Kotte

So when I started this blog I said that I planned on writing about food and catharting over my miscarriage. I haven't done that much of either, have I? The explanation for both is simple: I'm pregnant again.

Catharting over my miscarriage is difficult when all of the fears and memories and grief are now fully tied to something that I'm trying not to mention here.

Writing about food and how fun it is to cook and posting recipes is difficult when most proper food makes me nauseastedly wrinkle my nose and the smell of cooking drives me to buy take-out or let Fredrik cook for me.

Telling people you're pregnant

Before I was about 25 and started working, which is the first time I had people around me who were making babies, I wasn't aware that people typically waited until after the first trimester to tell people they were pregnant. Perhaps this isn't the way people do things in the states -- I really wouldn't know, as I believe I knew a grand total of 1 pregnant person before I moved to Sweden, and she was ready to pop when I met her -- because I remember that my English friend and I were really surprised at how low-key and late a fellow teacher announced that she had a baby on the way. But it wasn't until my friend Maria became pregnant with her beautiful little girl in 2004 that I became at all "up close and personal" with this whole having-babies business, so I read up a little and learned that miscarriages are common and that the vast majority occur within the firs 12 weeks. Since the first ultrasound (at least around here) is also at 12 weeks, waiting until after this is considered advisable. You wouldn't want to have to tell people "false alarm!" would you?

For a person who has previously had a miscarriage, the advice to wait before telling people is typically given in an even stronger tone. This normally doesn't change anything, of course, since most people receiving this advice pass the week of their previous miscarriage before they pass week 12 and the first ultrasound. I think the peak weeks for miscarriage are week 5 (chemical miscarriages) and week 8 (I don't know why this one is, but presumably it's because the common genetic flukes that cause miscarriages allow an embryo to last for about this long). The advice to be cautious and wait with the news is perhaps a bit more for those of us who have had second-trimester miscarriages; the people who have had the unthinkable 3% of 20% event happen to them and, in the eyes of the advice givers, probably wouldn't want to go through telling everyone and their aunt once again that their baby has died.

This advice is a load of crap.

Since we lost our baby in week 17, everyone knew I was pregnant. My hairdresser knew I was pregnant. My driving instructor knew I was pregnant. Fredrik had gone around and proudly announced it to all the out-of-towners who came to an anniversary party for his university band. One of the first thoughts I had when waking up at the hospital (or possibly even before) was how we were going to survive having to tell this story 300 times.

We made it as easy on ourselves as we could, trying to pick out central people in each circle of friends or acquaintences and asking them to spread the news. They performed their task admirably. This meant that almost everyone knew right away, and the awkward "So, when's the big day!" were brought to a minimum and, since they were from people we don't see very often, were saved for a time when we were better equipped to cope with the question. Even discussing it with our closer friends and loved ones became spread-out in a way that didn't overwhelm us; it was vital for me to know that people knew, to know that they understood why I was as quiet and panicked-looking and weepy as I was, and that when to discuss it in detail was mostly up to me.

But the question is, did the dilemma of how to tell 300 people that I'd lost my baby without going positively looney warrant us trying to prevent a repeat? What is the alternative, and is it better?

The alternative is to hide the news entirely. The first problem with that is the fear. How on earth could I deal with the constant fear and worry about how this pregnancy will turn out if I don't allow myself to talk to anyone about it? The second problem is joy. I want to be able to be happy about being pregnant, even if I can't bring myself to be happy in the same way as the blissfully naive girls who start buying booties and picking out names as soon as they get a positive pregnancy test. It doesn't seem fair that my previous loss should rob even these things from me.

The next problem is deciding when to tell people. You have to cough up the information eventually, since otherwise your belly will tell people for you. But after having a late miscarriage, there is no logical deadline. Since I miscarried in wee 17, should I just wait until week 18? That's pretty artificial, and doesn't guarantee anything, especially when most of us don't know the cause of our miscarriages. Should I wait until week 20, when the window for miscarriage technically ends? That's also pretty random, as it's merely a definition decided by doctors and legislators, that week 20 is where miscarriage ends and stillbirth begins. If I can lose a baby in week 17, I can lose one in week 21. And by this time, people would be wondering why I'm wearing the same pair of fat-tummy overalls every day.

How do you explain to your boss why you're disappearing two afternoons a week if you don't say it's for midwife and counselor appointments? How do you deal with the tactless people who won't take no for an answer when they offer you wine? What do you do if you go to a friend's place for dinner and they serve three courses filled with stuff off the "don't eat when you're pregnant" list? Your friends have their eyes on you all the time, so as soon as you say no to a glass of chardonnay -- even if you're like me and would like to think that you don't drink that much normally -- they'll "know" that you're pregnant, anyway. Some of them will be so rude as to ask, and what's the point in lying?

And last but not least, we come to the point of this "wait to tell" advice: in case the unthinkable happens again, how do you tell all your friends and acquaintences and coworkers and hairdressers and driving instructors? My contention is: much more easily than the first time.

As soon as I've told people I'm pregnant this time, they knew what was at stake, in a way that didn't cross their minds last time. They are fully aware of the fact that I might lose this baby, too. Sadly this means that the reaction this time is more "Oh, cool, we'll cross our fingers" rather than "OOOH CONGRATULATIONS!" But let's be honest -- I'd want to choke some people if they were all jumping up and down and cooing and yelling excitedly this time. So everyone we care about knows what might happen, and knows quite vividly how much of a wreck I will be if it does. They're better equipped in many different ways to deal with the jiggling pile of Jell-o that I would become. The announcement would require several magnitudes less of explanation.

The alternative is to try to hide my cautious happiness, bottle up my near-crippling fear and worry, lie to my boss and look unprofessional, lose any chance left of bonding with my newly-mommied friends, and be forced to announce BOTH a pregnancy and a miscarriage simultaneously in case the worst happens, thereby denying myself the full support and understanding that I need from my loved ones.

I am now 12 weeks pregnant, and these weeks have gone agonizingly slowly. Every thought I have revolves around the pregnancy. I honestly can't imagine how much more torturous they would have been if I hadn't allowed myself to talk to my friends and family about it. So I can't for the life of me understand why I didn't let myself write about it.