I was officially freaking OUT! I had never told her, or any of my doctors, that I do yoga. And I hadn't talked to any doctor about my feelings (that I was stuffing) about our miscarriage. This woman was comforting and terrifying. I couldn't decide if I wanted to sit and talk more with her or get the heck out of there before she brought up anything else I wasn't dealing with. My visit with her was both cheaper and more effective than any therapy session I've ever had. Needless to say, I didn't go back to work.
I went home, relieved and emotional. Relieved that I could be emotional. It would be a week before my colonoscopy and in that time I cried. A lot. And thought. A lot. And processed. A lot. I lied in bed. A lot. In A LOT of pain. There's a pain in my lower right side that I just can't shake. It goes from dull "Don't forget that I'm here" pain, to "I'ma kill you right now" pain. The only thing that seems to help is laying or sitting down. So I did both. A lot.
Last week I had my colonoscopy. At the beginning of the week, I was SO excited to get some answers and make a plan for recovery and long term pain management. By the time I finished the prep, I was just ready to get the whole thing over with. So I had a colonoscopy. Don't ask me how it went. I don't remember. I was so drugged that I called my mom at least three times to tell her the same thing. I know I ate some Baskin Robbins, but I don't really remember it. Which is probably the most painful part. I also apparently told my husband something like, "Just calling to let you know I'm at the store, shopping with some guy in a grey sweater that's obsessed with eating meat. I don't know what to do." I'm a vegetarian and I said this to him while I was laying in our bed, (he was laying next to me) so clearly I was having some kind of nightmare. This might be the second most painful part. All in all, I'd say it went fine. You should get a colonoscopy.
Yesterday we had my follow-up appointment with my gastro. I say "we" because my husband went with me and Dr. Kim was SO happy he was there. This should have been my first clue that she had something important to tell me but at the time I was thinking, "She's going to prophesied over him too!" I couldn't wait to see the look on his face... She reminded me that "everything happens for a reason" before she opened my folder and read aloud a bunch of numbers that apparently mean I'm not anemic and have a "beautiful" thyroid. Then she jumped right to the point. She told me that some of the polyps they removed during my procedure were pre-cancerous. This didn't really worry me because I thought, "Well, all polyps must be pre-cancerous." Then she started asking about my family history and told me that my particular "brand" of pre-cancerous polyp is a genetic mutation. It's a fast acting cranky-cancer that, if not caught early, would have become cancer by the time I reached 40, if not sooner. If I would have waited until I was 50 to have a colonoscopy, like everyone's supposed to, I might not have reached 50. She then told me that everyone in my family has to be tested to see if they too have this special "cranky-cancer" gene.
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And then she said it. "That little baby saved your life." Before I could even ask how in the world she connected those dots, she set off on a beautiful, albeit hard to hear, explanation of how the stress of losing our first baby saved my life. She concluded that whatever is causing my pain (we still don't know) has been amplified by the stress (and the "stuffing" of the stress) of our loss. She thinks if I hadn't tied my stomach in knots over losing our baby, that this pre-cancer wouldn't have been found until it was cancer-cancer. There are still tests to be run (oh, sweet joy) as we still don't know what's causing my pain. And we may have to make sure I don't have any more "special" polyps in my stomach or small intestine. But she told me that in the meantime, I need to relax and grieve and feel and let go and trust God.
So that's what I'm doing. And that's what this is. It's the beginning of actualizing my grief. It's the beginning of sharing and identifying my feelings. I know it doesn't need to be in blog form, or on a public scale, but this feels right to me. It feels like the appropriate acknowledgment of a life and a loss that I've buried deep inside. I don't exactly know what the future looks like. But I know my crazily wise doctor has told me I need to grieve and feel and let go and trust God. And I won't be able to relax until I do those things. So here goes:
Let me start by saying that I am acutely aware of how incredibly lucky I am. I will live a life without colon cancer. I will be able to start a family one day and, though the regular colonoscopies I will need to have now will make starting that family difficult, I will be strong and healthy enough to do so. I get to be an example of early detection and an advocate for bowel health. (Woot woot! Every girl's dream!) And I know now, in a new and different way, that every day is a gift.
But I also can't help but feel at a loss. I can't make sense of our miscarriage saving my life. That doesn't ring true for me. Even if it is. I do believe that everything happens for a reason, but I can't marry the idea of death with saving my life. It feels selfish. I feel like a horrible mother for not meaningfully acknowledging the loss of our child, for stuffing my feelings. I feel like like a lonely bird, in an empty nest. I feel young and old, blessed and cursed. I feel robbed. I feel lost. I feel grateful. And I feel hopeful.
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And for you, Little Angel. I miss you every day. Even if I have not spoken it aloud, I know, somehow, you can hear my heart. You were a beautiful, wonderful surprise. I did not know how much I wanted to be a mother, until you made me one. Carrying you in my womb for the short time I did is the greatest gift I have ever been given. The only comfort I find is in knowing that heaven is the only home you'll ever know. I selfishly wish, everyday, that I could have held you in my arms. Given you a name. Rocked you to sleep. Counted your fingers and toes. Swaddled you and fed you. I wish I could have taught you about the Lord. I know that probably seems silly, since you know Him better than I do now. But the truly wonderful thing, dear child, is that now you are teaching me more about Him. You have made me the mommy of an angel. And the doctor says you saved my life. I don't know how to hold so much love and gratitude for someone that is not here. I can only acknowledge it and say Thank You. Thank You, sweet blessed baby. I cannot wait to meet you.
