I didn’t want to wake him since there was nothing he could do.
I made sure I closed the door completely before feeling for the light switch.
The brightness was momentarily overwhelming and disorienting as I struggled against the pressure of the cramps to get to the toilet.
Please let this be it. It just hurts so much. I want it to be over.
Nothing happened. Almost nothing. There was a trickle of pee and blood, but none of the pressure was released.
I pulled my pajamas and underwear back up and sunk to the linoleum floor. Going to back to bed seemed ridiculous. The pain was so bad, I would be up again in no time.
I would go to the couch.
How much longer? Last time it didn’t hurt like this. But last time there was…less.
I made it as far as the door on my hands and knees. A massive wave of pain crippled me and reduced me to the fetal position.
I moaned a bit as I rubbed my foot on the carpet of the hallway. The motion of my foot moving back and forth somehow distracted my consciousness from the stabbing in my gut.
I can’t move. Please, Lord. Please let this be over swiftly. Please end this pain.
The cat found me and began to rub his face against mine. I groaned; he paced.
I began to silently cry as I prayed for relief; the cat began meowing and pawing at our bedroom door–trying to wake Cort up…to tell him something was wrong.
Luckily, Cort is a heavy sleeper.
I really didn’t want him to get up, and at the same time I longed for someone to come and take this all away. But he couldn’t, so it was no use having him involved.
At some point during my tears and prayers and mechanical foot rubbing, I dozed off.
My eyes fluttered open and for a fraction of a second, I forgot why I was on the floor of the hallway staring up at the bathroom light.
How did I get here? Wait. I was going to sleep on the couch. Why does my foot hurt so much?
My hand immediately clutched my abdomen as the next wave hit, and I turned my face into the carpet to stifle a cry. I slowed my breathing and began to suck in through my nose and release through my mouth.
My foot started moving against the carpet again, but it hurt. It was raw. I rubbed anyway. It was better than the other pain.
I knew I needed to go back to the toilet and try again. I at least needed to change things and clean up.
When will this be over? Why did I choose to do this on my own? Lord, I am not strong enough. I can’t do this. Will it always be this way? Will I ever have something to hold after all the pain? After all the hurt? Will there ever be a….a…. reward?
The currents of pushing and cramping and praying and crying and panting and crawling endured with me throughout the night. Eventually Cort found me in dusky light of morning passed out in a ball on the couch, shivering.
He gently wrapped me in a blanket and asked why I hadn’t woken him.
It would be too much. Just go to work. I will be fine.
I told him I didn’t know.
We both looked at each other, his eyes asking the questions he couldn’t bare to ask.
I told him, no, not yet.
He told me it wasn’t my fault. He wanted to make sure I knew.
I told him I knew.
But I didn’t.
The prompt this week asked us to be inspired by the color red. This post has been on my heart for three years. I know it’s not perfect (I went over in words), but it’s the first time I put the actual experience out there. It could be told better…but I really don’t care to know how at this point. If something is confusing though, I do want to clear that up, so please ask.
If you or someone you love has experienced perinatal loss, Unspoken Grief is a wonderful, safe place to share and find support.
About Katie
Well.
I’m a weeping mess, how ’bout you?
You blow me away, Friend. Your courage, your strength… your mastery of the written word.
This was so raw and so powerful.
I can’t critique. It’s just too much. Hugs.
Oh Katie, this is just heartbreaking. I am so sorry that you had to go through this. How brave of you to write about it.
you brought words to that helpless situation that I unfortunately have experienced as well. this was so well done.
I remember once I pinched myself on the leg until I left a welt just to try and distract myself from the other physical and emotional pain. I thought that welt was going to be there forever. I cried when it went away because it meant everything was done-done.
That’s the long version of saying, I so, so empathize. I’ve been there too, my friend. It’s not a fun place. At all. *Hugs*
you are so brave to write so honestly about this. Thinking of you as you recover from reexperiencing this emotionally while writing *HUG*
I’m crying. Seriously. I want to wrap you up in hugs and take all that mental pain away.
This couldn’t have been told any better. Your hurt touched me. I just want to give you hugs.
wow, I had no idea. I am so sorry for the losses and the pain that you felt. I’ve never been through it but I still wanted to say thank you for sharing your story. It matters.
Oh, Katie..this is heartbreaking. You are not alone in this experience – but you captured the loneliness of that moment so well.
Hugs to you, my friend. xo
oh my gosh! that is so horrible and yet so beautiful. i am a big crying mess over here.
(((hugs)))
I hate so much that you had to go through this. You are stronger that you know just putting it out there for us to read. Wish I could hug you right now after reading this. xoxo
That is so heartbreaking, Katie. In the last weeks, I suffered a miscarriage and this was so real to me. You told it better than I ever could. I wake up every morning questioning myself. It is a pain that no woman should ever have to feel. *hugs*
Not confusing. I knew as soon as I started reading. I briefly wondered if you were linking up with something, saw the RemembeRED button and just…my heart hurt. What a beautiful, honest way to use that prompt.
I have never experienced this, but I always imagined this is what it would be like – physically and emotionally. Your words were so precise that now I know.
I really hope finally getting it out has been cathartic.
I can only imagine how hard this was to write. I could feel your pain and loneliness in the words. I’m so sorry you went through this.
Sometimes life has its own agenda, and it isn’t always very fair, or nice. I believe women take too much on themselves when it comes to events like these; not wanting to hurt anyone else, be a problem, or whatever it is that keeps our mouths closed when our hearts are screaming.
I’m sorry you experienced this. I do believe that getting it out there helps other women in the same situation, if for no other reason than to not feel alone. I’m glad you had the courage to release it. Writing has a way of freeing us from the past, and I hope you found a measure of it within this weeks prompt.
.. word count …PpPppTTtHhhHHtTt! Who’s counting? 😉
oh, Jesus. not just heat breaking, absolutely crushing. I’m so sorry you had to go through that physical & emotional pain.
You told it perfectly.
Raw.
Honest.
Painful.
I’m so sorry you experienced this.
There are no words to offer.
Hugs. And love. That is all.
I’m not sure how to comment. But I want to. I haven’t been in that place, but I’ve been in other painful places. I’m sorry you had to go through that.
Wow. I’m almost speechless. It was over 7 years ago for me, but you’ve described it exactly. I’m so sorry you had to experience that awful pain.
I’m almost at a loss for words. My heart breaks for you. I’ve never been through this, but I know people who have. This is the pain that no one talks about. I hope your words, no matter how painful, can help someone else.
Hugs. That’s it.
Thank you so much for sharing this! I know how hard it is as I recently finally posted about my loss. I hope writing about it felt like a little bit of healing. Sending you a hug.
I take too much for granted. It is necessary to be reminded of others loss, to put into perspective how thankful I should be for the blessings I do have, and not dwell on the blessings I wish to have. Thank you for sharing your heart.
that memory was so vivid I clutched my own stomach. I really did. Felt those waves and I have never experienced that kind of loss…never just waited for an end.
Your words were rang so true, that I wanted to hug you, to take away the pain that may have happened long ago, but it surely always on your heart.
thank you for sharing it, for giving us that memory and letting us help to shoulder some of the pain with you.
I’ve never miscarried, but through the experiences of so many of my friends, my heart hurts for you. I don’t know why you are so critical of the way you told the story. I thought it was fantastic. I thought the details of rubbing your foot on the carpet and the cat finding you in the hallway were absolutely necessary pieces that helped me picture the exact moment. So sorry for your experience. Thank you for sharing.
<3 beautiful. thank you for sharing. I have felt that pain as you know & it is like nothing else; physically & emotionally.
Oh Katie, this was so powerful, strong, heart breaking.
It can’t have been easy to write; thank you for sharing so much.
I was right there with you, “I really didn’t want him to get up, and at the same time I longed for someone to come and take this all away. But he couldn’t, so it was no use having him involved.” and I just wanted to hug you and hold your hand.
Still do.
XO
I understand this type of pain, I have lost four this way, 2 at home to at hospital. Your writing takes me right back even the foot rubbing, I totally get it. You did well putting words to such a overwhelming subject, meaning you chose the words well.
I’m so sorry, Katie. Thank you for sharing this with all of us and giving us a chance to support you.
I can only attempt to imagine what these experiences were like for you. There are no words I can offer as support.
Part of me wanted to scream for your husband to come to you, have the cat scratch and meow loudly so you wouldn’t be alone (although with the cat there – they really truly DO know when we need them, or someone, something, somehow). I’m sorry you were, but I imagine you needed to be, in some ways.
{Hugs} to you, beautiful mama, for using your words to release some of that pain.
This is amazing. Thank you for sharing. I opted for surgery, because I honestly don’t know how I would have handled this pain and the waiting. I admire your courage.
The emotion is this post is so raw and filled with emotion. What an amazing piece!
I find it amazing that you can share something like this, and that you can share it so well.
Wow – this is an amazing post. Kudos to you for sharing and I am so sorry you had to go through that!
As another mom who has experienced a miscarriage, I’m so glad you wrote this. I thought about it and chickened out. I’m not ready yet. But I am glad you are.
Sending a big hug your way.
It burns me up inside that you even had to write this. But how you nailed it is a wonderful thing.
If one must endure pain, it is a blessing to have the gift to write. You most certainly have this gift. It did what writing is suppose to, it moved me. It moved me to want to send you peace and healing. I hope you receive a blessing for sharing this, I know we have as readers.
This is so powerful in so many ways. I thought you captured so well both the silence and the internal screaming of experiencing waves of intense pain. The necessity to do it alone, the need to process coupled with the desire to be saved, even if there is nothing to save, except for pieces of a soul rendered tender by endurance was so clear here. Your love for Cort shined through and even though there was self blame here, I also thought your strength to still love yourself wasn’t truly in question.
This was beautiful, raw and so, so honest.
I found myself holding my breath, and my stomach, as I read this. So powerful and real.
Having been here twice I do know this pain and this loneliness. You captured it perfectly, showing without telling us. (And did a far more beautiful job…I too wrote about one of mine.)
It saddens me every time I find another mother who has gone through this. No one should know this physical and emotional pain.
I don’t think you could have captured the physical and emotional pain better than you did. My heart was aching for you as you suffered alone on that carpet.
I am so sorry for your loss. I have never miscarried, but I was with my daughter-in-law when she lost her twin boys at 20 weeks, 4 days. My grandsons. They were perfect. Miniature little babies in every way, just came too soon. It was devastating for everyone. My heart aches for everyone who has had to deal with this kind of loss.
Oh, Katie.
Oh…
My heart aches, but then? There is beautiful Eddie and strong capable you on the other side of your ordeal.
Much love.
Thank you for sharing here. Your brave words brought memories of my own experience, and actually a little peace, simply because it’s over. You managed to capture so many emotions and physical feelings that I too experienced… just, thank you.
My heart hurts for you. I think you captured the physical and emotional pain so very well, and I appreciate so much the courage and heart it must have taken to write this.
Oh Katie….I just wish I could hug you right now.
You have captured something that’s been eating away at you for a very long time. And I think you’ve captured it both raw and honest, but emotional and touching too. I could feel the love in the look between you and Cort. I would not have wanted to wake hubs either, I totally understand.
Did this help? To write it? It’s very well done, my friend….but oh so hard to read.
Oh Katie. *hugs* This was beautiful. Thanks for sharing,and for letting others know that they are not alone.
Oh sweetie…you know I love you. I wish I was there in that hallway with you. Hugs Momma
I really don’t know what to say, which is a testament to how well you wrote this piece.
I can understand why you needed to get this out before trying to get pregnant again.
Bless your heart. This piece is so touching. It really contrasts the desire to take care of yourself with the need to be taken care of in such times; the delicate balance of being a woman. The way you used short sentences and paragraphs kept in time with the way the pain came in waves and flashes. So touching. Thank you for sharing.
Oh, Katie.
Reading this was like reliving my miscarriage. When we learned that our 8-week old fetus had died, I was given a handful of choices and chose to go home and let my body do its job.
I waited for days.
And then, it happened. It gripped me and twisted me and hurt more than anything I’d ever experienced.
Excruciating.
I know this pain. I hate that you do too.
Beautiful piece…painful and honest and raw.
It wasn’t your fault, my beautiful friend. It really wasn’t.
Your pain was palpable!
this is the first time I have been at a loss for words when it came time to leave a comment. All I can say is I am so sorry. And thank you for sharing.
The way you write makes me feel like I am there, feeling what you’re feeling and it feels awful. You’ve once again done an amazing job. I want to congratulate you on writing a beautiful piece and hug you to say I’m so sorry you had to go through that.
I saw this when I was on vacation, and wanted to make sure I came back to leave a comment. I know this pain, my dear friend. Both the physical and the emotional. Too many of us do. And they are both horrid. This piece made me relive my own miscarriage, but I didn’t hate it. It just reminded me that I am part of a sisterhood. It’s a club I would never choice to join, but I feel good being part of it, because I know I am not alone.
Hugs!
this is both beautiful and painful. you use your words like magic. love you.