I was not going to write a post about my stupid heart-breaking last 2 weeks. I was going to get better and move on to happier topics. I can’t, though. After all you Watfordians have shown up to lend me support, check on me, watch my son and fill my house with delicious treats and love my hand is forced. Watford, you win, you people are awesome and there is no way I can’t talk about it.In early January, Danny and I had a quiet little celebration around a pregnancy pee stick before he walked out the door for a week long business trip. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. He brought me home a bohemian looking journal from a print shop in downtown Denver. We started jotting down love notes and funny stories for our babe, documenting our time while we waited for the little one. Much different than my pregnancy with Benj, this time we have a steady job, grown up insurance, I am not working, and, since I’d done it before, I didn’t even feel that scared about birthing another human.
Hope, plans, ideas, that is as far as we made it with our little babe. My first ultrasound showed a fetus that was too small, no heart beat. The doctor said I had to wait a week for another ultrasound to make sure it wasn’t growing. Time lapse was the only way to have any real answers. My body was showing no signs of miscarrying but there was no way to know for sure except to wait.
My life has dealt me quite a few moments of limbo, waiting for some sort of answer that would decide my future. Answers that I had no control over. Waiting for test results, a call after an interview, college acceptance or denial letter, the posting of a cast list, telling someone how I feel and waiting for a response, and hundreds more. In one instance I was waiting for a letter telling me where in the world I would be assigned to live and work as a missionary for a year and a half. It should have taken less than 4 weeks but mine had a hold up. I was living with my sister at the time and on one morning around week 8 I got out of the shower and yelled to my sis asking if the mail had come. She called back that it had come and did not have my letter. For some reason that was it for me. I could not go on. I could not go to work, I could not function one more moment not knowing where I was going. The waiting felt like it was actually killing me. I came out of the bathroom in my purple towel and laid on my sister’s floor. I laid there for hours. I cried and yelled and got real mad and my sister sat right there with me all day. We started referring to times of limbo, of waiting, as “purple towel”. You’d think that I would have gotten better at purple towel by now, years and some life experiences later. I haven’t. When waiting goes on too long I still lay on the ground and cry and yell. The week between ultrasounds was purple towel hell. Optimism and anguish played tug of war in my brain, it wasn’t pretty.
It was at this point that I needed backup. Most of us are here in Watford without our sisters and our mothers. Without our mother-in-laws and closest friends. I didn’t realize what that really meant until now but it seems that we skip the formalities and get to business.The people I love far away checked on me, called me, sent me messages and sent me flowers, I needed that so much. I also needed people knocking on my door, letting me lay on their couches, meeting me at the park and feeding my kid.
Finally the day came and Danny and I made the trek to Dickinson for the ultrasound. I already knew in my heart that the baby was gone. When the babe came up on the screen, no heart beat, the same small little peanut as the week before, I was not surprised. I felt peace in that moment. Limbo was over, I didn’t have to wonder. I knew that my babe was being passed around amongst my grandmas in heaven, I knew that my doctor would have a plan for me on what to do with my body. My handsome, calm husband was right there with his arms around me.
Then it was time for logistics. As a side note, I have been so impressed with my Dr. Hofland and her staff at the Sanford Clinic in Dickinson. Competent, professional, up to date, and sympathetic. So, I went in a few days later to have a D&C and have spent the last few days recovering. My hormones are crazy and my heart is worn out but we’re okay.
If I had known that I would be experiencing a miscarriage in March, back when we were deciding whether or not to move to the heart of the oil boom just 5 months ago, I’m not sure I would have come. I would have been too scared, I wouldn’t have had faith in the medical care here. I’m glad I didn’t know because I never would have experienced what I did the last 2 weeks.
Not only has my family and loved ones far away wrapped their arms around me via technology and through the mail, my friends here in Watford have wrapped their actual arms around me. Plates and dishes full of food have shown up at my door. My kitchen table is covered in flowers, beautiful, bright, sweet smelling flowers. My boy has spent hours at other people’s houses and he has been happy. Calls and texts, offers of help have been blowing up my phone. New friends have let me cry and shared with me their own sorrows from losing children. Danny’s bosses have encouraged him to be with me as much as we needed. People I barely know offering me words of comfort, and others yelling at me that I didn’t ask them for more help.
I am sad. I feel a real loss. But I am not alone. Being on the receiving end of so many people’s concern and love has been humbling and so beautiful for me. I am so grateful for the good people here. Thank you for being there for me, thinking about me, praying for me and my family. You all have buoyed me up and I will not hesitate when it is my turn to pour the love on another Watfordian.
Sunday afternoon the sun was out and I went with my two boys to the National Park. We walked and laughed at Benjamin and went buffalo spotting. We enjoyed the fresh air. I felt the sun on my face and offered up a prayer thanking God for the good people and my great doctor here in this unexpected place.