Echoes of Infertility
When Bathrooms Were Just Bathrooms
I expect sadness. I accept sadness. I embrace sadness. I want to let go of The Other.
In therapy and writing my memoir, I dive into the cold, dark, and choppy waters of disenfranchised grief. A vast ocean where the ugliest swells rise from a potent mix of emotions other than sadness: Anger. Resentment. Self-loathing. Betrayal.
The Other is unpredictable, yet it has been with me for decades. I hate it, yet I can’t let it go. It is behind me, yet I can’t close the door.
The Other approaches with a heady sting.
I find the air pocket.
So many years spent plugging holes,
that’s not why I am here.
I am here to swim in it,
soak in it,
feel it from head to toe,
face the fear.
I have support.
Fully submerged, I trust I can recover.
It hurts.
Two pink lines. Naturally, I am excited to share the news with my one and only mom friend. I want to hear all about what it feels like to be pregnant, and she is thrilled to share. Her joy is palpable. After dinner, Jen and I move to the couch to continue our conversation. I feel a tiny cramp. I have been so hyperattentive to my body that I am convinced that this is just gas, and I ignore the physical sensation. A few minutes later, I feel it again, like a pulse, a sharp but faint sensation that I am unwilling to label as pain. It is likely my bladder, I decide, and I excuse myself to the bathroom.
What is that on the toilet paper? I tell myself that it must be a fiber pressed into the tissue while simultaneously feeling an ominous wash. I bring the soiled toilet paper closer to my face and examine the speck. It is minuscule, but the contrast of the brownish-red to the white beckons my fear. I gather and flatten a new sheet of toilet paper and dab my vaginal opening. The tissue is clean, no speck of worry. My concern moves to the depths of my consciousness with a hard swallow.
The fear follows me to the couch, where I intend to ignore its company. Unfortunately, my mind is not on board with this plan, especially given the real experience of my friend who sits beside me, ready to share, as good friends do, in whatever way I need.
Jen’s first pregnancy ended in a miscarriage. I am not exactly sure how far along she was at the time, but I remember her sadness. My schema was limited. I did not understand the trauma of pregnancy loss. It seemed more medical than psychological in my naïve and unfortunate perspective. Hence, the intense loneliness understood by many women who live through this experience.
Tonight was supposed to be filled with conversation that connected us through the expected joy of a 9-month journey. Now, I begin to contemplate the possibility that we may become connected by the unexpected trauma of miscarriage. Still, I can’t come out with it, the words will make it real, and I want to believe that this worry is another side effect of my neurotic personality or obsessive thinking. Instead, I gently sprinkle a question or two in hopes of easing my elevated stress level. “When did you first think that there might be something up with your first pregnancy?” I ask with my heart in my throat. It’s a risky move, letting my anxiety lead this train to another station. Jen raises her eyes to meet mine, but I realize she won’t ask me why. She is compassionate and open, a true friend who knows when a question needs a simple, direct answer without follow up. She is letting me know that she is there to support me without pressure. “I felt some strange cramping sensations, and then there was a little spotting.”
A squeeze in my heart follows with a pulse that radiates from my chest and into my arms. I am sitting solidly on the same couch, yet it feels like a roller coaster drop. I contain my reaction and try to maintain a calm exterior. Anything else will open the flood gates and sweep my thoughts into negative swirls. Worry is familiar. My mind has been overwhelmed with fear since childhood. I categorize this fixation as an irrational, compulsive thought pattern. It was a fiber; there was no spotting on the second wipe. You are fine.
Bathrooms are for torture. In these tiny spaces, often the smallest room in a home, I have lost my sense of self. Showers are for sobbing, ugly sobs that shake my body while the steam attempts to unblock my swollen sinuses. Medicine cabinets are for pills, vials, tests, and chemicals to assist my failing body. Red plastic sharps containers live next to a wastebasket filled with negative tests and discarded tampons. Mirrors reflect my naked body, perfectly intact and unremarkable on the outside, vacant and inconceivable on the inside. Toilets are for urinating onto sticks and catching my unborn. Bathrooms are pressure-filled spaces tiled in clots, fluids, blood, tissue, and confusion.
This is the day that infertility transformed the bathroom, the day I became an unprepared and unwilling character, attached to this forced revision of my reproductive story.
The next morning, I wake to immediate dread. What will I see when I wipe? I want to relieve myself of this negative swirl, and the only way to do that is to confirm with a clean toilet paper wipe. Urinate, dab, and check. There it is again. I can no longer call it a fiber. This morning it is most definitely a spot.
Originally published at http://trappedinanairpocket.com on January 9, 2021.
