I was living in a bubble for a few days last week, with family who literally live on the side of a mountain in Vermont. I viscerally understand now, how important it was for me to unplug.
My cousin makes beautiful jewelry. On the Fourth of July, while walking down the side of the mountain, four miles to the site of the little town's parade, I shared the meaning behind the stacking rings she often commented on, that I wear on my right hand. She is a nurse. She was appropriately kind and gentle and horrified by my sad fertility tale.
I was happy to learn that she does a lot of things for women who are miscarrying that the nurses who attended me never did. She asks the patient whether they have the emotional support they need, whether they need help finding someone to talk to. As someone who was sent home with the instructions to simply come back to the ER if it looked like I was hemorrhaging, I would have appreciated that little extra bit of kindness, that acknowledgment of grief. Of loss.
I came back home and made the mistake (again) to peruse the babycenter boards.
There I saw a post from woman who has been whacked by RPL and is continuing to get whacked. Apparently she hasn't suffered enough. I don't know her, and yet I know her. Fuck, I could be her. She's lived through an ectopic, a stillbirth, a tfmr and is now losing another - a healthy baby - this time, to PPROM (preterm premature rupture of membranes for any readers blissfully unaware of the goddamn minefield known as pregnancy to a sizeable enough portion of us). Fuck this universe. What god, what creator, what purpose could there possibly be to force a woman to endure such hell?