Hard Luck

Last time I had a miscarriage, and everyone kinda knew about it because I was posting my blog on Facebook, it was hard and awkward every time I saw someone and they would say they were sorry for our loss and bring it all back up again. I appreciate the sympathy, but I didn’t want to think about it right before a soccer game, or whatever.

So this time I’ve kept it very close to the chest. Only a few close friends and family members know. And that’s hard in its own way. Because when a friend is complaining about her kids being rowdy or something, or lamenting how she has to take pills because she’s so fertile and she doesn’t like the side effects, she has no idea how insensitive she is being. I would kill to have that “problem.”

Of course, she’s not even really being insensitive. People are allowed to be driven crazy by their kids. With any luck I’ll be one of them some day, and sometimes I may want to vent with the best of them. (I like to think I’ll have enough perspective to never take my kids for granted for a moment, but humans have a tremendous tendency to lose perspective again as soon as a given nightmare is over.) And being too fertile when you don’t want kids can cause genuine problems.

And I have to be sensitive to that. And I have to be sensitive to the fact that when I’m not being open about my struggles, people can’t read my mind and thus can’t be blamed when they poke at loose scabs covering years worth of unspeakable pain, a black hole of aching nothingness that goes on and on and on without any resolution, without sweet memories of a child to offset the bitter, without even a grave to visit.

All we have are dates. The day in May when my first miscarried baby would have been due. September of this year, when our second miscarried baby would have been due. Any time someone even mentions September lately, it feels like a slap in the face. And I know very well that that’s crazy.

I do find joy, of course. There’s a dark cloud over our lives, but sometimes it’s hazy enough to let the light shine through. But it is monotonous and relentless, like an Oregon winter that goes on for four years. And just when we thought it was almost spring, the winter closed in yet again with no end in sight.

I’m just so tired lately. All my coping strategies have worn thin. I feel like a whipped dog, and I feel weak for feeling that way. I know I should have perspective — things could be plenty worse, and are worse for many good people. But I seem to be utterly failing lately.

I also know that reaching too hard for an outcome, a goal, is the origin of a lot of human pain. It’s about the journey, not the destination, and all that. But this journey sucks! And how can I pretend it doesn’t? How can I pretend I’m not constantly mourning people in my life who don’t even exist?

Until this last loss, I could find ways to keep my chin up, to feel that better times were just around the corner. Right now I have no faith, no perspective. I guess this soon after a loss, I shouldn’t be so hard on myself for feeling that way.

But even the thought of trying again makes me feel like a whipped dog who thinks, “Maybe this time my master will be nice to me. Maybe this time he won’t beat me.”

I hate feeling like that. I hate feeling so powerless and abused, especially when there’s no one to blame, no one to take to court, no one to retaliate against. The universe tosses good and bad luck around with little regard for who deserves it. This shouldn’t have been how we had to spend our first four years of marriage, infused with this brutally expensive depressing emptiness. But it was.

I’ll pull out of this funk eventually, but I’m so tired of having to pull my ass out of funks. At some point, it’s just enough, you know? Enough.

But you don’t get to say when enough is enough. You have very little say at all.


7 thoughts on “Hard Luck

  1. Reading this takes me back to where I was in October. It is rough and I think sometimes you just have to let yourself feel down and lost and tired and just know deep down eventually this will pass. It’s ok if you can’t muster up the hope and optimism right now. Just be kind to yourself. This is all so so hard. Xo

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Yep. I know the routine by heart now — grieving, venting, indulging, exercising, meditating, waiting, waiting, waiting… trying again, trying to have faith this time… and failing.

      Lather, rinse, repeat.

      Tired of this routine. So tired.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Thanks, Alice. Your journey sounds like a dream compared to ours. And I say that knowing how hard it must have been. I’m glad for you. You’ll never have any idea what it’s like to try wholeheartedly for four years and end up (so far) with nothing. I wish no one ever did.


    1. Hi Pamela, I see you edited the post and my comment. The only reason I shared my story was to give context to what I wanted to say about that paragraph that was originally in your post. Now that you edited the post it might make sense to just remove my comment – given that as you said my journey might feel like a “dream” to those who are going through fertility treatments right now, that comment without the point I made at the end just feels completely out of place. If you could delete it that would be great. Thanks, Alice


  3. It’s perfectly natural to feel the way you do, and I can completely relate. Today I had breakfast with male work friends who know I am trying (for 2+ years) but don’t bring it up out of respect. Well, they had all these stories to tell about their kids – and I was asking questions trying to stay engaged. But my heart got tighter and tighter. When they each caught up with their kids, they turned to me and I just said, “I have to go, I have a meeting I need to make sure I get to.” It felt abrupt, but who cares. I was able to share with one of the people at the breakfast that “last year was hard” and we’re meeting with an adoption attorney in a few weeks. I knew he could relate because his wife had several failed IVFs, but somehow they managed to have 2 kids “naturally.” I felt all the feelings again – and just fucking angry. I’m also ready for it to be over…

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I’m sorry you’re going through it, too. In 2015 I was still going through a miscarriage and went to Thanksgiving at a friend’s house. After dinner all the women decided it was a good time to swap birth stories. I tried to stay engaged as well, but all I could feel was that the were in an incredible club I didn’t belong to and might never belong to, my heart still hurting from our first devastating loss. A year and a half and another loss later, I’m just so fucking over it already. I feel pulled thin line a wire.


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