So, some serious stuff has gone down for me recently, and the blog is about to reflect that.  And only because I’m mostly in the bag off of my most amazing sangria, do I feel that I can tell you all about it.  (I’m sure I’ll regret this later, but whatever…)

I was pregnant.  Was being the operative word here.

It was a complete surprise when we found out.  I was half “Oh holy hell, how am I going to do this again?” and half “Yay! I can haz babieeeeeeeees!”  But, after only a few short days, my momma instinct kicked in and we started happily planning.

My head was full:  We’ll make the loft into a full room.  We will have to buy new baby stuffs.  The girls will be so excited! I will make them special shirts to wear on mothers day!  We will have sleepless nights but many more happy giggles!  After a sad year of loss, there will be a birth!  I probably won’t be able to participate in the Komen 3-day as a captain, but I will go as a walker-stalker, so that’s okay.  I guess I can’t go to FitBloggin‘ either, so no point worrying about that.  But there will be so many other firsts, so it will be ok.  Everything will be okay.  Better than okay!

Yeah. That wasn’t meant to be.

We had an sonogram appointment where we didn’t see what should be seen.  The doctor said a whole lot of “blah blah blahs” and I was poked and prodded and drained of bodily fluids and told to wait.  Just, wait.  Then come back again, and get prodded again, rinse, repeat.

It was exhausting.  And annoying.  And stressful.  Really fucking stressful.

And one day, it just happened.  {You should be well warned here, it’s about to get really REAL up in here.  Those of you that are faint of heart should probably leave.}

I had a spontaneous miscarriage.  That mostly means I bled like all of my insides were coming out, and I cramped as if I were having contractions.  It was intense and scary and I was totally unprepared.  Of course it was a Saturday where my doctor was out of reach.  And they don’t make a “What to expect when you’re miscarrying” book.  {But, if they did, the first chapter would be, “This is going to hurt and be as scary as fuck” and the second would be, “Oh, by the way, this will last for weeks.”  And the publishers of the book would totally encourage you to use it as kindling when you were done with it.}

Anyway.

To make matters worse, hardly anyone close to me knew. Not about me being pregnant, and certainly not about miscarrying.  (Some are finding out right now.  My bad.)  My husband knew of course, our parents, a good friend, but that was it.  So on a day where my girls (who didn’t know at the time) were celebrating at the church picnic, I was doubled over in my bedroom.  A few hours later I had to attend the big end-of-the-year play they were in.  In the throws of intense heartache and pain, I had to pretend all was fine.  That, my friends, was horrible.

And on and on and on that went.  I had to ditch out on regularly scheduled activities, but I couldn’t bare to tell people why. When I couldn’t get into the pool on the opening day, I had to come up with some lame excuse.  The pain and cramps came and went and came back again.

Then there was the obnoxious stuff that got to me too.  The lady who took my blood (for the 4th time in a few weeks) who finally asks me “what are you here for, anyway?”  Really lady?  Did you not read the order that plainly says miscarriage?  {I should have told her they were checking for the Plague.}

Or being ushered into the doctor’s office and leaning back for the sonogram, only to be greeted with the baby-themed art hanging on the ceiling.  You’d think an OBGYN that big could at least devote one room to non-pregnant patients.  As if having to say to the receptionist why I need to come in — “I’m having a miscarriage” — isn’t bad enough.  As if having to re-tell the nurse and doctor isn’t worse.  Let’s just hit the hypersensitive lady over the head with what she isn’t gong to have while she’s in the most exposed position known to man.  Yeah.  Thanks for that.  Assholes.

Even the well-meaning people who were just living their lives got to me.  There were babies and pregnant people everywhere.  Random talks of “having more children” vs. “being done” were a new trend too.  My precious well-meaning kids kept asking for a baby sibling constantly….we’re talking screams of “Mommy, have another baby!” hurled at me every day.  All while I’m trying to say goodbye to something that was barely anything inside of me.

{Slightly inappropriate side note:  I totally had a “Good Will Hunting” moment in all of this.  You know the scene where the shrink says to Will that it’s not his fault, over and over, until Will breaks down?  Well, my Mom is talking to me on the phone, and she’s all, “It’s ok to grieve, honey” and I’m all, “I know, Mom.”  And she’s all, “No, really, it’s okay.“  Am I’m all, “I know Mom.”  Until I realize I’ve hung up the phone with her, I’m realizing fully what I’ve lost even though it was so small, and I’m totally full on ugly crying.  I had to laugh (and cry some more) at the fact that I totally just lived out a scene from a movie.}

Needless to say, this has been so … tiring.  I honestly am telling you all of this because it’s just not something I can keep inside any longer.  I don’t feel like making excuses and I don’t want to tip toe around it any more.  I want it to be over.  I need to say goodbye.  I need to let it go into the universe and move on.

Of course, blogging is the best way to do that.  Duh.

So, if I’ve been MIA, or ignoring you, or not available, or just “off,” then now you know why.  I’m becoming okay.  I have worked through the stages of grief — the sixth being blogging with a glass of my excellent sangria — and have almost made it mostly intact through to the other side.  I’ve made improper jokes to mask the pain, but at least I got it all out.  And I finished the sangria.  So there.