babyfruit: the (mis)adventures of mommyhood

Miscarriage and Hair Salons

Miscarriage and hair salons, you ask? No, this isn't revealing some new report out there that says hair coloring causes miscarriage, although during the last two years, I have colored my hair quite sparingly, only in true "beauty" emergencies such as on camera appearances and never when pregnant, just in case.

No, miscarriage and hair salons refers to my hair coloring experience today (remember, I'm not trying to conceive or TTC as us infertiles are known to abbreviate. Did I tell you how freaking long it took me to figure out TTC? Even longer to figure out AF. The rest is still Greek to me).

I was evening out my color because I'm doing a photo shoot tomorrow, and they're going to do really really close up shots and that multicolored, gray-strewn part down the middle of my head was not looking very photogenic.

So I'm sitting on the stool reading some gossip magazines (always better to read about the lives, loves and losses of others than my own). My eye was practically poked out by Britney Spears' bump on the cover of PEOPLE. But it was the conversation that poked me in the heart. Just a small stab, like with a toothpick made of steel with the pointy end soaked in acid. No biggie.

It was the typical hair salon "let's talk about our children" moment. It appears my hair stylist thought she might be pregnant even though she had had her tubes tied (she is 31 and has 2 kids already, 8 and 9 years old.)

"If it is meant to be, it is meant to be," she said with a sigh.

"Can you actually get pregnant if your tubes are tied?" I asked, butting my nose into someone else's fallopians.

"Oh yes. That isn't a 100% for sure procedure."

Great. Women are getting their tubes tied because they do NOT want to get pregnant and they still have a chance of it happening, and women like us who DO want to get pregnant and have perfectly formed tubes are dropping foetuses like hot potatoes. (I had to use the British spelling of foetus. So exotic.)

The rest of the conversation around me was all aflutter with pregnancy this, children that, fertile talk from fertile women. Did they not know they had a miscarrying woman in their midst? Apparently not.

"Do you have any kids?" my hair stylist asked.

"No. But I've had 4 miscarriages." Aren't I the conversation stopper? Actually, she was very nice about my social bomb. She confessed to having had 2 miscarriages of her own, then proceeded to suggest that I look into adoption.

"Some women just can't have babies, she said in a very matter-of-fact way that frankly, I wanted to slap her. "And there are so many unwanted children in the world." She continued folding my hair in foils as chemicals burned my eyes. Or was that a tear?

Yes, some women just can't have babies. And yes, I should look into adoption. This advice from my hairdresser, the fertile wonder who may be pregnant even though her tubes are like pretzels.

What did the egg and sperm do? Meet surreptitiously in some secret location, bump uglies and then sneak the fertilized wonderegg into the uterus? Please explain to me how this could happen?

I went to the hair salon to feel better about my hair and was left feeling worse about my uterus and other female parts.

Miscarriage and Spirituality

Miscarriage and Spirituality...

I've spent the last hour trying to make sure all 250+ posts in The Babyfruit blog had a corresponding category so that random posts were not lost in the ether. I am not done with the process yet, but note some new categories on the right side and also some "new" old posts in existing categories. I tried not to get sucked into reading all of these older posts as my pregnancies and miscarriages blurred one into the other. I just don't want to go there right now.

I was blogging a little about spirituality and religion on one of my other blogs, and it made me think about the shifts in my own spirituality and beliefs since I began miscarrying.

After my 1st miscarriage - which came about so unexpectedly - I didn't turn to God or religion or spirituality per se. But I do remember while I was getting a reflexology treatment and lesson from an ordained minister from some non-denominational church (she and her husband also married G. and me), she told me how she explained miscarriage to her daughter who had had one.

She talked about how sometimes there are spirits that need only a short time on earth and therefore, once they have had that time, they leave and are grateful for that time. We, as miscarrying women, are hosts to these spirits.

This theory was far more palatable to me than the "you were my angel and now you are in heaven" mumbo jumbo. That is so not my style. But the spirits invading my body for just a moment of earthly knowledge also pushed my spirituality envelope. Still, I tried to draw comfort from it somehow.

I wasn't angry at God for the miscarriage. I didn't think it was God's will. I didn't think that God fit into the picture in any way.

After the 2nd pregnancy and miscarriage, I held a healing ceremony that I wrote with help of the same minister. The location was surrounded by some amazing rock formations in Vedauwoo in Wyoming, the sky was steely gray with a brisk chill wind blowing. I looked up at one rock formation and saw an ancient fertility goddess figure in its curves. I expected to cry during the ceremony, but I was surprisingly calm and my mind and heart were clear. I'm not sure how much comfort I derived from the ritual, however, I was glad that I had done it. The act of holding any kind of ritual at all was opening my mind (heart, soul) to new ways. I was not resistant so I think that was a good thing.

After the 3rd pregnancy and miscarriage, I addressed spirituality in a different way, speaking with an Aryuvedic practitioner who recommended that I build several altars to deal with my emotions, particularly a grief altar. In theory, I liked the idea of creating concrete spaces for my spirit to purge and heal. But the reality was that I didn't have a backyard for my grief altar (it wasn't supposed to be indoors) so never got around to doing it.

After the 3rd pregnancy and miscarriage, a dear friend of mine offered to perform a ritual to speak to my uterus. She also said she thought that she could speak for my uterus, letting me know what "she," (my uterus, not my friend) needed from me. I adore this friend and believe she has a gift so agreed. We were joined by another wonderful woman friend one evening. We danced inside of a space sectioned off by colorful feather boas and candles, with African tribal music and beating drums playing in the background. My friend had me lay down and the women placed their fingertips lightly on me to make a connection.

Then my friend went into a trance-like state. She said in a soft voice what she felt my uterus was saying to me. "She" (uterus) wanted me to acknowledge her. Wanted me not to blame myself. I think I said something to my uterus, too, relayed through my friend. I don't know what to make of the experience although I was deeply grateful to my friend to do this for me.

Now I don't feel drawn to any particular religion or spiritual belief or ritual after 4 miscarriages and 1 chemical pregnancy, but I do feel spiritually drained. I'm not sure how to replenish the old spiritual coffers. Certainly not by embracing Jesus Christ as my savior or by reconnecting with my Jewish heritage or converting to Buddhism or similar thing.

The closest I've come to anything remotely spiritual these days is being drawn to yoga. I think the breathing and the quieting of the mind/meditation is very appealing to my never-ending buzzing brain. I seem to fill my brain with lots of thoughts and projects to mask my empty heart and soul. But yoga quiets this brain of mine and allows me to come to terms with my deeper emptiness.

Yoga classes here in Anchorage are very expensive. I have found one woman who teaches a few classes a week in the basement of a Methodist church (how fitting - I'm doing yoga in a church) and she is charging $11 per session. I have taken one class and while I'm much more used to Hatha yoga that gives me that time to breathe and meditate, I endured a flow class of Baptiste style yoga. Very intense for me, someone who hates for my heart to pound or my pores to sweat (just a weird hang up of mine).

Two days later, my muscles are very sore, but I'm also feeling like I should go again. It was physically challenging, yet I somehow feel that I need to be worshipping at my own temple - My Body. I should be my own religion. My religion should entail filling up my heart and soul while re-conditioning my body to move and flow, gain strength and endurance. I will probably go again to the class, feeling a bit masochistic about it but also feeling like I have to shake myself up somehow, get to my core. Maybe my healing will happen through flow yoga.

I have no desire to pray about my miscarriages. I have no idea who would be listening other than myself. (My theory as a child was that God was actually inside of us, not a higher being or power but actually the deeper part of us. We were God. But what did I know since I was only a child?) While pregnant the first few times, I did speak in my mind to my ovaries and to my uterus and the tiny sac growing inside of it. A lot of good that did.

This isn't about God. This isn't about religion. This isn't even about spirituality although I do see that my shift has gone from seeking answers in the cosmos to seeking peace within myself. Face it, this is all about me.

Each one of us deals with our losses in such individual ways that it isn't fair for me to say "This is the right way to think about miscarriage" or "This is the right spiritual way to deal with miscarriage." I can only share what is working - or not working - for me. I hope you will share what is working and not working for you.

miscarriage handbook

In the spirit of starting a whole new phase of my life which I will call "Post Treadmill," I am starting a new section of this blog called "Miscarriage Handbook" that will include my thoughts on miscarriage from a different place than what I've read and seen in my two years of research.

Some of these thoughts will end up in a book - that is the plan. Your comments are always welcome, either here or in private. If you want to share your story and be quoted in this book, please stop by FirstThreeMonths.com and fill out the story form.

But on with today's thoughts on miscarriage.

First let me set the stage. I arrive at the sonogram place to get my ovaries sonogrammed. The technician is a young-ish male. I have only had one male technician before - an older gentleman. My first thought was "A young guy is about to stick a wand inside my you know what...hello?"

So the combination of freaking out a bit about this new turn of medical events and also the Starbucks latte I had downed a few hours earlier, I was a motormouth trying to talk my way through an unusual situation. Since I've had so many damn intra-vaginal ultrasounds, I just acted like this was a cakewalk.

First he asked is I was doing IUI or IVF.

"Neither," I said, a little annoyed that I'd be asked this question. "I'm doing it au natural." Don't they keep track of these things, I thought.

Next, he asked if I wanted gel or not.

Wanted gel or not? I had never been asked this question and I wasn't sure if the question pertained to lubrication or some other purpose.

"Some women think the lubrication blocks the sperm somehow," he explained.

"I'm not trying to get pregnant now," I replied. "We are just trying to see if the cysts in my ovaries have shrunken."

Gel it was. I guided the wand into the appropriate hole and he began waving it around.

Then I couldn't stop talking. Babbling is more like it. "Is that menstrual blood in my uterus?" I asked and he seemed impressed that I knew that.

Eventually, I told him that I knew my uterus - my exact words were that "I am one with my uterus," but that my ovaries were a big mystery.

He explained that the follicles that burst during ovulation, expelling the egg, sometimes hang around and become dominant - ie. the Monster Cysts. If I were to get pregnant, the cysts become Corpus Luteal and begin producing progesterone to support the pregnancy. I soaked up all the facts and figures, mostly to keep my mind off the fact that this young-ish guy was wanding my wah-hoo.

I began to expound on my philosophies about the reproductive process from a medical standpoint and from my standpoint - The Guinea Pig Standpoint where no one had answers, everything was a guessing game and I was the guinea pig.

We jabbered on for a while during the Wanding of My Ovaries and then afterwards, when I was dressed, continued the conversation.

My main point was this:

We as a society have brainwashed ourselves/women into believing that medicine and technology can cure everything. We believe these promises and then rely on medicine and technology to fix our ailing reproductive selves.

We also - as women - place too much of our identity in the hands of our collective uteri. If we are able to give birth, we are whole. If we cannot get pregnant or carry a pregnancy to term or do any other naughty reproductive act, we are no longer good women. We are not whole. We are not mother material. We are not good.

Modern medicine and technology have put us more than arms length away from our own bodies, from our own natural processes and bodily functions or disfunctions. We believe we can be fixed into being perfect baby makers at the risk of losing who we are.

Women are striving so hard, so desperately to get pregnant at any cost - financially, spiritually, emotionally, physically. We are obsessed with making it happen regardless of how painful it is or how unhappy it makes us in the process.

We have to find peace. We must believe that we are whole, beautiful, vital, amazing women even if we do not biologically conceive a child. We must also honor the many other ways we can become mothers. There isn't only one way - but in our society, even today, that one way is the ultimate nirvana.

We are seeking something that could - for some of us - be against our nature. Why can we not accept our own bodies just as they are? Some are made for babymaking, others maybe not, but we can still be made for mothering without the 9 months of hemorrhoids and gas and 48 hours of labor.

Why can we not accept our natural selves? Why do we subject ourselves to countless expensive tests, subject ourselves to humiliating and painful treatments and go through the rollercoaster ride of trying to conceive?

Somebody has to stop the madness. We are only human, for God's sake. We are fine just the way we are, and if we really have so much love to give, we should all be adopting the countless abandoned children in the world. We are not our reproductive organs. We should not be judged or judge ourselves by our reproductive prowess.

Miscarriage is just nature's way of saying "Not now" or maybe even "Not ever." Why is that such an unfathomably horrific thing in our minds, hearts and souls? Why can that not be okay?