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10/27/2004
Senseless
This morning I had my three-hour glucose tolerance test. While I sat patiently in the waiting room in the long intervals between blood draws, I was unable to avoid overhearing the conversation of the women at the registration desk.
Familiarity breeds contempt, I suppose, or at least a breezy nonchalance. Their tone was perfectly matter-of-fact, brisk and businesslike, this-won't-hurt-a-bit, even when discussing the most heartbreaking matters. "Her beta's only 62, so she's not going to bother to come in." "Yes, but the baby died." "Oh, when they miscarry, I just throw away their purple sheet."
They were not especially callous, I think; they were just getting through their day. Yet it shocked me — not their talk or their tone, but the fact that this is the stuff of their every workday. And how do you make sense of a world when such circumstances are commonplace enough to inspire anything but a shaken silence?
This is the silence I felt upon reading Sarah's posts on Cecily's blog yesterday and today. This is a world where such things happen every day, but never ever should.
How can this make any sense?
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It's hard to make sense of suffering. I'm just getting this news from you now. Obviously, those registration-desk women have had to deaden themselves to the pain that surrounds them daily, just in order to cope. What is so extraordinary about this group of blogging women is the love and grace and humor you all bring to the process of staying alive to pain. My heart goes out to Cecily and to all of you.
-Anne
Cecily is one of my favorite bloggers. We have things in common, and I feel like I understand her (illusion that this probably is). After I read the posts yesterday, I walked around in shock, doing that thing that happens in tragedy where one thinks, "But she was fine. She was fine, just, like a day ago..." I don't get it. I don't know how she's going to cope. I woke up at least a dozen times last night wondering how such a thing could be. No answer to that, I guess...When my mom died tragically people would say it was sad, and it made me angry, like sad is almost patronizing. We need a really big word, that conveys the enormity of when something is just really, really wrong and seems like it should never be.
It's just like...Just when you think everything is going really good. Like you got past the hump whatever ones hump might be. Then you get slapped back into reality. This whole thing with Cecily just blows my mind. I was thinking just like Cherylc was, That she was just fine then look what happened. Fuck I wish I could slap the shit out of somebody.
I know the ladies in my OBGYN office are the same way, but they still treated me so special when I had my losse, like it was the first time they had ever heard of such a thing. We all want to be treated as individuals with our pain and not be clumped together. Hopefully the ladies at your office are like that, understanding to every individual, even though miscarriages are an every day event. It just sucks that you had to hear it.
I don't know how this happens and it just pains me. I wrote about the exact same thing this morning. It is so wrong.
I've never found my RE or his nurses particulary comforting. I always got more comfort from my vet when my pet rat died than I did from then after I miscarried. I know, I guess you just have to harden yourself to so much pain. I guess, but that doesn't make it any easier especially since I cannot ever step outside of this pain.
Prayers for Cecily and I hope your tests results are good.
Love,
I don't understand why these things happen to good people. I just don't get it. Praying for Cecily and her family.
Coming from someone a family practice doc... conversation like what you heard is normal within an office.
Usually the nonchalant talk like that is amongst people who don't know the acutal patient. All they probably know is the name and the numbers, so it almost seems unreal for them.
Personally, when the doctor/ staffmember knows the patient and knows the heart break it does hurt, but we often don't express it well out loud.
There is that defense mechanism of protecting ourselves so we can make it through each and every tradegy without running home to cry.
But we do go home and cry, often when things get built up.
WE are human and we care!
I have no idea...no clue why these things happen. All I do know is that I've been praying, ALOT.
I was a journalism major in college, and one of our big stories my senior year was a fraternity hazing incident that ended in a pledge being so drunk that he crawled into a welding shops back storage/waste area and fell asleep in a pile of lime. He ended up with burns over 90% of his body and nearly died.
This is a sad story, no where near as sad as losing a baby (in my humble opinion, but then again I've known the losing the baby pain and not the serious burn type of pain), but I remember that we used to refer to that pledge as "Lime Boy" when talking about the story at the paper. It wasn't right and I feel badly about it now, but I also know when reporting the news you put yourself into a mode of thought that makes it possible for you live beyond the news. If you dwell too much on the headlines you would live in pain for the humanity.
I think that's what the nurses do. Not that it's right, but it's human instinct.
As for Cecily, I've never read her blog until today and I wept for her. I can't imagine her faimlies pain and there are no words to express my sympathy. I'm so glad we have this blogging network so that even during these terrible times we have each other to lean upon.
Wondering if you've been tempted to go to your cave, too, Julie. I know Tertia has been feeling the pull, and I damn sure have. It's been one hell of a week. At some point I almost find myself wishing I had that "numb button" the nurses have just to be able to be happy for myself for a bit. Alas, I think our empathy skills are a wee bit too finely honed.
I just pray that all of the women I know who're going through hell right now find their way back.
I'd never read Cecily's blog until today. I had preeclampsia, too, and I know how quickly things can go from ok to really awful. It is a terrifying disorder. There are absolutely no words I can find to adequately express my shock and sadness at her situation.
At the same time, as you pointed out, these things happen every day. They shouldn't, absolutely, but they do. And the sun comes up the next day. I don't say this from a lack of deference to those who have suffered a loss, I say this as a person who has suffered many losses in her lifetime. The fucking sun *always* manages to come up the next day, people still go out and buy shoelaces, gum, and fried chicken and look the other way when they see you standing in the fried chicken line with tears streaming down your face.
It doesn't make any sense. And trying to make sense of it--asking how the drunk can climb out of his crushed car, having just killed an entire family--will make you wonder how anyone ever gets what they deserve or desire, whatever that may be.
Please send your support to Cecily today. Charlie has just posted that they had to make the awful decision to end the pregnancy.
My heart goes out to both of them and anyone who has ever had to make such a terrible decision.
From personal experience, there is no nonchalance about the pain and grief experienced by others. You recognize it, you acknowledge it, but you wall yourself off from letting it affect you or you go crazy. Some days this isn't possible, and you hole up somewhere and cry, but most of the time, you recognize it and move on - occasionally even indulging in some black humor to get you through.
I followed the link over to Cecily's blog from here, and I am profoundly moved by her loss. It never makes sense. It can't. And so I cried for her just a little bit, and I cried for me a lot. I had the happy ending in a similar situation (superimposed PIH and HELLP), and while I realize how lucky I am that I will be snuggling my tiny, but healthy baby in less than an hour, I also realize even more just how damn close we came to losing him.