As it turns out, miscarriage is a physically traumatizing event.
In retrospect, that should have been obvious to me, but it wasn't. Likely because I never heard anyone make a big fuss out of it, so I imagined once the placenta and fetus actually passed through my body it was all just kind of... over.
I was fully prepared to jump back into the swing of things just six days after we lost the baby. I suppose I thought, "I was good to myself and took a week off for concentrated grieving and now I'm ready for the beauty which doth lay ahead!"
and that attitude is what landed me back in bed for at least another week with strep throat and the flu.
My body was like, "ha. not happening." And I was like, "oh okay I didn't know."
I've since learned that most women are essentially bed-ridden for three or four weeks afterwards.
It makes sense when you think about it, because I went from being pregnant to not pregnant really abruptly and all of the hormones which were revving up for baby-time were suddenly unnecessary and without a home. Queue what I like to call the haywire effect.
It also makes sense when you think about it, because a living being died inside of me, and that is no small thing.
So I slowed down and made room for the bleeding, the cramping, the fevers, the strep, the flu, the exhaustion, and then... the antibiotics (and the ice cream) because there is only so much a woman can take.
As far as hormones go, "balanced" isn't a word I would use to describe myself.
For example, yesterday my roommate was making “too much noise” in the kitchen; clinking plates around and sizzling bacon at an incomprehensible volume. I fumed about it, unable to believe how disrespectful it all was. The inconsiderate savagery! Then, I felt guilty and awful for murdering him in my mind when there are so many more important things in the world, like child soldiers in West Africa, so I began sending strings of text messages to him about how thankful I am for his presence in the house, and how I know he isn't the only one leaving messes in the bathroom. When he didn’t reply, I felt insecure about my string of texts and started having anxiety attacks because I thought he would think I was an emotionally unstable human being. I was frustrated that I was having anxiety attacks and hated myself for caring so much about what he thought, so I began to weep and weep because I just wanted to feel normal again. So I nestled into my nice clean bed, and felt so comforted and happy that I asked Matt, “aren’t you happy? I'm so happy” with tear stains still marking my cheeks from the panic attack I was still having.
I'm not sure how long all of this goes on for, but It's been about two weeks and I'm coming to the slow realization that my body has been through it.
The upside is that all of this bed rest is giving me time to grieve, which I believe is the bodies way of advocating for the heart. It's beautiful to think about it that way. Body, mind, and soul are so interconnected, and when trauma hits one- trauma hits them all. It's miraculous the way they care for each other, making room for holistic healing.