This is a strange topic to write about, because I am just feeling through it myself, so bear with me as I try to sort it all out at once.
This has been a weird Christmas season. There. I said it.
Christmas cards have been fewer and further between, and the fabulous Interlochen Christmas lights display was dimmed this year because too much traffic last year caused too many fights in the neighborhood. Even the little house on the corner of Lamar and Fielder that always decorates its yucca plants with Christmas balls didn't get into the holiday spirit this year. Only the large house on Park Row has kept the faith, with its towering poinsettia tree. I was so grateful to see that tree--I can't even tell you.
Besides the waning holiday spirit, there's been a lot of bad stuff happening in Arlington. A few days ago, a drunk driver wrecked into a line of cars and then took off, wrecking into another. He killed one driver and then shot a Good Samaritan who was coming up to offer help. And you know what else? Not only was it 1 o'clock in the afternoon, and not only was this guy on a murderous rampage while completely drunk off his ass, he had his twin toddlers strapped into the back seat when he made the choice to take others' lives. If that won't kill the holiday spirit, nothing will.
A lot of my friends have spoken about this holiday being particularly hard, and I am right there with them. I still think there should be a period of mourning after a death in the family. Not being expected to travel and see everyone or join in the holiday spirit would be such an amazing blessing right now. I thought I was doing OK until we went to Zach's office party last weekend, and someone innocently asked "Is Olivia your only child? Are you planning on having more?" So, what are you saying? That Olivia somehow isn't enough? And why is my family planning any of your business? It's a question that gets asked of couples with one child all the time, and it's intrusive and downright rude. It's as bad as being married without children (which we were for ten years, so we got a decade of this bullshit) and having people ask when you will get pregnant. Or they assume that every cold and flu or every weird craving is a sign of your impending pregnancy.
To all of you who are struggling to stay merry during this holiday season, I say stop. Whether you are struggling with the loss of loved ones, or serious illness, or impending divorce, or any of combination thereof, be gentle and kind with yourself and stop trying to feel happy. There's nothing more ghastly than forced gaiety. I remember one of my favorite books when I was a girl was Rilla of Ingleside by LM Montgomery. The heroine recounts the loss of her favorite brother in WWI and the Christmas following his death:
"I am thankful Christmas is over," Rilla wrote in her diary during the last week of a stormy December. "We had dreaded it so—the first Christmas since Courcelette. But we had all the Merediths down for dinner and nobody tried to be gay or cheerful. We were all just quiet and friendly, and that helped. Then, too, I was so thankful that Jims had got better—so thankful that I almost felt glad—almost but not quite. I wonder if I shall ever feel really glad over anything again. It seems as if gladness were killed in me—shot down by the same bullet that pierced Walter's heart. Perhaps some day a new kind of gladness will be born in my soul—but the old kind will never live again."
Don't try to be gay or cheerful this season. And be patient. As Rilla said, some day a new sort of gladness will be born in your soul, but don't try to force it.
Showing posts with label rudeness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rudeness. Show all posts
Friday, December 16, 2011
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Suck It Up, Bitch
I took a hiatus from writing this blog, because I finally had a D&C about 2 weeks ago. My miscarriage was not ending, and I had developed an infection, and my OB/GYN said "Enough already!" So even though it was somewhat anticlimactic to go in for a D&C after already enduring the pain of the miscarriage, I did so. And after I finished, I didn't want to think about the miscarriage, or write about it, for a while. For 6 weeks, my entire life had revolved around the miscarriage and I just wanted to take a break from it. But now I am back, and I have something I need to tell you.
This is true whether you've had a miscarriage already, or are going though one now.
There are a lot of people out there who aren't going to care that you lost your child.
Now, I realize that in saying this, I run the risk of sounding bitter or cruel or mean. But it is going to happen, and it's better that you hear it from me. I'm not pointing any fingers, or trying to call people out. I'm just saying, some people really could care less. This is not like Joan at Eye-Vee, who used my miscarriage as an excuse to get me fired. This is more like my co-workers at Eye-Vee, the nice ones I lunched with and thought I was work-friendly with, who sat around their cubicles one evening telling all the pregnancy jokes they could think of. While I was sitting there actually going through the process of my miscarriage. Dragging myself to work and sitting there on a super absorbent maxipad and trying to put one foot in front of the other.
You see? Some people are just completely and utterly self-absorbed, to the point of being absentmindedly cruel.
It's kind of like that story Janet Gaynor told about one of her co-stars--I think it was Henry Fonda. As they watched the rushes of one of their films together, she asked him for his opinion on how well she performed in a scene. "Honestly, Janet, I can't tell you," he replied. "I was too busy watching myself."
So many people are so busy watching themselves that they don't care. The cameras never shut off, the crew never goes home, they continue role playing even after the rest of us have gone home and put ourselves to bed.
So if the pregnancy jokes seemed in bad taste to me, I must admit to myself that my coworkers weren't bad people, just completely forgetful of the fact that they were joking about the very thing I was losing at that moment. Motherhood. Pregnancy. It was literally draining away from me as they cracked joke after joke.
There are people out there who feel you should get over it already. Period.
This was recently brought home to me by someone I was working with on a side project. It's my project, and I brought her in because she is highly knowledgable and energetic. The day of my D&C, she sent me emails trying to urge me to get back to work. I asked her to give me the weekend. When the weekend was over, I got more emails about getting back to work. And while I appreciated her hustle, I was also drained of all energy and badly in need of more than a weekend to recover.
A week later, we had a disagreement about the project and she blew up at me. Threatened to go home and take her toys with her. Told me I was sending red flags her way. All the while, I was telling myself that this was my project and I could take as long as I damn well pleased to finish it, especially a week after a D&C, and as the creator of the project, I also had the right to disagree with her professionally, without having a shouting match.
It took several emails and she finally cooled down. But you know what? Throughout our "discussion," I had to be the calm one. I had to be the voice of reason. If ever I had an oppotunity--nay, the divine right--to throw a temper tantrum, I think it was at that moment. And yet, I had to be the grown up. And why? Because some people are so wrapped up in their own worlds that they cannot halt the drama long enough to extend a helpful or loving hand.
So I am telling you this from cold, hard experience. It's not pretty and it's not right, but it is true. Some people don't care what you've just been through. It might not even register on their radars. So how you deal with this is up to you. In the interest of fairness, I have to say that many people--in fact most--have been kind and thoughtful and helpful. Which makes the few who aren't really stand out.
This is true whether you've had a miscarriage already, or are going though one now.
There are a lot of people out there who aren't going to care that you lost your child.
Now, I realize that in saying this, I run the risk of sounding bitter or cruel or mean. But it is going to happen, and it's better that you hear it from me. I'm not pointing any fingers, or trying to call people out. I'm just saying, some people really could care less. This is not like Joan at Eye-Vee, who used my miscarriage as an excuse to get me fired. This is more like my co-workers at Eye-Vee, the nice ones I lunched with and thought I was work-friendly with, who sat around their cubicles one evening telling all the pregnancy jokes they could think of. While I was sitting there actually going through the process of my miscarriage. Dragging myself to work and sitting there on a super absorbent maxipad and trying to put one foot in front of the other.
You see? Some people are just completely and utterly self-absorbed, to the point of being absentmindedly cruel.
It's kind of like that story Janet Gaynor told about one of her co-stars--I think it was Henry Fonda. As they watched the rushes of one of their films together, she asked him for his opinion on how well she performed in a scene. "Honestly, Janet, I can't tell you," he replied. "I was too busy watching myself."
So many people are so busy watching themselves that they don't care. The cameras never shut off, the crew never goes home, they continue role playing even after the rest of us have gone home and put ourselves to bed.
So if the pregnancy jokes seemed in bad taste to me, I must admit to myself that my coworkers weren't bad people, just completely forgetful of the fact that they were joking about the very thing I was losing at that moment. Motherhood. Pregnancy. It was literally draining away from me as they cracked joke after joke.
There are people out there who feel you should get over it already. Period.
This was recently brought home to me by someone I was working with on a side project. It's my project, and I brought her in because she is highly knowledgable and energetic. The day of my D&C, she sent me emails trying to urge me to get back to work. I asked her to give me the weekend. When the weekend was over, I got more emails about getting back to work. And while I appreciated her hustle, I was also drained of all energy and badly in need of more than a weekend to recover.
A week later, we had a disagreement about the project and she blew up at me. Threatened to go home and take her toys with her. Told me I was sending red flags her way. All the while, I was telling myself that this was my project and I could take as long as I damn well pleased to finish it, especially a week after a D&C, and as the creator of the project, I also had the right to disagree with her professionally, without having a shouting match.
It took several emails and she finally cooled down. But you know what? Throughout our "discussion," I had to be the calm one. I had to be the voice of reason. If ever I had an oppotunity--nay, the divine right--to throw a temper tantrum, I think it was at that moment. And yet, I had to be the grown up. And why? Because some people are so wrapped up in their own worlds that they cannot halt the drama long enough to extend a helpful or loving hand.
So I am telling you this from cold, hard experience. It's not pretty and it's not right, but it is true. Some people don't care what you've just been through. It might not even register on their radars. So how you deal with this is up to you. In the interest of fairness, I have to say that many people--in fact most--have been kind and thoughtful and helpful. Which makes the few who aren't really stand out.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
How to Tell Everyone You've Had a Miscarriage
With both of my pregnancies, I did everything wrong. You're not supposed to tell a living soul you are pregnant until after the third month, that "danger zone" during which most miscarriages happen. That's to save you the embarrassment of having to tell the world should you miscarry. And of course, I didn't follow that rule. Why? I don't know.
For one thing, it's hard for me to disguise my pregnancies. Within the first month, I look pregnant. Even if my weight doesn't change, it magically redistributes itself. I begin to look like one of those African fertility sculptures--butt, gut, boobs, and thighs. I can only squeeze myself into non-maternity jeans for so long before someone says, "Are you pregnant?" And then, the best thing to do is admit it, because it's just easier than lying.
For another, I carried my first daughter to term and then some, so I figured my second pregnancy would be fine too. True, I had preeclampsia and cholestasis with Olivia, but hey. I made it through and so did she and we were both perfectly fine. So I figured I was good to go. How very, very wrong I was.
We told everyone--and I mean everyone. All of our families gathered together for Olivia's 5th birthday and we made the announcement 3 weeks into my pregnancy. Everyone knew. Distant friends whom I only contact through Facebook, Olivia's kindergarten teacher, the kickboxing instructor who offered me three free lessons. And once I knew I was going to miscarry, I was faced with having to tell everyone that I lost the baby.
How can you take on such a daunting, embarrassing, and emotional task? Here's how we did it:
1. Appoint someone to help you. In my case, I sent an email to my mom and dad and asked them to handle telling the rest of the family. Why email? Because I am a writer. I communicate emotional things better in writing. Others may choose to make The Call, but I couldn't do it. My husband chose to call his father and asked him to break the news to the family.
And here's where I would issue a word of warning. Be sure the person you appoint understands his or her job. Zach meant for his father to tell everyone, but apparently his dad only told his wife. That meant that Zach's mom, brother, sister and a host of other relations were completely in the dark about it for a week. Until I posted something about pre-op bloodwork on Facebook, and all hell broke loose. So make sure the person knows exactly whom to tell. Otherwise, you might as well announce it yourself.
2. Don't make a Facebook, Twitter, or other social media announcement until the majority of other people know. You will miss a few people--that's a given. And Facebook has kind of become our 24 hour newsfeed, replacing that terrible 2am phone call when it comes to breaking bad news. But I still think it's too shocking to open my Facebook feed and find out that someone has died or has suffered a tragedy. So I tried to mitigate that as much as possible. In fact, I have barely posted anything on Facebook since the miscarriage took place.
3. Have friends spread the word. I told one of my close friends, Brittany Lee, because she had been through a miscarriage a few years before. She had been through this and I knew she would be understanding. Not only did Brittany spread the word, she also organized a series of "sunshine meals"--home-cooked dinners that my friends brought over every other night for two weeks. It was an immense help during a difficult time, but I really appreciated that Brittany told my friends so I wouldn't have to handle those emotional announcements too.
4. Realize that, as with anything pertaining to grief, there are going to be mess-ups. There is no perfect way to make the announcement and no perfect way to inform the world of your own personal tragedy. Do what feels most comfortable to you at that given time. And realize that people are going to give you advice. When I went to have my bangs trimmed this past weekend, the hairdresser told me, "So I guess you learned your lesson this time, huh? Never tell anyone until after the third month." Well, yes. Lesson learned, though I'd rather not have learned it the hard way.
How about you? Were you able to keep your miscarriage a secret, or did you have to make an announcement?
For one thing, it's hard for me to disguise my pregnancies. Within the first month, I look pregnant. Even if my weight doesn't change, it magically redistributes itself. I begin to look like one of those African fertility sculptures--butt, gut, boobs, and thighs. I can only squeeze myself into non-maternity jeans for so long before someone says, "Are you pregnant?" And then, the best thing to do is admit it, because it's just easier than lying.
For another, I carried my first daughter to term and then some, so I figured my second pregnancy would be fine too. True, I had preeclampsia and cholestasis with Olivia, but hey. I made it through and so did she and we were both perfectly fine. So I figured I was good to go. How very, very wrong I was.
We told everyone--and I mean everyone. All of our families gathered together for Olivia's 5th birthday and we made the announcement 3 weeks into my pregnancy. Everyone knew. Distant friends whom I only contact through Facebook, Olivia's kindergarten teacher, the kickboxing instructor who offered me three free lessons. And once I knew I was going to miscarry, I was faced with having to tell everyone that I lost the baby.
How can you take on such a daunting, embarrassing, and emotional task? Here's how we did it:
1. Appoint someone to help you. In my case, I sent an email to my mom and dad and asked them to handle telling the rest of the family. Why email? Because I am a writer. I communicate emotional things better in writing. Others may choose to make The Call, but I couldn't do it. My husband chose to call his father and asked him to break the news to the family.
And here's where I would issue a word of warning. Be sure the person you appoint understands his or her job. Zach meant for his father to tell everyone, but apparently his dad only told his wife. That meant that Zach's mom, brother, sister and a host of other relations were completely in the dark about it for a week. Until I posted something about pre-op bloodwork on Facebook, and all hell broke loose. So make sure the person knows exactly whom to tell. Otherwise, you might as well announce it yourself.
2. Don't make a Facebook, Twitter, or other social media announcement until the majority of other people know. You will miss a few people--that's a given. And Facebook has kind of become our 24 hour newsfeed, replacing that terrible 2am phone call when it comes to breaking bad news. But I still think it's too shocking to open my Facebook feed and find out that someone has died or has suffered a tragedy. So I tried to mitigate that as much as possible. In fact, I have barely posted anything on Facebook since the miscarriage took place.
3. Have friends spread the word. I told one of my close friends, Brittany Lee, because she had been through a miscarriage a few years before. She had been through this and I knew she would be understanding. Not only did Brittany spread the word, she also organized a series of "sunshine meals"--home-cooked dinners that my friends brought over every other night for two weeks. It was an immense help during a difficult time, but I really appreciated that Brittany told my friends so I wouldn't have to handle those emotional announcements too.
4. Realize that, as with anything pertaining to grief, there are going to be mess-ups. There is no perfect way to make the announcement and no perfect way to inform the world of your own personal tragedy. Do what feels most comfortable to you at that given time. And realize that people are going to give you advice. When I went to have my bangs trimmed this past weekend, the hairdresser told me, "So I guess you learned your lesson this time, huh? Never tell anyone until after the third month." Well, yes. Lesson learned, though I'd rather not have learned it the hard way.
How about you? Were you able to keep your miscarriage a secret, or did you have to make an announcement?
The Top Five Things You Should Never Say
I was at the Medical Center of Arlington, getting my pre-op bloodwork done for my D&C. It had been a rough few days and I hadn't eaten a thing before going in for my blood test. A student nurse poked at the vein in the crook of my left arm. "Lookit it, standing up," she told the nurse beside her. "I should hit it here, right?" The older nurse looked over and rubbed my arm with her thumb. "Naw, go a bit higher. But looks like she had blood taken there earlier this week, so expect some clots."
The world began to feel fuzzy, and I began to sweat buckets. "You OK, sweetie?" one nurse said.
"Yes. I'm sorry."
"You gonna faint?"
"No. I've never fainted in my life." Which was true.
They continued to chatter, in an attempt to keep me from passing out, I suppose. One nurse asked, "So, how old is your daughter?"
"She's five."
"Gonna have more?"
"I don't know yet. That's kind of what I'm here for." And with that, I began to free-fall through my consciousness. A million thoughts rushed through my mind: I'm going to throw up; I'm going to die; I don't want to go to work tonight; my God, I am so tired and I want to lay down.
It took 16 ounces of orange juice, a wet washcloth, and about 20 minutes to bring me back to full awareness.
Which brings me to this blog's topic: What Never to Say to a Woman Having a Miscarriage.
I am sure you've heard these too. In fact, I would wager you have some real show-stoppers of insensitivity, rudeness, or complete and utter obliviousness. Here are my top five:
1. It is for the best.
You know, I get it. I understand that the pregnancy wasn't meant to be. From a scientific standpoint or from a spiritual one, I get that this was not a good pregnancy. But unless you are my OB/GYN explaining it to me, or my minister explaining the mysterious workings of God's will, I just don't want to hear it from you. I'm sorry.
2. Are you planning on trying again?
Hmmm. I suppose this is someone's way of checking in, making sure that we aren't so badly cowed by the experience that it's turned us off having kids forever. But it's really no one's business. And while I am in the midst of losing my current baby--let me finish this first, before I decide. Some women can bounce right back and try again. Others may never get over it. But you'll have to give me more than a few days to decide.
3. Did you have to push?
Do you really have the right to know the intimate details of my miscarriage? Does anyone really want to know the answer to this?
4. Nothing.
I have family members who have never acknowledged that we lost the baby. I suppose they are worried about saying the wrong thing. But nothing is worse than hearing nothing. Even the wrong thing, kindly said, means more than silence.
5. Nothing--with a smile.
The only thing that's worse than nothing is hearing nothing...with a smile. At Eye-vee, the place I worked as a proofreader, one of my coworkers was affronted that I missed two days due to my miscarriage. She was sure I was being given preferential treatment. When I returned, she was chewing me out after I refused to do a job I wasn't trained for. When she demanded to know why I didn't go to her for training, I tried to explain how little rapport I felt I had with her, because she was angry about my miscarriage. Joan grinned and then told me this wasn't an "appropriate" response at an "appropriate" time.
I will never forget the grin on her face, a real shit-eating smile that made me realize she really didn't care that I had a miscarriage. In fact, she saw it as a weakness she could use to manipulate me. And the next day I received a call from my temp agency that I was fired. Now I realize there are really people out there who don't give a damn if you lose a baby. And they will actually get the temp with the miscarriage fired because it suits their needs at the moment.
As I move through grief I find myself having to be gracious and understanding and kind to others no matter what they say--when you would expect it to be the other way around. I mean, if I want to have a breakdown at this point in the grocery store, I should--right? And yet I find myself being the strong one as people make gaffes and get me fired.
So tell me, what's the worst thing anyone said to you after your miscarriage?
The world began to feel fuzzy, and I began to sweat buckets. "You OK, sweetie?" one nurse said.
"Yes. I'm sorry."
"You gonna faint?"
"No. I've never fainted in my life." Which was true.
They continued to chatter, in an attempt to keep me from passing out, I suppose. One nurse asked, "So, how old is your daughter?"
"She's five."
"Gonna have more?"
"I don't know yet. That's kind of what I'm here for." And with that, I began to free-fall through my consciousness. A million thoughts rushed through my mind: I'm going to throw up; I'm going to die; I don't want to go to work tonight; my God, I am so tired and I want to lay down.
It took 16 ounces of orange juice, a wet washcloth, and about 20 minutes to bring me back to full awareness.
Which brings me to this blog's topic: What Never to Say to a Woman Having a Miscarriage.
I am sure you've heard these too. In fact, I would wager you have some real show-stoppers of insensitivity, rudeness, or complete and utter obliviousness. Here are my top five:
1. It is for the best.
You know, I get it. I understand that the pregnancy wasn't meant to be. From a scientific standpoint or from a spiritual one, I get that this was not a good pregnancy. But unless you are my OB/GYN explaining it to me, or my minister explaining the mysterious workings of God's will, I just don't want to hear it from you. I'm sorry.
2. Are you planning on trying again?
Hmmm. I suppose this is someone's way of checking in, making sure that we aren't so badly cowed by the experience that it's turned us off having kids forever. But it's really no one's business. And while I am in the midst of losing my current baby--let me finish this first, before I decide. Some women can bounce right back and try again. Others may never get over it. But you'll have to give me more than a few days to decide.
3. Did you have to push?
Do you really have the right to know the intimate details of my miscarriage? Does anyone really want to know the answer to this?
4. Nothing.
I have family members who have never acknowledged that we lost the baby. I suppose they are worried about saying the wrong thing. But nothing is worse than hearing nothing. Even the wrong thing, kindly said, means more than silence.
5. Nothing--with a smile.
The only thing that's worse than nothing is hearing nothing...with a smile. At Eye-vee, the place I worked as a proofreader, one of my coworkers was affronted that I missed two days due to my miscarriage. She was sure I was being given preferential treatment. When I returned, she was chewing me out after I refused to do a job I wasn't trained for. When she demanded to know why I didn't go to her for training, I tried to explain how little rapport I felt I had with her, because she was angry about my miscarriage. Joan grinned and then told me this wasn't an "appropriate" response at an "appropriate" time.
I will never forget the grin on her face, a real shit-eating smile that made me realize she really didn't care that I had a miscarriage. In fact, she saw it as a weakness she could use to manipulate me. And the next day I received a call from my temp agency that I was fired. Now I realize there are really people out there who don't give a damn if you lose a baby. And they will actually get the temp with the miscarriage fired because it suits their needs at the moment.
As I move through grief I find myself having to be gracious and understanding and kind to others no matter what they say--when you would expect it to be the other way around. I mean, if I want to have a breakdown at this point in the grocery store, I should--right? And yet I find myself being the strong one as people make gaffes and get me fired.
So tell me, what's the worst thing anyone said to you after your miscarriage?
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