As the weeks and the winter dragged on, it became almost comical how many girlfriends in my life became pregnant. Within weeks, even days of my first miscarriage I learned that two very important women in my life were expecting. Two others were due two months and the month before me. Four of my closest friends and I were due within months of each other. I kept picturing what COULD have been. I COULD have hosted two of them at a Notre Dame tailgate, each of us with newborns in baby carriers strapped to us. I COULD have enjoyed co-hosting craft club with my good friend as we both embraced the firsts of pregnancy together. I COULD have been pregnant at all of their baby showers. We COULD have shopped for maternity clothes and nursery decor together. I COULD have experienced the firsts of motherhood with four of my closest friends.
I am not a selfish person. I don’t forget my friends’ birthdays. I’ve been told that I go above and beyond to make my friends feel special. I get heartfelt thank you notes from parents of NICU babies saying that went out of my way to get them through some of the hardest weeks or months of their lives. I wanted to feel nothing but JOY for these pregnant friends of mine. I wanted to feel nothing but happiness for them. I wanted to be able to hear about every little detail of their pregnancy. I wanted to be able to hang out with them post miscarriage, because I needed my friends. But I found myself withdrawing from each of them. It wasn’t just that they had a bump and I didn’t. It was that I needed those girls to grab a glass of wine with. I needed to talk to people who didn’t mention the words “baby” or “pregnant.” And it hurt too much to hear about their nausea, their inability to go to Mexico because of Zika virus, their excitement for their first child. So I withdrew. And I deleted the Facebook app from my phone so I wouldn’t be plagued by bump announcements. And I didn’t return phone calls. And that worked, for a little while. I felt okay when I was at home. I was getting good at practicing mindfulness and gratitude. I downloaded an app called Calm, and did some type of mindfulness training every day. (the Calm app saved my life those weeks! I meditated every day after my miscarriage and logged an impressive amount of hours that first month in mindfulness training.) I threw myself into working out. I crafted many DIY projects around the house. And I went to therapy.
But then I went to work, in the NICU. And I listened to many mothers on the verge of a breakdown venting to me about how hard it was to have their baby in the NICU. About how it wasn’t part of their plan. I was chewed out by a mother who delivered twins incredibly early due to her refusal to fill an antibiotic prescription. I was training a new nurse who shared my same due date of September 29th, 2016. And as her bump began to protrude, and people congratulated her and asked her how she was feeling, my heart ached. Working in the NICU is both challenging and rewarding. In the weeks following my miscarriage it felt much more challenging in that I wasn’t myself. Coworkers noticed. Parents who were used to me being a shoulder to cry on, or a sounding board to vent to noticed a change. I just couldn’t. I couldn’t be anyone’s therapist. I felt overwhelmed by everything, and it took all of my strength to just care for the sweet babies that weren’t mine. It became that much harder to work with difficult mothers, mothers who had no prenatal care throughout their pregnancy, mothers who were completely unappreciative of the NICU staff. Surviving each 12 hour shift in those early weeks after my loss was all I could handle. So I withdrew from my pregnant friends. I just couldn’t handle any more.
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My therapist told me that withdrawing was okay. I didn’t feel ready to be around these friends, and I hated myself for it. Wasn’t I being selfish? These girls had achieved something amazing by becoming pregnant. They had tiny miracles growing inside them- shouldn’t I celebrate with them on their JOY? We normally share everything with each other. How could I let my personal sadness drive such a wedge between my closest friends and me? I felt like a horrible person. But withdrawing was what I needed at the time. I needed the space. I told these friends that, and each one let me know that they were there for me whenever I felt ready.
Weeks and months passed. I gradually worked my way from texting, to phone calls to seeing these friends in person. I envisioned our reunions being so awkward- that there would be this elephant in the room. My therapist helped me realize that my pain might actually help enhance their JOY. That they might appreciate their pregnancy that much more in my presence. She also suggested that I do something with my creative side to break the ice in those first meetings. She suggested that I craft something for my friends’ babies, to honor and acknowledge their JOY. And that really helped a lot. When I first saw my best friend after six weeks, I brought her something for her baby girl. And for the first time in six weeks, I was beginning to feel like myself again. I am a person who crafts little things for babies, birthdays and celebrations. Though it was still hard that day, the heartache ever so close to overshadowing the present, it felt GOOD to be with my friend. I made some of the decorations for an old coworkers’ baby shower that was held earlier that same day. I reunited with some of the best NICU nurses in Chicago- my friend who I do not get to see nearly enough to shower one of our own and her expected baby girl. And I remember just feeling this overwhelming sense that I was going to be okay. That this was GOOD. That I missed this. I remember feeling such HOPE that day as I was around those girls. First pregnancy miscarriages are so common. I’m felt so HOPEful that my next pregnancy would come soon- and that everything would be okay the next time around. I am blessed to have such understanding friends who gave me space when I needed it, and who welcomed me back when I was ready. There came a time where I felt that there was this shift in balance between my sadness and my longing for my friends. That was an amazing thing to be celebrated.
