We're ok.

Last Thursday, at 8:30 am, we found out I wasn't pregnant any more. My stupid body didn't get the message for awhile, even thought the poor ultrasound tech laid the news on us pretty clearly before he beat a hasty retreat.

I had had a bad feeling for a few days, and hadn't been sleeping or focusing on anything else very well. The ultrasound confirmed my fears. The baby was gone. I was about to have a miscarriage. We went home and had a pretty horrible day. Poor Lucky had to go to work, but I was able to stay on our couch and do what I had to do for hours (that is: cry, try to watch a movie, cry some more, ask myself unanswerable questions, cry.) I spoke to my midwives, who were absolutely fantastic, and they gave me just the right mix of empathy and information. They confirmed that this is far, far more common than people accept (1 in 5 pregnancies end in the first trimester) but we just don't talk about it. For the pregnancy to end at this stage, the loss could be attributed pretty confidently to a chromosomal problem that stopped the embryo from thriving, and caused the little life to shut itself off, as it wasn't meant to be. They also assured me that this says nothing about the viability of future pregnancies, but you can go ahead and remind me of that the next time we're two months along.

As of Friday, we started to pick ourselves up. On Thursday night, I slept better than I had in weeks, and on Friday, I had a remarkably productive day at work, even though I broke down a bit when my boss tried to ask me how I was doing. Over the weekend, we really did make peace with this, although I had twinges of guilt for enjoying things, and a big feeling of dread hanging over me for the physical process still to come. My body still hadn't let go, although the ultrasound showed that this had already been over for weeks. I thought we could wait it out, and let my body take care of it eventually, but my midwives flexed their loving but tough muscles and, pointing out the risk of infection, and the need for closure, made an appointment for me at a clinic that takes care of these sorts of things.

That happened yesterday. It wasn't pleasant, but it's done. Really really, we're ok. Our family and friends have been so great about supporting us from the sidelines while respecting our requests to deal with this on our own. Lucky has been a champ as always, and although I never need a reminder of his awesomeness, the article we were given by one of the nurses on the subject of helping each other heal made it pretty clear that other women are dealing with some serious douchebags.

This is worth quoting:
"A husband often encourages his wife to "keep busy," and may react with frustration and concern at her frequent inability to do anything but sit, think, and cry. He fears that this outpouring of grief means his wife is "falling apart," and he may be frightened by her difficulty in coping with everyday."

Another gem:
" 'I guess I did blame my wife for awhile. We never knew why our baby died, and I thought she should have taken better care of herself.' "

Ok, one more:
"Mourning can create a tremendous pull toward anything that feels new and unblemished. It is not unusual for a father or mother to turn to another relationship, perhaps even to begin an affair."

Besides the reminder that Lucky and I have such a great relationship, and that we are surrounded by friends and family that love us very much, we're also acutely aware of how fortunate we are to be able to conceive, and have this reassurance that our parts do fit together. There are other couples that would give anything to have gone through what we've just dealt with, because it means that we have the potential to do it again, and have a baby. There is a couple that we love very much who are in that exact position, and we have thought of them every time we've felt too sad, and remembered that this is really just part of the process. We're ok, I promise.

A very bad, no good day.

One year ago last Wednesday, I had a seizure on the 17 on the way home from work, which is something I'd never before done in in public, much less by myself. I'm not talking about one of my little mini-seizures. Over the years, I've had those in all kind of places. Those are easy enough to hide: just a bit of speech mess-up and some memory problems, sometimes with a headache to follow - no big deal. In fact, it always gives me a bit of a charge to be able to sneak it by. It's kind of a shout out to my roots, from those days before diagnosis, before meds, before knowing what was wrong with me. Those little ones aren't fun, but most of the time I can handle them, and they play a part in who I am.

This was one different. This one was a reminder that epilepsy is about unpredictability, and a lack of control. It was one of those really big ones, formerly known as grand mal, now more correctly called tonic-clonic. "Tonic" means stiffening, and "clonic" means shaking. Anyway you label it, it blows, and it's pretty impossible to hide.

So, I was on the bus, it was a hot day, I was reading a book I didn't really like, and a little seizure started up. I was a bit surprised and disoriented, which might be why I didn't shake it off. I think I've actually been spoiled by Lucky's skill in snapping me out of these. Now, it seems that I'm a bit lost on my own. I was aware of what was going on until we turned onto Broadway, and drove a few more blocks. At that point, I lost about two minutes. The next thing I knew, I was sitting in the same spot, but the people around me all looked horribly uncomfortable, and they were staring at anything but me. The only person paying attention was a woman who sat beside me, rubbing my hand and speaking in a low voice. I couldn't understand her, but I knew that she cared, and that she was very, very worried. It was at about that time that I saw some men in uniforms boarding the bus, and it was obvious that they were coming for me. Since I couldn't understand what was being said to me, and since I couldn't seem to get myself to talk, I based my analysis of the situation on the reactions of the people around me. With that, I assumed that the men in uniforms were police, and the woman beside me was trying to tell me as gently as possible that I was being taken away to jail, forever. It's funny what your brain will do.

Over the next half hour, as they got me off the bus, loaded me into the ambulance, and took me to VGH, I gradually came back to myself, and I realized that I'd had a seizure, which was slightly better than being mistakenly arrested and locked away for a crime I did not commit. Even as my head cleared, I was stuck with some of the guilt and misunderstanding, which is why, when I called Lucky to tell him where I was, I mistook his panic for anger, and immediately started to apologize for dragging him to the ER. I'm still sorry.

I'm being a bit harsh on all those people on the bus. A seizure is a scary thing to see, I know. I found out from the paramedics that the woman beside me was a nurse from Britain who was sight-seeing with her husband, and took charge when someone yelled for medical help. I wish I could thank her. Someone else wrapped up my iPod and put it back in my purse, and that same person was probably also the one who slipped my bookmark into my book, before putting it away as well. I thought about those things when I got back on the same bus, with the same commuters a week later.

I started trying to write this down the Monday before last, and it's taken me this long. I don't like to think about these things, but they are in my head - literally, I guess.