My Daughter's Gift

I knew that she was a girl. I didn’t need a doctor to tell me, I could hear her voice. She already had a name, Lila Grace, named - in part - after her amazing cousin, Grace Ann.

And I knew, the second I saw a pink spot of blood, that I had lost her.

Just writing that sentence, even now, even six years later, brings me to tears. I don’t know what kind of mother I would have been to little Lila, being that I went through my own mini hell in the past six years. I don’t know why she was taken from me, but I’ve been through the whole list - her body was broken, her father and I aren’t together anymore and what kind of life would that have been for her?, something wasn’t right, *I* am not the best genetic contributor, etc, etc, ad nauseum. It’s pointless to wonder and to beat myself up, but guess what? I do it endlessly. It’s my fault and I killed my baby. With crohn’s.

That was my daughter’s gift. Awareness.

It's about to get real, y'all.

I knew that whatever had caused me to miscarry was also making me sick before/during the pregnancy (not the pregnancy itself). I was shitting entire toilet bowls *full* of blood. Full of purple blood. Not a little trickle of blood, not spots on the paper. I could not see the porcelain. I would go to urinate, and instead shit gouts of blood. I told my doctor about it. “It’s normal for pregnant women to have hemorrhoids, don’t worry about it,” and at the time, I *did* have external hemorrhoids, which he blamed for all of that. I told him that I didn’t think he was right, and he told me that a little blood always looks like a lot, yadda yadda yadda.

I should have screamed in his face. I should have went to someone else. I should have made my voice be heard.

But I didn’t.

I don’t think that this would have saved my daughter - not for a second. I was counting fourteen weeks, and an ultrasound technician was measuring me at six...she was severely undergrown even at the time, because I was shitting out all of the nutrients to feed her. I was really confused then, but I now know what was going on. Untreated (at the time, undiagnosed) crohn’s disease can and will lead to the miscarriage of a baby due to several reasons, the main one being starvation. I don’t have the nutrients to keep my hair in, let alone grow an entire human. Ladies with crohn’s *do* have babies, but they are also likely aware of their crohn’s and have it under some kind of control.

I didn’t know I had it, but I knew something was drastically wrong with me.

After I lost her, I didn’t shut up. I kept pressing my doctor to check what was wrong with me. The first doctor I had in Minnesota was a fatty-hater, and every single thing that was wrong with me was because I was fat. Have the flu? Walk it out! Strep throat? Get on the treadmill, chubbs! I ditched him quickly, after I realized he commented on my weight when I came to him to diagnose what ended up being athlete’s foot. Fucking seriously!??! What the fuck does my weight have to do with that?! Later, dude.

I went to an amazingly wonderful Indian woman with a lovely lilting accent who was absolutely fabulous with me. Maybe it’s because she was a woman, I don’t know. I haven’t honestly had the best luck with women doctors, up until her. Then I had a string of them. First, she was concerned about my bottom, because the hemorrhoids did not look good to her. That was her first red flag, not my damn belly fat.

Then I brought up the fact that I had constant diarrhea and what had happened with my miscarriage. I had always blamed it on the fact that I was “lactose intolerant” although I rarely ate anything with lactose IN it (cheese doesn’t, wOOt!). I also brought up the fact that I went #2 as much as #1. Maybe more so. It woke me up in the middle of the night. That didn’t happen to other people? No? Oh.

Oh shit.

Not. Good.

So that’s when I first talked to a gastroenterologist. We thought for a while that I may have ulcerative colitis, but nope - crohn’s. The effect is more or less the same to sufferers. Of course I have to read everything about everything, so when I found this out and the connections to miscarriages, I was surprised and not surprised, simultaneously.

That path has lead me to leaving behind a Mayo Clinic legacy. My daughter’s gift? Awareness, and a voice. I had my voice before, but I wasn’t speaking for anything. Now I’m speaking for the hollow spot inside of me, where my daughter is. As most of you know, I will not be having any natural children, as I chose to have a hysterectomy (for a variety of reasons). I will keep that hollow spot inside of me.

But that doesn’t mean that there aren’t women to speak for. And speak with. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve cried with others over lost babies. And how many times I will likely cry in the future.

When I lost her, the wonderful nurse gave me a grieving packet. I’m really glad she did, because my grieving network - frankly - sucked ass when I lost her. No one knows what to do when someone has a miscarriage. I’ve heard this (mainly from effing men) many times, but many people don’t think that it’s a baby until it’s sucked oxygen. Let me make a public statement to all of you unfeeling fucks: a wanted pregnancy - especially when you’ve been told that you’ll never have natural children - when it’s lost, it’s as devastating as any other death. At least to the mother. I try not to speak ill of Lila’s father, but his grief was not evident to me in any way, nor was he very comforting to me. He must have been dealing in his own way, or not dealing, or however he handled it (or didn’t). I’ve never really spoken with him about it, because a) it’s pointless now and b) I have residual anger towards him in this area where I don’t have anger elsewhere, and I don’t think that the healthiest reunion would be me spitting venom about how he treated his former wife after a miscarriage. It serves no purpose.

Anyway - tucked away in that grieving packet, amongst fliers to give to the father, the grandparents, the siblings, and an extensive one for the mother, there was a tiny, sealed white envelope. Inside, a tiny card. Written on the front, in purple ink “A Special Memory”, and inside the card, adorned with a little purple ribbon, was a baby-sized gold ring in a small plastic bag. You likely didn’t know this, but if you’ve been near me in the past six years, there was a 99.999999% chance that that ring was within 50 yards of me at all times. Right this minute it is less than a foot away. Even when I’m in the hospital, the ring is with me. All this time, I’ve kept it right where I received it - in the small plastic bag, in the tiny card, in the dainty envelope.

In the dark.

I’ve made a decision. I’m not going to keep my daughter in the dark anymore. NOT talking about her is hurting me MORE. I don’t like it that I pause before I say her name out loud, wondering if the person I’m speaking to will know who I’m talking about.

I’ve ordered a simple chain, and a simple pendant to memorialize my miscarriages. Yes, I’ve had more than one, but the first was mostly confusion. Mass confusion. As quickly as I found out that I was pregnant - at 27, with the man who would be my husband (I COULD GET PREGNANT, WHAT?!?!?), I lost the baby. I mean, the *day after* it was confirmed by the hospital. So...ten days? I got through that with the help of my amazing friend April, who brought me flowers and chocolates that night, and just sat with me. She’s definitely one of the angels I’ve met on this earth.

With the pendant, I will finally remove the small gold ring from its plastic sheath, and wear it openly.

The first time I've ever held the ring in my hand, and on my index fingertip to show scale.

I’m not going to keep my daughter in the dark anymore.

The pendant and ring together.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo