Kenopsia (n.): the forlorn atmosphere of a place that is usually bustling with people (or once was), but is now eerily abandoned and quiet.

Old empty shopping malls; decrepit defunct asylums; school buildings and museums after visiting hours.

My uterus, this time last year.

In February of 2021, I was approximately 9 weeks pregnant with my second child. And then, one day, I suddenly wasn’t. People don’t talk about miscarriage, generally, for a number of reasons, but I can really only speak for myself. For me, I haven’t talked about it because acknowledgment of that loss was too painful; it was easier to set it far back on the shelf, once I’d recovered physically, and bury myself in other things, keep myself as busy as possible. This was easy to do, since I made a huge career change literally right on the heels of it. But, anniversaries have a funny way of making you hold onto things whether you want to or not. Currently, I’m on a school break, so I don’t have teaching to distract me day to day. As such, a state of kenopsia is taking over my brain (except instead of bustling with people, it usually bustles intensely with thoughts and tasks and such)…and leaving too much quiet time and space for my liking. Too much quiet time and space, that allows stuff I’d pushed away to creep back in.

In the interest of properly attending to my mental health, I’m going to give myself that time and space here. I’m going to allow myself to hold it, finally. So, if details of pregnancy loss are not your thing (I understand), turn back now.

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Ironically, it was the day before my initial appointment with the OB. I was at home working (I had a different job and wasn’t working as a teacher full time at the time, more on that later), and went to take a bathroom break. I did my business and got up to find a toilet bowl full of blood. My husband was still working from home at the time too, and came down when he heard me scream; he had no answers for me of course, but to his credit, he stayed outwardly calm while allowing me to panic. I called the OB office who told me to come right in, and they confirmed I was miscarrying…but they also had misgivings about what they were seeing on the ultrasound. There was concern that I was not experiencing just a “run-of-the-mill” miscarriage (is there such a thing?), but that I was miscarrying a cervical pregnancy – where the embryo attaches itself to the cervix instead of the uterine wall. There are ectopic pregnancies where the embryo attaches itself to a fallopian tube, and that’s terrible, but apparently a cervical pregnancy takes it from terrible to horrific if not dealt with expediently. The worst part of this was how inconclusive things seemed, so, I was directed over the course of the next week to see not one but two other obstetric specialists, which was no easy feat as there apparently aren’t too many specialists versed in cervical pregnancies. The first specialist was local; the other, two hours away, and beyond that, specialists would be found in New York City. Over the course of this nightmare, I was not only in great pain, and agonizing over the loss of the pregnancy, but had the added terror of wondering if I was going to die. I suppose I should be thankful that the memory of how far in my head I allowed myself to go with those thoughts has since faded. Still, it was a very dark time for me. The relief felt, when the second specialist declared me to not be miscarrying a cervical pregnancy after all, was so tangible that I could have poked it with a finger and watched it jiggle like Jello.

Once death was off the table, our attention turned to proper treatment and recovery. The only thing, in my experience, that was more painful than recovering from a miscarriage was recovering from a C-section. I bled for over a month, and everything hurt. My abdomen, my head, my extremities, even my scalp hurt at first. Surely that was the hormone fluctuation. It took a few weeks for me to feel functional – not good, just functional – just in time for my dream job opportunity to come along when it was most unlooked for. For a long time, I’d wanted to leave my job as a care manager in the disability service field, for a few reasons, but without state teaching certification, I held little hope I could ever work full time as a teacher; I was teaching Sunday School, which was great, but I’d assumed that was as close as I’d ever get to a teaching career. I’d explored other unconventional ideas for a career change but had no solid plan. I was literally laying on my couch, brokenhearted and broken-bodied, when my rabbi texted me about an opening for a second grade teacher at the local Jewish day school. I told him I would think about it. A couple days later, a friend had shared a post on Facebook about a local school looking for a teacher, and when I commented out of curiosity, the original poster (who turned out to be the day school administrative assistant) messaged me and was so enthusiastic and insistent (and assured me several times that they would not require I be state certified, since I did still have my master’s degree) that I sent her my resume. The rest, as they say, is history. My one year anniversary of starting my career as a full time teacher is coming up in early March.

Is this relevant to my miscarriage? I know it may not seem so, but, truthfully, had I still been pregnant at the time this opportunity fell into my lap, I may not have changed careers. My former job had many problems, but, it also had a great benefits package, and as an expectant mother, that would have been much harder to walk away from. But, suddenly, I was no longer an expectant mother, and that package no longer felt applicable, so, after a lot of consideration and discussion with my husband about it, I took a leap. It’s been nearly a year, and I can confidently say this change was the right choice for me. I have spoken with my students and my fellow teachers about my “teach-iversary” coming up, with excitement and warmth; what I don’t talk about is the flip side of that coin, the impetus for my career change this time last year. What I don’t talk about is how over the last year I have thought every single day about how much I wish I hadn’t miscarried, how desperately I want to have more children. What I don’t talk about is how difficult it has been to be patient and let my body get itself back online so we can hopefully conceive again, how much I worry that it won’t happen.

…I guess it’s time to talk about it. Not because it will combat stigma, or some other noble thing like that, but because it’s what I seem to need at this point.

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My mind is a very busy place, all of the time. There’s a whole lot of room for me to have all those feelings along with weeks’ worth of lesson planning, long-term ideas for family vacations, new concepts for paintings, scenes to add to novels in varying states of progress, the week’s grocery list, inane details about my favorite books, random clips from television shows I’ve watched over and over again, and so much more! My entire life has been an ongoing exhibition of mental gymnastics to hold everything (figuratively speaking) for my parents and brother, so at this point, it’s just how my brain is wired. Holding things of my own is a newer experience for me, but, I’m trying. Apparently, when a school break coincides with a painful anniversary, the kenopsia that ensues won’t let me have much choice in the matter.

This week, apparently there’s a flickering neon sign on the memory motel inside my head, and it’s indicating I have melancholic vacancy, so difficult thoughts are taking up residence and forcing me to deal with them. So, if you need me, I’ll be here with the Pine Sol, mopping up after my feelings.