Posted by: DD | August 16, 2006

no. 252 – On The Surface

Alexa asked me how do I find time keep up on blogging and posting. I’ll address the posting.

It’s because I’m only posting from the surface. That’s the short answer. Now for the long…

I have days (and nights) when my head swirls around one thought. I know that it can take hours, if not days to take what’s there and put it here. It’s much easier to write something in 15-30 minutes about poop or post a picture and give myself the immediate satisfaction of having a new post up.

This pushes those ideas deeper and deeper until I sometimes forget what they ever were. They are not only beaten back by the trivial, pointless thoughts, but just day to day things that go on. I have a full-time job that on days makes me want to run screaming from the building; I come home to find Mr DD watching TV and X eating "snacks" while a pile of dirty dishes sits in the sink and a pile of his work clothes stink up the laundry room. I don’t have time for "Deep Thoughts", much less the publishing of such.

Today, I did. I was home nursing a nasty SI. I slept till noon. I had the day to myself. Tonite, Mr DD and X went with my in-laws to eat. I stayed home. I started this post. First it was going to be more fluff. More surface. But one of the thoughts that occurred to me today wouldn’t let itself get beaten into submission. It was about Vivienne. Sure I think about her everyday, but recently with a few pregnant bloggers reaching that 12 wk "milestone", I obsess about that final week with her.

It’s so hard not to comment when someone says, "whew! made it to 12 weeks! free and clear from here!" because I was 15 weeks. Sure, she probably died somewhere between 13-14 weeks, but what’s the difference? I want to know why they think that 12 weeks is now safe? I wrongly want them to have a scare.

I knew a lot of people around me thought my miscarriage was a loss of a fetus or tissue. Why? Because that’s how I thought of a miscarriage before my own. I lost a baby. A child. And I have these morbid thoughts of her last moments inside of me. Did she suffer, kicking, turning and fighting for her life? Or did she die in her sleep when that one crappy chromosome defect just *popped*, in just that brief moment of time? I wonder why she made it that far. And if she had made it that far, why didn’t I just get that opportunity to feel her inside of me so I could do more than just imagine how she might have been.

I found this picture of X the other day. He looks like a little girl here because his hair is longer. It was taken 2 days before I found out Vivienne was gone. She was more than likely already dead. And I stare at this picture because I know that’s how she would have looked.


I should be combing the tangles out of her fine hair, so much like mine. I should be wiping the tears from eyes, so much like her father’s. I shouldn’t be here. And I swallow down the pain that threatens to choke me and I write about the good things because they are right there, on the surface. It takes too long and it hurts too much for me to dig under all that to find what will always be there. I don’t feel like dusting it off every day to make it presentable and palpable to you, even though I thinks it helps to do so. It helps me. It can help others.

So, here I am. Foregoing supper and a drink so I can finish these thoughts before X and Mr. DD get home so you might be able to understand that my proliferation has nothing to do with anything but trying to blot out and push back the deeper, darker thoughts I have. Because quite frankly, most days I’d rather not be here at all.



  1. DD. It aches to read this post, and I can’t imagine what it cost you emotionally to write it. Vivienne wasn’t just a blob of tissue, she was your daughter. She should be in your arms right now, and I hate that she isn’t. I want to scream at the universe on your behalf and ask who was in charge that day? I feel as though I’m only touching on the surface of what I want to say to you, but the words aren’t coming. They’re all mixed up with unhappiness and anger at what you’ve been forced through…what you continue to go through. Just know that my thoughts are with you.

  2. Aw sweetie…blogland would definitely be missing something if you weren’t around. I don’t know the pain of what you are going through but I can see that it never really goes away. Vivienne was lucky to have such a wonderful mom who loves her so much. I’m sure she will always be there with you in some way. I wish the wound didn’t run so deep. Thinking of you…

  3. I am glad you find the time to post, may it be ‘surface’ or ‘deep’. I often don’t post, not because I didn’t start writing, but because i couldn’t finish the post. Too many difficult emotions arise, so I stop.

    take care, DD.

  4. I read, fluff or not. I know how hard it is to reveal the inside, especially for you, as you tend toward the stoic and tough. I am happy you have this outlet, one that waits for you until you are ready. We’re not just friends inside the computer. We really do care about you… and Vivienne. I’ll tell you again how brave you are for learning her gender and naming her. She’s your daughter, whether she’s here or not.

  5. I am so sorry.

  6. It’s easier to stuff it all down, but one day it gets too full. I think you let out enough for some breathing room. Just do what you feel you need, and we’ll all be here for you, fluff or muck.
    Thinking of you.

  7. I am so sorry and wish that there was something I could do to ease this pain for you.

    Sending a huge hug,

  8. I’m so glad you wrote this because I totally feel it.

    With my miscarriages I still think about the children they might have been. I miss them. Thank you for telling me I’m not alone.

  9. I miss mine as well. I understand how you feel.

  10. I look forward to reading your posts – all of them – the funny and the deep. It would be nice if we didn’t have this cloud of infertility hanging over our heads and the want of more children consuming our lives though, wouldn’t it?

  11. You couldn’t confine yourself to writing posts like this all the time or you would be checking out the computer facilities whilst locked up somewhere. It’s the fluff and laughs that get us through I think.
    I honestly try not to think about any of my miscarriages and about exactly what I lost but it’s a losing proposition. My first MC was in the second trimester as well and I am weirdly thankful that I didn’t have a pathology done. It is hard enough knowing that miscarriages 3 and 4 were boys – I didn’t want to know the gender of this last miscarriage – it’s just too hard.
    Well, seeing as I was keeping my distance from the infertiles for a while (after a brief meltdown), I missed your anniversary post. Might I still be able to ask you something?
    Well, you know me, I’ll ask anyway.
    What are the three words you would use to describe who you are? Not what you are, but in your heart of hearts, what makes you, you?
    Yeah, I’ve been in kind of a crappy place lately and have been thinking about things like this (not to be deep, but just to make sure the brain cells are working – imagine my surprise to find out they’re not).

  12. A beautiful post… a beautiful image of what might have been. I’m sorry. I’m sorry seems so terribly inadequate, but well my brain is fried and you fried it a bit more with reality. That’s okay the fluff would have fried it too… don’t worry I read both fluff and serious. I’m always here, always reading.

  13. I’m so very sorry.

  14. My last miscarriage was at 14 weeks. It was no fetal tissue, it was a baby. Perhaps it couldn’t have lived outside my body at that point, but in my heart, in my head, I loved it and had dreams and hopes and love and a name…people just don’t understand. I am sorry you went through that.

  15. DD, I can relate so much to every single thing you wrote. A dark part of me is angry that other pregnant womens’ innocence is still intact when they discuss their pregnancy and what they’ll do when they are 4 months, 5.5 months, 7 months. I’ll think, “You may not get there. I didn’t”
    But I suppress because it’s the kind of thing we do.
    HUGS! It sucks to always be strong.

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