Amy Loves Glitter

Content warning: pregnancy loss.

Two years ago, in the weeks leading up to my birthday, I survived a miscarriage.

My miscarriage was one of the most painful (and quite frankly, traumatic) experiences that I’ve ever endured. I laid in our tub, with hot water streaming from our shower, and sobbed in pain as my body worked to expel blood and tissue from my body.

Over the course of two weeks, three blood tests, and two intrusive ultrasounds, it was determined that my traitorous body was still retaining “products of conception”. You know, more tissue and blood that, if not fully removed, could cause an infection at best, and sepsis and death at worst.

The options provided to me, post “incomplete abortion”, as my medical records currently read, were as follows:
— “Wait and see” if the tissue would pass on its own: not highly recommended by my medical provider, due to the chance of infection.
— Surgical dilation and evacuation (D&E): one of the methods available to completely remove all of the placental tissue in the uterus after the first trimester of pregnancy. A D&E may be performed for a surgical abortion, or for surgical management of a miscarriage.
— Medical management: A combination of the drugs mifepriston and misoprostol, also known as a medical abortion. These drugs cause the embryo to detach from the uterus, and the lining of the uterus to shed.

I’m beyond lucky to live in a state that currently protects a person’s right to an elective abortion, and access to these above procedures. But thanks to the Supreme Court’s recent ruling in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization, some states have decided that surgical and medical treatments are no longer available not only to people seeking an elective abortion, but to people like me, who needed the assistance of these procedures in the wake of a miscarriage.

Some of these states where abortion is now illegal do provide an exception to save the life of the pregnant person — but that means that, in my case, I’d need to “wait and see” until either all of my retained products of conception had passed on their own, or until an infection was raging through my body and putting my life at risk. The Dobbs ruling removes a person’s medical agency, removes control over their own body, and puts lives at risk.

Before this week, I could count the number of people that knew about my miscarriage on one hand, and I’m not sharing today for likes or comments or social media clout, but to put another face to this battle for medical autonomy. You might not realize how many people you know who have benefitted from abortion procedures, but: I’m one of them.

Choosing to continue a pregnancy is a deeply, deeply personal decision, and mental, physical, and financial health are all factors that should be taken into consideration on a case-by-case basis. Pregnancy-related mortality rates in the United States are actually increasing; the US has the worst rate of maternal deaths (the “maternal” time period being defined as during pregnancy or up to a year after pregnancy has ended) in the developed world. Black individuals are at significantly higher risk of maternal death than non-Hispanic White and Hispanic individuals.

Anyway. For my birthday, I’m raising money for NARAL Pro-Choice America, and their efforts to lobby for access to abortion and birth control in the U.S., as well as to promote paid parental leave and stop pregnancy discrimination. Because abortion access is healthcare, and decisions to continue a pregnancy should be made by an individual and their medical provider, not by a state’s government.

Internet. I can’t relate to fighting it myself, ‘only’ depression and anxiety – but more than one of my besties, among others, have each struggled with their own thoughts of suicide. And it’s terrifying, not being able to help the people you love, who you know are hurting. I can only imagine that I have *more* friends who have entertained the idea of suicide, but whose brains tell them not to speak out or seek help, for varying reasons of helplessness, shame, fear, etc.

It’s incredibly easy to say “oh if you have these feelings reach out” or “call this number when you need help” (I am guilty of this myself) but I can confidently say that when you are in your darkest depths, that’s not always how it works. Brains are assholes. Fear is a liar.

One of the most liberating things I’ve found about being more open with my struggles with my mental health is that it encourages other friends and acquaintances to be more open with me. And that, in turn, strengthens our support network, because we know that we’re not alone.

Last week a friend texted me pre-panic attack. I couldn’t do anything but let her know that I was around if she needed me, or ask her “do you have meds? can you find a quiet place? did you remember to take deep breaths?” And that’s a special kind of helplessness. But we were in it TOGETHER. And even that tiny sliver of not-alone can help, in the darker times.

If I might recommend a source of hope, please take a moment to check out To Write Love On Her Arms. Founder Jamie Tworkowski wrote a book called If You Feel Too Much. I have purchased many copies, for my friends who need light in the darkness. And maybe it can be a light for you, too.

It’s hard to recognize that a year has passed when you’ve been taking everything day by day.

March 31st is the first anniversary of my father’s death.  I could have sworn it happened just yesterday — but at the same time, I feel like it’s been an eternity since he passed, since I heard his voice, since I held his hand. And every day since then has been some sort of struggle.

Grief is a monster. When you think you’ve beaten it down, it sneaks up and tries to consume you. When you finally manage to get to a point where you’re no longer crying every single day, you might put on a few episodes of mindless television to pass the time.  Oh, this is the episode where George’s father dies? Great, excuse me while I quietly sob in another room. Some days, for no apparent reason, just suck. I wake up with an ache in my chest and just trudge through the day. I’ve taken to calling them Sad Dad Days when my husband asks me what’s wrong.  Because there’s nothing wrong, and there’s nothing to be done. I just have to survive until bedtime, when usually, hopefully, the ache subsides when sleep comes.

Sometimes I dream of happier endings. That my dad made different choices in his life, choices that meant my dad was still with us. Those mornings are the worst, the ones when I wake up and don’t remember he’s gone. Those are usually the days that are hardest for me to get out of bed.

And then there are days when I’m just angry. Angry that things aren’t different, angry that my dad didn’t take care of himself, angry that there was nothing any of us could do to make him take care of himself. Angry that my sisters and I had to make medical decisions for him. Angry that my dad won’t dance at my sisters’ weddings. Angry at myself, for not making sure that my wedding photographer captured photos of my dad with my sisters. Angry for assuming we’d have more time with him than we did.

There are days when it feels like the hurt is never going to go away. That there’s always going to be this raw, broken edge in my soul. There are days when I wish for a statute of limitations on grief, because it just feels endless. It’s been a year, shouldn’t this hurt less by now? When one of his favorite songs plays, or when I pull a tray of cookies out of the oven and some of them have extra-crispy edges, or when I miss his laugh. Days when all I want is a hug.

But there are days when I think of him and smile. Cooking dinner on the grill in the summer. Riding in the car with the windows down and the music up. Sitting in the dark and watching the lightning, waiting for the thunder. Finding a shiny penny on the ground as I walk the dog. Those are the moments that dull the ache. My dad would have loved this. I hold on to them like talismans to keep the grief at bay.