i am not okay (pt 1)
i'm not supposed to be right now
Read the connected poem for this story here, or wait for the reminder at the end.
I have been putting off writing this for about two months. It’s what we all do now, anyway. Feeling is too heavy, throw yourself into anything else: housework, schoolwork, workwork…
I’m not ready to talk about it, and that’s why I’m going to. Because it will never feel okay, and I’m waiting for nothing.
In the early morning of January 4th, I talked to my Nanny for the last time. She went into the hospital on Christmas morning after fainting, and I was home with my husband, three hours away, secretly seven weeks pregnant. I did not know at the time everything that I was in the middle of losing.
Worknights and bad weather got in the way. On the 29th, my mom facetimed her for me from the ICU before I had to leave for work. I almost didn’t pick up, because I selfishly didn’t want to face how I was feeling.
“Hi Halle! I love you! I miss you.”
Everyone said she lit right up. I spent a long, slow night at work knowing a snowstorm was coming, knowing I missed my chance at leaving for her indefinitely.
I had been ignoring my family this entire time. Between being newly pregnant for the first time, violent roommate conflicts, school stress, and seasonal depression, I deleted everything from my Motorola and put my SIM back into a flip phone. I desperately needed space. And I needed to not see her in the hospital knowing I wasn’t going to be there anytime soon. Everyone said she was rallying, right? People who have worked with elders and death know that’s actually not a good sign, but for myself, I needed it to be.
I knew I wanted her to be the first person we told, even before we knew she was dying. My husband and I tried for five months before being able to get pregnant. We knew that it would take some time, having both been told as teenagers we might struggle to have children. It was an especially traumatic process as someone who menstruates so violently. Bloodwork, supplements, constant ovulation and pregnancy tests, temperature and symptom tracking, cycle charting, always ending in such intense menstrual labors I wanted to give up; knowing that we didn’t conceive this cycle and knowing I might go through this mental, emotional, and physical pain just four weeks later.
We finally left Peterborough for Pembroke on January 2nd. The roads still hadn’t cleared up, but I knew we had to go. I still hadn’t responded to anyone. I told my sister what had been going on and called to say we were on the way, but behind my eyes I was alone.
At this point, two roommates found out we were expecting by being nosey, the third because he kept refusing to stop smoking in the house, my supervisor because I kept having to run to the bathroom every 10 minutes at work, and now my sister because I was so overwhelmed I needed someone who could help play defense on behalf of my emotional volatility. I had yet to be able to announce the news on 100% my terms.
When we got there, she was sicker than I had ever seen her, even more than right after her stroke, but her smile would never let you know. She demanded a hug, and I happily obliged, but as it turns out, she was more after one from Justin.
“I love you forever and ever,” she said to my husband.
Every time we had ever gone to see her, he got an extra hug goodbye, even the very first time. If anything told me to marry him, it was that. I gave her some of our wedding pictures, and a drawing I made of two penguins holding hands in a snow globe.
“Is that us?”
“You bet, Nan.”
The next day, Justin and I waited until the afternoon to go in. We spent the morning at Walmart, picking out onesies and baby books, trying to plan sharing the news. I had wanted us three to be alone, and to tell only her, but I tried to accommodate other plans, knowing that would be unlikely. She started declining as soon as the two of us got there. She got tired. She was uncomfortable in bed. She couldn’t breathe. She started hyperventilating. The room was cleared, and X-Ray machine was wheeled in. Just my aunt, me, and my husband.
“We can’t say for sure what it is, maybe a clot was thrown somewhere, but whatever it is, she won’t survive it.”
Even though the doctor had given no real timeline, I felt it. I had to gather myself and call my dad. I had to tell him his mom was going to die. That he needed to get down here, now. I had to hear his shaky exhale, on realizing this dreaded moment had actually come. I had to call my mom, tell her to pick up my brother, because everyone needed to be there. I had to call my sister, who had just left back to Peterborough, and was planning on coming back the next day. I had to tell her we didn’t know for sure, but I didn’t think she’d make it back in time.
It was agreed upon that we would just keep being happy and spending time with her, because she was afraid to die and nobody wanted to scare her. But she knew. She decided to do Christmas with us that night, after reallocating extra money into all of our cards. She gave them to each of us individually, in private, recorded by my aunt. Still, no one would say it in front of her, but of course she knew.
When that was over, it was our turn to give her a gift. We handed a bag to her, and to my parents, and to my aunt and uncle, to open all at the same time. A couple of baby books, and Nan’s present, a tiny outfit that read: “I choo-choo choose you!” She couldn’t make out what it was, but I told her that me and Justin were having a baby. Some people believe that the beginning and end of life are deeply connected, by whatever happens in between. Sometimes toddlers babble about their last life, or someone on their deathbed sees someone that already passed. This was the first sign (I’m lucky enough to have a video to transcribe):
“See? It’s a shirt for a little baby.”
(Knowingly) “Ohh- Why, is it soon here?”
“Me and Justin are having a baby.”
“Yeah, I know, but, it’s not here yet.”
I, unknowingly, was having a missed miscarriage. Even though I was still pregnant during this exchange, there was no longer anything growing inside me. The baby would, in fact, be “delivered” soon, though not naturally.
She knew she wouldn’t be around, too, because she said my mom and aunt would be happy to help me. They were; they both talked me through my loss and surgery.
I had broken what was supposed to be the happiest news of my life under such devastating circumstances; knowing I was announcing to her the existence of a baby she would never get to meet. I had also done it in front of my cousin and his fiancée, who I knew had also been trying unsuccessfully, although no one knew we had gone through it, too. It wasn’t not at all how it was supposed to go.
Later that night, Nan wouldn’t let me help move her in bed. Because I was pregnant. In the time that she needed to be taken care of the most, she was still taking care of me. We always understood each other. My dad was exhausted and grieving and couldn’t quite understand her frustrated, dry, breathy words. When he left the room, I adjusted her legs the way she was trying to ask. My final act of love.
“Thank you, Halle.”
My dad sent us away for a couple hours, but the whole family ended up getting called back when the nurse was confident her heart was going to fail. There were only a few of us at first. My dad wanted me to get to talk to her, because I had gotten the least time to. They were trying to keep light, happy conversation, keep her distracted, even though they were still having a hard time understanding her. She yelled at everybody to “frig off!”, wanting to talk to me alone, but no one understood the demand, so I’ll never know all of what she had wanted to say.
I don’t remember the full context, if she was explicitly asked, but we were talking about me becoming a mom, and I will never forget what she said. That I was going to have five or six babies, but she was going to keep one to take care of herself. We all kinda laughed it off, because she was sleep-deprived and sedated, but there was more truth to that last part than anyone knew.
“I love you, Nanny.”
“I love you, too, Halle.”
She fought for about four more hours, trying to stay alive, as she had said before, for her beautiful family. I helped her pull her oxygen tube off when she was fed up of it, and my aunt, my mom, and me all sat with a hand on her until her heart stopped beating.
I will have to leave it at this for today, but I will write out my pregnancy loss experience in a separate article when I can. I just needed this closure for now.
♡ Hal
I love you! 😢