4. The Tale of the Trashbag Sonographer

CW: cold, clinical jargon related to pregnancy loss. And lots of swearing.

In the hours that followed the miscarriage, it was a blur of emotions. We know this to be a normal and typical experience. They came quickly, one after another, some indistinguishable from others. It was at times hard to pin down what I was feeling in a given moment. But one emotion that seemed to be absent all together was anger. And you know, for me, that’s a pretty notable absence. I have a long and familiar relationship with anger. I voiced to Blake and our visitors that I worried gravely for the first person to give me a legitimate reason to be angry. Nothing like a good ol’ dressing-down to make me feel powerful and in control again, right?

Less than 8 hours after the miscarriage, we met the Trashbag Sonographer (TS). For the purposes of making this post public, I have redacted her name (against Blake’s wishes) simply because I will be making a complaint and would like it taken very seriously.

Basically, we were wheeled down to Radiology for an ultrasound that was booked in make sure everything was physically okay after the miscarriage. On our arrival, TS asks, in a cheerful, friendly way: “So, what are we here for today?”

I blinked. In my brain - “Wut? Can’t you read the file, fuckface?” Out my mouth - “Uhhhh... we lost our baby this morning.”

She then asks, a little too cheerfully for my taste, “Oh, so it was a fully aborted foetus?”

Beside me, Blake’s body language has changed. He is not happy.

I can’t remember what I said out loud, because my brain was suddenly packed to the brim with swear words and insults. With my expansive vocabulary, there were a LOT. Among them, I did think, “There are literally a million ways to ask that without using those exact words, you absolute shitbucket of a human.”

“Did your placenta come out? Is there any left?” is the next thing I hear.

My brain - “If I knew what was going on inside me I wouldn’t be here, you abysmal fuckwit. You work in a hospital. I’m in a fucking hospital gown. How about you stop being a blithering idiot and read the fucking file instead of asking me?”

Out loud - “I don’t know, I’m not a gynecologist,” I answer tersely.

I think she gets the message at that point because she more or less stops speaking.

She leaves to get something shortly after doing the scan. Blake looks at me with his most unimpressed face and says “I do NOT like her.” I agree. We dub her [Firstname] Trashbag.

I regret that I didn’t break down in tears in front of her (I mean, that’d show her how shitty her bedside manner was, right?). Nor did I give her a stern dressing-down. The emotional whiplash - having gone from meeting only lovely, wonderful, sweet people all day to meeting this absolutely incompetent, jargon-using, shitshow of a human - was quite silencing.

After we left the room and while we waited to be transported back up to our room, Blake and I spent a good 10 minutes just tearing her to pieces. Don’t worry, she wasn’t there, but she could’ve been in earshot? We didn’t particularly care if she was. We called her [Firstname] “I can’t read” Trashbag. [Firstname] “I have the worst bedside manner” Trashbag. [Firstname] “If you walked in with a gunshot wound I’d ask what you are here for and then ask if you know what organs it hit on the way in” Trashbag. [Firstname] “I could read your file but I’d rather trigger the shit out of you instead” Trashbag.

We debated on whether or not she was born a Trashbag, or married into the Trashbag family. We decided it didn’t matter cuz she’s clearly also a Fuckwit - that was probably her maiden name. We pulled no punches. We managed to make each other laugh. It was an odd moment, but we are odd like that.

I am well-known (notorious, even) for having a low threshold for incompetence at the best of times. Imagine what it’s at now.

Yet, even as I type this, with the actual anger having passed somewhat, there is some recognition that this is not wholly fair to her. But then it’s like, go work in a clinic in the community if that’s what you’re about. You’re in a HOSPITAL. Yeah you still see people as outpatients as well, but I WAS WEARING A HOSPITAL GOWN.

Anyway, I stole her towel in retaliation. This is not a joke, it’s actually at home with us. I plan on vandalizing it and maybe even destroying it one day when I really need the outlet. Or the laugh. Either is fine. More than likely, I will spray paint her name on it, put it in a trash bag (GET IT? *finger guns*) and chuck it into a landfill.

We’ve told the story a few times to family and friends already. My dad’s response is probably my favorite, simply because it was both validating and very in-character for him as well: “It’s okay, we can just get her fired.”

I’m not overly interesting in actually causing this woman to lose her job, Trashbag or not. I don’t think she quite deserves THAT. But some awareness about how her demeanor impacted us is likely to be productive. It could certainly ensure she is more sensitive to other patients in the future, or at least more aware of what is going on for her that makes her come across that way. I will be giving feedback on this at the same time that I submit compliments about my care team.

I’m glad that having a process through which consumers can give feedback is required by all public hospitals here. I don’t plan on screaming down the phone at anyone or anything, which is why I’m taking another day or two before making the call. It’ll be good to make sure I am clear and coherent, ensuring the message is well-received.

I reserve the right to call her the Trashbag Sonographer for-basically-ever, though.

3. Finding Power

I first came across the term “empowerment” in an academic sense during my Social Work studies, where I learned about the difference between helping someone and empowering them. It’s the classic giving someone a fish versus teaching someone how to fish. (That one, I got from Civilization V, a video game.) Both things are extremely important, but there is a time and a place for each.

We are fortunate enough to be well-resourced, both emotionally and in general. That already gives us a decent start to our grieving process. We are resilient people. We have means, a place to live, and food to eat. We have each other. We have supportive families and friends. We have understanding workplaces with supportive colleagues.

Many people don’t have all or any of those things. I cannot imagine what it’d be like going through this without even one piece of our equation. We are lucky. We are privileged. This has been a devastating experience for both of us, but we know we will be okay in time. Not everyone is that fortunate.

In our search of meaning-making in the wake of this awful tragedy, I happened upon two avenues through which to make our loss mean something. Discovering them was a great, empowering feeling fueled by grief, both uplifting and validating at the same time. I’m mindful that this possibly comes across as a bit self-indulgent, like I’m trying to show everyone how fucking amazing I am. Oh well. Writing helps, so that’s what I’m going to do. This is my process.

The first of these 2 avenues, I travelled for me. In the days leading up to hospital, I contacted the same emergency number twice. I was given 2 different sets of information. On Sunday afternoon, I was told that no concern was needed, and it was only under certain circumstances that I needed to worry. I did not need to go to hospital and I could go see my doctor if I wanted to. On Monday evening, I was told that what was happening was definitely not normal at my stage in the pregnancy, and that I should go to my local hospital as soon as I could.

I’m wary of sharing too much information, but basically: on Sunday I was told that I only needed to worry if O > P. Well, at no stage before our tragedy did O > P... it never even came close. In fact, O was very much < P right up until the second it actually happened, in the early hours of Tuesday morning. Luckily, I was an inpatient in the hospital by then, admitted for observation.

If I hadn’t called back and gotten the advice on Monday, it could have happened at home instead of in hospital. This was something that kept coming back to me in the hours that followed. What if I hadn’t called that second time? What if I didn’t get that advice when I did call again? The entire experience could have been so much more traumatic than it already was.

It was instinct that had me call back, and luck that I got told to go to hospital. These are not things on which I’d gamble actual life.

I called the emergency line’s feedback number earlier today (Wednesday, 10/10/18). I calmly and (if I do say so myself) articulately provided my feedback - one a complaint, one a compliment. As is in-character for me, I gave exact dates and times of both calls, because I had them recorded and I memorized them before I contacted the feedback line. The person who took my call was surprised at how quickly I was able to provide feedback, and I simply told her that it was part of my process. I did not want another woman to get given bad or mixed advice, but I did not offer feedback under any sense of obligation or duty. I did it selfishly, to help with my own grief and to ease my pain. I get to be selfish right now.

Doing something felt better than doing nothing. No one suggested it to me. I did it because I was able to, wanted to, and saw no reason not to. I need outlets, and this was one that helped me recognize my power. I found a power outlet. [PAUSE FOR LAUGHTER]

Finding power in such times is rare, but it is acknowledgment that even now, I have some. Some people have even less, or none at all. So with what I have, I will do something. It’s a nice feeling.

The second avenue and the next step, we will do for our baby. During our hospital stay we were told by a sweet and wonderful O&G Registrar (I plan to give very positive feedback about her and all the nurses who looked after us), that there is no bereavement midwife at our local hospital. Basically, this is a midwife at the hospital for people in our situation to call if we need support or guidance after we have gone home. It is a common service in other countries and is available even at the local women’s hospital to have someone in such a role. After all, you don’t want women in my position to call the same number where babies are being born; it opens the door for potential, accidental triggers. I could call the women’s hospital for more appropriate support, but they don’t have a record of me there. The Registrar was angry and disappointed that such a role didn’t exist at my local hospital (we really like her, guys) and promised she would investigate further and get back to me.

I decided before I fell asleep at home on Tuesday night that if no such role exists at my local hospital, that I would ensure one is created. I know the health system because of my work and I have a voice. I will do this, I promised myself, in memory of our baby.

I got off the phone with the Registrar early on Wednesday, because she called as promised. She confirmed that there is no such service at our hospital. She said that during her conversations today, the O&G Consultants agreed to work on creating one. I immediately offered my help - I know these things progress further with a consumer on board. We agreed that if it doesn’t happen before she finishes her rotation this December, that I would be more than ready by then to step up and take it on. I implored her to contact me as needed even before then, because it gave me something to do without feeling like I was trying to ignore my grief. I intend to take this as far as necessary, because I can.

This one will be for our loss to mean something. For our power and privilege to effect change. For people with no supports to have a place to go to get it. For me to practice what I preach and remember that even now, I have power. This one is for our baby, who left us far too soon.

2. On Strength

People have called us strong. From family to friends, the word “strong” was given to us by multiple people. I don’t disagree; we ARE strong. But it did make me me wonder what strength actually was. When I agree that we are strong, what does that mean?

Strength is not being stoic. It is not about a quick recovery. It is not a lack of emotion impact. It is not an absence of tears. It is not pushing to move on, it is not pushing past it. It is not pretending it didn’t happen. It is not going through it alone.

Strength is giving permission to ourselves to feel how we feel. It is crying when we need it, as hard as we need to. It is talking openly about the various thoughts that come to mind, even if putting them into words and speaking them aloud makes us cry. It is naming how we feel in whatever vocabulary seems right at the time, knowing that these feelings are normal and to be expected.

It is allowing each other to process our grief in whichever way suits each of us. It is writing when we need it and tidying up when we need that. It’s cutting each other some slack while knowing that some things will still need to be done regardless of how we feel. It is sometimes allowing ourselves to be distracted from our feelings or thoughts while other times allowing each other to just sit with our emotional discomfort.

It is allowing ourselves to take our time, one day at a time, one step at a time. It is noticing how we are doing and letting each other know when things are getting too much. It is being open and honest about what we can handle.

It is walking a tightrope between protecting ourselves but still allowing some things to hit us hard. It is knowing that random things might bring sad or confronting thoughts, and it is only in encountering them that we better understand our grief.

It is being able to ask for help when it is needed. It is accepting it when it is offered.

It is setting boundaries that keep us safe but that also clearly communicate to others what we will find helpful.  It is allowing ourselves to be alone when we need it, or asking for company when we need that. It is answering honestly when we are asked how we are... except maybe when it comes from an unsuspecting grocery store checkout person. 

It is humor. It is allowing laughter. It is patient optimism. It is knowing that breaking down is okay and expected. It is an unyielding belief that we will eventually be okay.

It is knowing that we are better together, stronger together. It is allowing this pain to bring us closer together. It is giving us permission for our “normal” to change, believing that we will be okay once it has settled in.

It is knowing that grief is love, that we would not feel this way if we did not love what we have lost. It is knowing that we are sad for ourselves, each other, and the other people who love us. It is an awareness that sadness is only one piece of how we feel, in and amongst a complex, interwoven web of intense emotion.

It is attempting to find meaning within an unspeakable tragedy. It is gratitude for the support and resources we have. It is exploring ways of letting our pain alleviate that of others in any way. It is accepting what we cannot control while empowering ourselves to take action where we can.

Strength is a complicated word that means lots of different things to different people. I do reject that silent stoicism is in any way representative of strength, but that’s just me. I reckon letting yourself feel what you feel in the moment arguably takes courage, and I’m proud of both Blake and I for giving each other the safety to do just that.

I couldn’t help but notice that certain words kept popping up as I was writing this - allowing, giving permission, knowing, believing. I think it’s fairly indicative of what strength is to me.

Don’t feel like you need to be strong for us. *We* are strong enough for us. Feel what you feel, along with us. Grief, like most things, is easier when shared.

1. Writing

I will be writing regularly to help me process my grief, and I write better when I pretend I am writing to an audience. It’s kinda like how it’s easier to talk when you have someone to talk to. Don’t feel obligated to comment, but if anyone’s wondering how I’m going, this is a good way to check in. Just please make sure you also check in with Blake, because this isn’t his outlet and his process will be very different to mine.

One thing that has been very helpful and interesting to me is learning that in a crisis, my focus slides towards others. It could be that it’s easier to worry about other people than it is to focus on me; this is certainly a common reaction to acute distress. But I also think that there is a confidence and a resilience deeply encoded into my person, nurtured over time by a loving family and reinforced by amazing friends.

I think that deep down, no matter what is happening, I know I will be okay. I might not be okay *right now*, but I am confident that I eventually will be. That I can get through it, it’ll just take time, and that letting myself feel how I feel is just part of that journey. So my concern then turns to others, because maybe I worry that they don’t have the same confidence or the same resources that I do. I worried about my parents and his parents, who had all been excited for their first grandchild and now have to face devastating grief. I worried about my dad, who happened to be away from my mum at the time. I worried about my mum, about to get on a plane and spend 6 torturous hours alone with no one to talk to. I worried about my mother-in-law, whose husband has recently had brain surgery and is still recovering in hospital. I worried about my father-in-law and his recovery, still in rehab after brain surgery.

I worried about our sisters, both eager to be aunts for the first time. I worried about my sister in Seattle, away from our family. I worried about my sister-in-law and the toll it has taken on her to be in hospitals practically every day, whether for work or to be there for her family.

I worried about my husband, whose father has been in hospital, who not long ago experienced tremendous upheaval in his professional life, and who would naturally feel even more powerless and helpless than I did in these awful circumstances. I worried also that people would focus too much on me and not enough on him.

I worried about my extended family, all of whom were excited for the first member of the new generation. I worried about Blake’s extended family, who had recently also been  through a painful loss.

I worried about the nurse who was with me in the early hours of Tuesday morning when it happened. I worried about friends who are also currently pregnant who, once this news is shared, may feel the need to censor their joy for my sake... which isn’t fair to them, but as they are also loving people, would be a natural consideration that I urge them to ignore. I worried about the friends I know who have been through this themselves, not just because I now understand in part the utter devastation they experienced, but that now our news may bring some of those painful feelings and memories back.

I didn’t worry about me. In spite of my current grief and pain, I am grateful to already know that I will be okay. I am grateful that I am well-resourced. I am grateful that we are surrounded by such caring and loving people. I am grateful that I can allow myself to cry and for my heart to break, knowing full well that the tears will pass and my heart will eventually heal.

I think it’s why I find it helpful to receive messages from people who are able to send them. I am a very verbal person and words are how I process things, but it’s also like a reassurance that they are okay and that I have permission not to worry about them. (Even though I still will, cuz fish gotta swim, you know?)

I want everyone to know that we know we will be okay because of you. Knowing that our respective families, friends and workplaces share in our grief and are thinking of us means more than words can adequately express. It gives us such a safe space to just feel everything we feel without judgement, knowing that a lot of the process is learning how to sit with the discomfort of our complicated emotions.

💜

How sad we are to say goodbye so soon. We were hoping to spend so much more time in your company.

How lucky we are that we had the time we did with you. It didn’t take long for us to love you with all of ourselves.

18 weeks was not long enough for us to show you how much we love you, but it is more than enough for us to carry you in our hearts forever.