A year ago today, I had a miscarriage.
I was 4 weeks, and I had no idea.
It was during a performance. About halfway through my show I felt the bleeding start, and thought that maybe my period had just come early. Not normal for me, but something that has happened from time to time. The show I was in was a One-Act, meaning there was no intermission, and I was never off-stage. I adjusted my costume as best I could to cover any leaks, and hoped for the best. The show ended, we bowed, I scurried off the stage and into the Green Room, where people were looking at me strangely. I run into the bathroom and look in the mirror. I am covered, literally drenched, in blood. There was no way someone could have not noticed. So, I begin to freak out. I'd never had a period that heavy. And then I got this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Locked in the Green Room bathroom, I must have stayed in there for an hour before I drove home. I was shaking, white as a sheet as I walked in the door. My mother followed me upstairs, and we talked, and once it hit me what had happened, I wept.
I'm not a crier. I was when I was little, but I've sort-of grown into this whole "I'm a strong, independent woman who can take care of herself" thing. I don't really cry much anymore. But that day... I dehydrated myself... I cried so hard my whole body hurt the next day. I called the hospital to see what the next step was, and they told me not to even bother coming in. It happened, there was nothing I could do. I was told to be careful, not to exert myself too much, and keep and eye on bleeding and spotting. If it got worse, call in; if it stopped, I would be fine.
I don't think I ever officially mourned the loss of my child. It's just something I carry with me. No one knows, outside of my mother, my room mate, and a friend or two. I've never told anyone. It's not something you really talk about in everyday conversation.
In my heart, the deepest, most secret part of my soul, I named her. (Folklore says a witch's first child is always female, and I'm a little inclined to agree). Constance Anne. She'd be 4 months old.
Sometimes, at night, when it's just me and the moon, I hear that vampire in my head. It tells me how pathetic I am, how I have to let it go, how frankly- no one cares. This is something I need to just shut-up about and deal with and move the fuck on.
And I don't know if I can.
...I don't know if I can ever forgive myself. Or him. He still walks on water for me, and probably always will. I am aware of his flaws, and am fully aware that we are better friends that we ever were lovers, and we were never quite that, either.
I'm stuck feeling that this is somehow my fault. That I did this. That I caused this with my "loose morals" and "raucous party lifestyle" and my "obsessive compulsion to chain smoke". And maybe the people who said that were right. Maybe I did this. Maybe I deserved this. I just wish it would stop hurting.
How brave you are...to share such a difficult moment. Almost every woman I know has a similar story of pregnancies that are not completed. That doesn't mean what you experienced isn't important...it means there are people who understand your pain and the struggle to deal with the "what ifs" in our lives. You have named your what if. Others plant flowers. I wrote about mine. Tell the vampire in your head to take a long swim in a vast ocean. Hugs.
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