In the last few months I have started and stopped more books than I think have in the last three years combined. I had a miscarriage in January and it was devastatingly awful. I laid in bed for a week crying and the only thing that really helped was reading others’ words about how brutally terrible it is. Others who had lost babies made me feel slightly less alone. The grief of miscarriage is tricky and knotted and impossible to fully explain. I started going to a support group through our local hospital system and it is easily one of the best things I’ve ever done. It was so incredibly helpful to have a guide through that grieving process and to walk that crappy road with others who were experiencing the same loss in real time. It also helped me to work through more of my own stuff beyond just the miscarriage. I felt like I was finally getting into a groove again….and then COVID-19 hit.
And seemingly overnight, everything fell apart again but differently this time. My anxiety spiked and those first few weeks I felt like I was never going to feel normal again. It destroyed my coping skills and instead of avoiding the news, I consumed it every minute I could. Guess what…this isn’t helpful. I could barely focus on reading and all I really wanted to do was zone out and watch netflix.
After about a month, the new normal really set in for me and I slowly started feeling better. I still got super nervous about leaving the house but I felt better limiting exposure and wearing a mask. We were still in lockdown mode but I at least no longer felt like I had a weight strapped to my chest at all times. Shortly after I found out I was pregnant again. I got back into counseling and we officially found out schools were going to a remote model for the remainder of the year. Despite all of the terrible things going on around me, knowing I was pregnant again and that the first time wasn’t just a fluke, I was hopeful. I remember thinking that in the midst of chaos and death and sorrow, the flowers were still blooming and that babies were still being born. I still grieved the loss of our first baby and I was so excited for our second.
I miscarried again. At 9.5 weeks. Again. And the grief hit harder and was infinitely more lonely because even if I wanted to be around people, I couldn’t.
I stopped reading for a season because it felt like every book reminded me of what had been lost. Books I had been in the middle of when I miscarried our two babies. Books that involved loss. Heck, even reading a book that mentioned miscarriage. When I did read, I stuck completely with comfort reads, books I’d read before and knew the ending. I slowly made my way to books I hadn’t already read but knew that I could count on: young adult. And I camped out there for a while and it was wonderful. I still find myself gravitating to easy reads because that’s what I need for now. So my unread books will remain on my shelves and I’ll continue to request kindle books on the libby app as quickly as I can manage. Next up: The Babysitter’s Club books.
I’m feeling better these days. I broke up with my counselor and found a new one. I’m seeing the sun more and getting outside every day. We’ve seen friends from a distance and I made us more masks. My husband and I have watched a LOT of Great British Baking Show and it is magnificent. I’m remembering that seasons don’t last forever and trying to embrace the reality that sorrow and joy are flipsides of the same coin. Take care of yourselves and read the cheesy, predictable reads for as long as you need. Watch as much netflix as you need and don’t let yourself stay in the pit forever.
I write to share about miscarriage because I hate how taboo it is to really talk about it. I’m also a child of the 90s and grew up blaring my feelings on Xanga so do with that what you will. Miscarriage sucks and I’d like to keep talking about it.
