I ‘Got Over’ My Miscarriage Easily And It’s Freaking People Out

“It’s happening,” I whispered to my husband, smiling in the dark. It was 1am, our daughter was asleep, and what I was feeling were unmistakably contractions. Not long after, I felt an urge to push, but instead of racing to the hospital, I went and sat on the toilet and let the inevitable happen. I was having a miscarriage, and I felt nothing but relief in that moment.
Later in the day, once the goriest parts were over and I went about my routine as usual, I felt a certain discomfort. Wasn’t I supposed to cry, to grieve, to be miserable for days on end, especially considering this was a much wanted baby that I had just lost? What kind of person was I to be so self-congratulatory about what I boasted to my husband was a “perfect miscarriage” (natural, not much bleeding, a quick cessation of pain)?

I’m not a heartless, emotionless person. The three weeks preceding the miscarriage were hell. I’d had a chemical pregnancy in May 2016 and two months later I was pregnant again. I was so anxious about it sticking; after wiping, every non-bloody piece of tissue was like a talisman as were the pregnancy tests I took every other day. I told my 2.5-year-old daughter that she could expect a sibling, took my vitamins, milked every twinge for sympathy and dismissal from childcare duties. It all went downhill at the reassurance scan I took at 6 weeks. There was just a wonky looking sac that measured behind by about 10 days. Progesterone pills were prescribed, another scan was scheduled. A week in limbo followed. Endless lurking on a website about misdiagnosed miscarriage, tears, hope, feelings of failure — I could barely function. The second scan revealed the presence of a foetus and that the sac had grown, but no heartbeat. Yet another follow-up scan was scheduled. Another week of being a shit parent, obsessive trawling of forums, tears, rage, grief. Misery all around.

 

Is dissolving into tears and sinking into a depression the only acceptable and “real” response to a miscarriage?

 

Then at the final scan, when I was about 9 weeks along, I was told there was no hope. The baby had probably died around 6.3 weeks. And that’s when the gloom started to lift. I was being released from limbo. There was nothing I could do, no amount of “research” on the internet could give me the hope I craved, I could get back to my life. I could stop grieving.
I told my husband we should go “celebrate” at a nearby restaurant, which we did. I tucked into cured meats with gusto and knocked back a few strong coffees. I felt quite cheerful. My spirits were further uplifted that very evening, when the bleeding started. No D&C, no misoprostol! This may have been a rubbish pregnancy but at least I could have a good miscarriage. My luck had not run out completely.

Once the fetus was out (I told my husband it felt like chunky vaginal diarrhoea while I was “evacuating” it, and he went grey in the face), I had no desire to look at it, to assign it a gender, to name it, to think of it as a potential person. I told myself all the clichés you’re not supposed to say to women going through miscarriage, and they helped me cope: it was just a ball of cells, everything happens for a reason, it was not meant to be, it was all for the best, at least it wasn’t ectopic/molar/late in the pregnancy, at least I had another child, I could try again. Every at least made me feel better because it reminded me that other people were worse off than me. I was still charmed dammit.

I did not take the day off at work and decided to go the doctor for the all-clear once the bleeding had subsided completely — I was not in much physical discomfort, I didn’t want manufactured sympathy or clinical prodding and the practice I go to plays Kenny G’s more plaintive saxophone renditions on loop, which I find unbearable.

Most people who knew what had happened made it a point to commend me on my “strength” but they were also a little appalled. I sometimes make jokes about it and that freaks people out too (I was quite proud of a little limerick I came up with: “My oven threw out my bun, so maybe now we are one and done.” Well, at least it rhymes). Some people think I’m faking it. Others say I’m not allowing myself to grieve. My husband actually told me to at least behave a little less clinical and cheerful about the whole thing because it makes me appear as if I am dissociated from reality.

But am I? Is dissolving into tears and sinking into a depression the only acceptable and “real” response to a miscarriage?

There’s almost a taboo around being able to “get over it.” It somehow makes you this insensitive, unfeeling person. Not woman enough.

There are so many articles about there being no one way to grieve or cope. I completely agree with that and feel great sympathy and empathy for everyone struggling in the aftermath of a miscarriage. I felt all of those emotions myself in the weeks before I physically lost the baby. But it should swing both ways. There’s almost a taboo around being able to “get over it.” It somehow makes you this insensitive, unfeeling person. Not woman enough. On occasion I found myself pretending to be sadder than I was because it was expected of me. That sucks. It’s not that I don’t regret what happened. Of course I do. I wanted that baby. But once I lost it, moving forward was the only way for me and I was grateful I was able to do it this time. It was a blessing to me that I could find that resilience, because that doesn’t always come easily to me. I definitely feel worried about ever being able to carry another pregnancy to term and sometimes I don’t want to even try again because the whole process causes so much anxiety.

But for now I am happy to have an empty womb.

The Flipside Of Ageism: Older People Need To Be Accountable Too

Last month, a sweet old lady hugged a sweet old man. He kissed her back. They were “two old people reaching out”, she said later.  But let me complete the picture for you: the setting for this display of camaraderie was a courtroom. The sweet old woman was Eva Mozes Kor, a holocaust survivor and the sweet old man was Oskar Groening, one of her Nazi tormentors at Auschwitz. Since then, the press has been waxing eloquent about the humanity of Nazis and so on, but the fact remains that the former Auschwitz “book keeper” (or rather, money launderer) remains on trial in Germany for the crimes he committed in the youth, and rightly so even though it is hard not to feel compassion for his frailty and watery eyes. Regardless, his current age is no excuse for what he did.

Now, let’s head to a drawing room in Gurgaon for a moment. I was visiting some relatives along with my husband and 15-month-old daughter. It was a congenial, feet-up sort of evening – the wine was flowing, there were toys on the floor. One of the guests there was chatting happily enough with the rest of us. She cooed and smiled at the child, got some coos and smiles in return. But at some point her mood seemed to sour.

She gazed at the child appraisingly and turned back to me. “Your daughter is very thin,” she said. I agreed, “Yes, she is on the slim side but the doctor is very happy with how she is growing.” It’s as if this lady never heard me. She said loud enough for most of the people in the room to hear, “You’ve obviously not been feeding her properly and instead have grown so fat yourself.”

I was not quite as stunned as I might have been, because she’d said similar things before–  at my engagement party (“the girl is pretty enough but she is fat and better lose weight before the wedding”), during my mehendi, after the weight had been lost (a stage whisper: “What is that awful thing this girl is wearing?”) and when my baby was born (“What a weak-looking child and what a large nose she has”). And, of course now — when I am fat again and no longer a trophy for the family to show off.

All kinds of retorts lingered on the tip of my tongue, as they had many times before. We all cannot be Miss Universe like you Ammaji or perhaps I’m fat but you’re a nasty person or even a simple and polite Wow that was a very unkind thing to say. I itched to get up and just leave as I had many times before. So far, though, all I had managed to do was block her number temporarily in a passive aggressive fit of rage.

But this time, as I had every other time, I sat still with a fixed smile. I met familiar, sympathetic eyes all around me. My mother-in-law gave my hand a squeeze. She understood my anger, but her message was the same as everybody else’s: Let it go. She is an old lady. And with decades of cultural conditioning having taught me that particularly Indian self-destructive brand of submissiveness I let it go.

I now wish I hadn’t. This woman had been cruel about my mothering, and had viciously tied her criticism in with my changed appearance. Her aim was to embarrass and humiliate me. She has had a history of such behaviour with certain sections of her family for decades. She gets away with it every time. At most, people will avoid her or act coldly towards her but they will never call her out. We need to question why older people get a free pass to act like assholes just because they managed to live to a certain age. Respect your elders, we are taught when we are still in our diapers. But to what extent? Our reverence for matriarchs and patriarchs should never come before our self-respect.

Let’s face it, the older generation in the name of preserving “tradition” has perpetuated all types of cultural tyranny. At one end of the spectrum you have the village elders in a khap panchayat dictate dress codes for women and on the other you have an educated dowager in a drawing room spewing venom at anyone (other than her favoured female relatives) who doesn’t look the part of a “fair, slim, homely” wife. Then there are “elders” who throw a fit if “the girl’s side” doesn’t bring enough dowry or if a son isn’t produced within the first few years of marriage. And those who have different sets of rules for their daughters and their daughters-in-law. No one dares question them and this needs to change.

This old lady’s repeated rudeness is unacceptable and if there is a next time I’m going to tell her so. People meet her and gush about how lucid and active she is (which she is) but they should compliment her for another aspect of her youth that she has preserved so lovingly – being a playground bully. As is said often enough, growing old, even to 100, is not the same as growing up.

I think courtesy and respect are due to everybody but if others, including the elderly, are discourteous and disrespectful we owe it to ourselves and to society to not take it lying down. Much as we now question those who think housework is women’s work or dynasts who talk about suit-boot ki sarkar, we need to question older people who think their advanced years give them a free pass to say and do whatever they like without consequence.

Why I will not pierce my baby girl’s ears

“So, when are you getting her ears pierced?”

I didn’t respond. My eight-month-old daughter was licking crusted-up cereal off the floor and I fussed around her, hoping the question would go away.

It didn’t.

“You know, you should have done it when she was a newborn. I hear they don’t feel so much pain then. Now, of course she is teething so I can understand why you don’t want to cause her any more discomfort.”

My relative was being sweet and understanding.

But she did not understand at all.

The truth is I was not so worried about the pinprick of pain or rusted implements or bacterial infections – none of the things that people attributed my lack of enthusiasm to.

“I don’t think I will get her ears pierced at all. Not until she tells me she really wants it done,” I said.

This was too much! The poor woman had to intervene!

“Oh no no, that is not a good idea at all. For one it will hurt her. Trust me, she will cry her eyes out when she is older.”

“That’s OK,” I replied. “We’ll see when the time comes.”

The woman’s smile faltered. “She is going to hate you, you know. All her friends will have piercings and nice earrings and she’ll be the only one who won’t. She will resent you.”

I took stock of the situation. Should I tell this woman the real reason? Would she take it as an affront?

I smiled blandly as if my wont, but here’s the real reason.

The reason I will not get my daughter’s ears pierced before she is old enough to request it is because  I refuse to have holes punched into her body just so that she can meet some ideal of feminine decorativeness. There is a world of difference between cruel practices such as female circumcision or foot binding or forcefeeding and getting a baby’s ears pierced, but think about it. They ARE along the same continuum, albeit at opposite ends.  They all involve encroaching upon the child’s bodily integrity so that she may be made more attractive – to men eventually.

In my culture at least, no one would think to ask me to get a son’s ears pierced. So, why my daughter? So that she can practice being bejewelled and bedecked for her wedding day? Even those who agree that Barbie dolls and traditional fairytales set terrible examples for young children, do not question the assumption that a young girl ought to have her ears pierced as early as possible. We think nothing of mutilating our little girls just because it ‘looks pretty’. To whom? Why? “No no,” you might argue. “It’s cute is all.” But then why isn’t it cute for most little boys? Conceptions of beauty and cuteness or whatever evolve for certain reasons. They are rooted in culture, gender expectations, in age-old power equations. “Oh but I do it for myself,” say those who enjoy adorning themselves. Good for you, but you enjoy it because you’ve internalised that beauty depends on how you decorate yourself, and wellbeing in turn depends on beauty.

And what if the child wants her ears pierced when she is five or six or 13? Then so be it. For all my feminist ideals, I can’t prevent her from assimilating the gender codes she sees around her. At most I can downplay the importance of appearance (also hard because she is an extraordinarily pretty child and that is what everyone focuses on), but I can’t prevent her from making her own decisions and supporting them if they do not cause her real harm. But at least my conscience will be clear in that I didn’t make a baby cry and bleed, however little, just so she could flaunt overpriced markers of femininity.

A sloth’s guide to the fourth trimester

Find time for your interests, take the time to dress up, to exercise and eat healthy. Enjoy a date with your husband. Nap when the baby naps. Read inspirational books. Everywhere I looked I was confronted with this exhausting advice for already exhausted new moms. It’s not that I didn’t try out these things. I did. Each one. And they only made me feel worse during the baby’s first three months – the dreaded ‘fourth trimester’. That is when I accepted I’d have to do things differently and leave worthier goals for later. My only principle for lazy moms like me: be twice as lazy. Here is how extreme slothfulness helped me survive the first few months:

  1. Give fashion the finger: I spend most of my days in a nightgown. It was a decision I took when my pre-pregnancy jeans refused to go up my thighs and my maternity ones added an extra pooch to my belly. The nightgowns are comfy and airy, make me feel smaller and are ideal for nursing. I did not want to think about the shape of my body – only its function. I don’t bother with maternity bras at home – the lacy ones are the worst – and leave my teats hanging free for my little calf. Funbags are now feeding bags and that’s all they need to do. Does anyone tie pink ribbons around Daisy’s udders? Answer: no.
  2. Live while the baby sleeps: Are there really mothers out there who hit the sack the minute baby does through the day?  For one I don’t fancy being wrenched in and out of consciousness all day and two, I want there to be a little more fun to life than sleeping and babycare. I like to take my time to have a nice bath, watch a TV show and stuff my face in peace. My baby goes to bed at 11pm and I go to bed at 3am and it’s my favourite time of day.
  3. Make your husband PAY: I’ve decided to stay home for at least a year for the baby, but I do demand a monthly salary from my husband. My uterus was the soil for his seed, and my breasts her food and water. I have also gained a significant amount of weight and have lost a significant amount of brain function.  His weight is the same, he can work uninterrupted and his body is not fair game for a milk leech. His money, therefore, must feed my need for chocolates and trashy novels. The upside is that these keep me tranquilized enough to deal with being a full-time mother –  a hunger for achievement and enough energy and confidence for outdoor/social activities could ruin this gig.
  4. Stop hoping: I stuffed my size 10 jeans into the back of my closet and tucked away my half-written manuscript. The sight of them just depressed me more. For the first three months at least, my only real purpose in life was to feed and be fed.
  5. Watch TV: I watch back to back episodes of a fourth-rate true crime how while nursing. It’s dramatic, it’s predictable and I don’t have to use my atrophied brain. Am I turning my baby’s brain to mush by exposing her to this tawdry show? Probably not because she is too young to actually ‘consume’ this junk. I will mend my ways when she is older but this is how I cope with the numbing boredom of sitting on a chair all day. There’s only so much one can gaze lovingly into baby’s eyes. In any case, she is like the pervs who line Delhi’s streets and has eyes only for my chest.
  6. Get part-time help: I’d say full-time, but I personally can’t bear to have another human being hovering around me all day and being judgy about my dirty nightgown. Instead, I have a nice carer come in for a few hours every afternoon and baby gets her fill of energetic games and singing. I still have to spend at least eight waking hours with baby but there’s not so much pressure to be creative and lively. Plus it’s good for the kid to have a break from her boring mother too.
  7. Go easy on the cleaning: For scientific reasons, of course. See point 2 of this post.
  8. Screw dieting: I tried going low-carb but baby didn’t like it and I didn’t like it. Cookies make me happy and I am nursing. Enough explanation. 

5 Reasons to be a lazy housewife

It’s been about six months since I was paid to work. The last four have been a whirl of poopy diapers, endless nursing and crash courses in Incy Wincy Spider and Patty Cake. So, is the sacrifice of a job and social llife worth it? Desperate to convince myself that indeed it is, I compiled this list in one of my anonymous Twitter accounts. Now, since I have someone to watch the infant for a few hours, I shall expound on the advantages of being a lazy housewife and stay-at-home mother.

 

  1. Cleaning shit is better than eating it: Success at work is often contingent on how eagerly one can lap up the boss’s frothy diarrhoea straight from the source. Office politics stink way more than any number of dirty diapers. I feel my life is cleaner now than it has ever been before.

 

  1. Housework is bad for your baby: Domestic drudgery is no longer necessary. All the latest studies say that a spotless home can keep your baby from developing a robust immune system. And if you have a dirty dog, you’ll be doing your child an even greater favour.

 

  1. Dirty laundry means dirty laundry: And there are unholy piles of it, nothing metaphorical about it – but all you need is a washing machine, not a PR campaign or social media clean-up operation. No one can drag your name through the mud, partly because you aren’t really meeting anybody to do nefarious things with. And since you’re no longer part of professional power struggles, no one cares enough to gossip or dig up incriminating things about you.

 

  1. Spreadsheet isn’t a single word: It’s two words on my calendar, done every Tuesday. Could never quite figure out those fucking Excel sheets. Spreading out the 100% Egyptian ones is so much easier.

 

  1. Baby talk means more than small talk: A heartfelt goo-goo sometimes makes more sense than the meaningless noise that small talk often is. This really hit home a few weeks ago when someone asked me how my father was. I paused – at that point of time he was grappling with an interesting dilemma and I was wondering if I should mention it. I started to, but seeing my hesitation, my guest stopped me, ‘Oh don’t bother, I am just making conversation.’ Now, in a way this was nice. She gave me an out and I appreciate it. But at the same time I felt a rush of irritation – what is the point of ‘conversation’ if it is purely dramaturgical in nature? Small talk is a way of filling in silence and a polite way to make listening unnecessary. It is a fundamentally dishonest mode of interaction. When a baby coos and gurgles, he or she is communicating love and a sense of connection. There is nothing false about it. My baby never talks about the weather. Yet, anyway.

 

What not to say to a woman in labour

Four months ago, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. And I am still surprised that she isn’t hiding in my uterus because of the unspeakable, scary things that were said to her mother during labour.

Oh, this pain is just 20 percent of what you’ll be feeling a few hours later’ 

Why, thank you doctor for that uplifting assurance, given while I was practically rolling about the floor in agony. I don’t know why some practitioners seem to relish freaking out patients in pain – another woman I know was even told that ‘if this pain is Kanyakumari, just you wait till you get to Kashmir’. Guess what? Such statements are NOT helpful. I was fairly stoic up to the point that I met this doctor, but I completely broke down after her cheery reminder. Instead of getting through each moment, I started seeing labour as this huge mountain of pain that I wasn’t even halfway through.  She also did not take my reported pain seriously, which meant that I went through several hours alone in my room rather than in the labour area where there were tools that could have helped me cope. In the end I was taken to the delivery room when I was almost fully dilated. I should have used her face as a stress-busting ball.

‘You do not need an epidural’ 

NOT your call to make, doctor. There is no excuse for disrespecting the reasonable desires of a patient. In the end I had to kick up a huge fuss and was given pain relief only when I was 7cm dilated and it was removed (against my wishes) when I was at 10cm. The anaesthesiologist was quite annoyed when she was sticking in the needle because my hard and fast contractions kept interrupting the process. But wait, she was a bitch too. See my next point.

‘Wow, you really piled on the kilos’

OK, I admit it. There was no need for me to have used my pregnancy to have inhaled huge slabs of steak (for the iron, of course) or those tall, icy chocolate milkshakes (for the calcium of course), but the delivery table was not the place to chastise me for my lack of discipline. The anaesthesiologist kept whining about how my back fat was making it more difficult for her to give me the epidural and wasn’t it a shame that pregnant women used their condition as an excuse to overeat. It wasn’t enough that I was bare assed and in excruciating pain. I had to feel shame over my body too, which despite the unsightly flab was actually doing something pretty cool – giving birth! I finally snapped and told the doctor ‘If I apologize for eating too much, will you do your job?’ Luckily, she did, but though my physical pain eased I was left with an uncomfortable and unnecessary feeling of embarrassment.

‘Do potty! Do potty!’ 

I am a modest sort of person when it comes to my body. Changing rooms are like torture chambers to me and when I am in a stranger’s house, I leave water running when I take a piss. One of my top fears in the run-up to giving birth was pooping on the delivery table. I know it isn’t rational to worry about such things when a little human being is shooting out of your uterus and tearing its way out of your vagina, but that’s me. It was one indignity I didn’t want to go through. One of the nurses, unfortunately, did not know this, so when the time came to push, her advice was to ‘push like when you go potty’. I froze immediately and told her that I’d rather let the baby calcify inside me than do potty. She just chuckled, pretty much climbed on top of me and screamed even harder, ‘push push push. Potty karo potty karo. Do potty do potty’. At that moment I gave up and the poor baby had to be suctioned out with a vacuum! Advice: LISTEN to what a patient is telling you.