So, I’ve had a couple miscarriages. One was quite traumatic, ended with a D&C, subsequent infection, surgery, a few days in the hospital, and a near hysterectomy. And one, as my doctor likes to say to comfort me, was a “garden variety” miscarriage. Both were six weeks. I tell you all that because I like to know, too. And if you’ve had one, I know exactly what you’ll do. You’ll compare it to yours, and with that information, know how comforted or scared you can expect this story to make you feel.
When the trauma of miscarriage happens to you, especially more than once, and you’ve moved your way through the initial dark tunnel of pain and grief, your most likely next stop is the dark tunnel of “how do I make this never happen again.” This tunnel is most commonly referred to as Google. Or perhaps the seriously lacking miscarriage book section of Amazon.
If you’re a cerebral, Enneagram 5, INTJ, Ravenclaw like me, you want all the information you can get to exert as much control as possible on your unruly and unhelpful reproductive organs. My plan is to educate them into submission, as I am want to do with many other unwilling people and things and situations in my life that I naively think can be fixed by more information. And this, my friends, is how I found myself at acupuncture.
After all the usual western medicine testing that’s recommended, acupuncture is often listed as a helpful practice for infertility and miscarriage. And like any thorough researcher, I’m going to make sure I try it all.
If you Google acupuncture, you’ll find something like this: “acupuncture is a Traditional Chinese medicine technique for balancing the flow of energy or life force known as “chi,” believed to flow through pathways in your body. By inserting needles along these meridians, acupuncture practitioners believe that your energy flow will re-balance.”
Uh huh.
Chi. Like what Iron Fist (the absolute worst Marvel comics series on Netflix wherein Loras Tyrell from Game of Thrones has a light bulb hand) channels to summon his mystical secret weapon of a hard punching fist.
I know it may sound like I’m making fun of acupuncture right now, and maybe I am. I come from a very western medicine minded, conservative family that doesn’t really believe in things like chi. My dad is an MD and my mom is a counselor and if I came home talking about my balanced chi, you better believe I’d be up on the white board of prayer requests at their church small groups.
But the thing about miscarriage, or infertility, or any other kind of sensitive, emotional reproductive problem is: you’ll try anything to fix it. Even chi balancing. So despite my sarcasm and condescension, I’m willing to buy into it. I really am. The desperation to shake a familiar pain you can’t seem to avoid really opens up your mind. And if nothing else, I feel grateful for another thing to “do” about it. Another way to exert some control over it in a mostly uncontrollable situation.
So there I was, at acupuncture. I didn’t feel cynical. I know acupuncture is helpful for a lot of people. It’s been around for centuries and responsible practitioners gets years of training. Mine even has her doctorate in it. Plus a handful of my friends swear by it, which I know is anecdotal, but it’s good enough for me.
The lady I’d chosen to see comes very highly reviewed by Google and Yelp and I was very comforted by the 50+ 5 star reviews. She specializes in infertility.
She asked me all kinds of questions that also encouraged me. Questions about my lab results, thyroid, “flow,” and reproductive history. “This seems pretty legit,” I thought, “she really wants to know about medical stuff.” Dr. [name redacted] looked to be in her mid 50s and had a soothing voice and presence and the kind of confidence that only comes from doing something a very long time. The diplomas, certifications, and “Best Of” awards on the wall made me think I’d made a good decision. She even mentioned stuff about nerves and neurohormonal pathways, which sounded more official than chi.
And then, I got on the table. I laid down, and she stuck the needles in me. It didn’t hurt much, just a little stinging.
“Ouch,” I said a couple times, proud of myself for asserting my discomfort instead of acting like I’m fine for the preservation of the other person’s feelings, as women are want to do. “This one may throb for a minute, that’s normal,” she said.
“Yeah,” I thought, “cause there’s a fucking needle in my arm.”
The arrangement of needles seemed haphazard: some in my right forearm, left wrist, right knee, left foot, and a few in my abdomen for good measure. But I know from my research, and the big chart on the wall, that they weren’t. They were special pressure points, chosen specifically to help make my sad little uterus happier. Or whatever.
The chart on the wall labeled spots on the body, pressure points, I’m assuming. Things like, “bird tail,” “bright light,” and “armpit abyss.” I wasn’t so comforted anymore. I’m not sure what the points she put my needles in were called, but I hoped they were things like, “healthy baby” or “stick one here so you birth a genius.”
Dr. NR told me I needed to lie there on the table for thirty minutes and she’d be back to check on me. I guess balancing chi takes a little time. She turned out the lights and turned on some pleasant spa music.
As I lay there on the table staring up at the ceiling, I felt the vinyl exterior of my long-fought-for positive attitude beginning to crack and thought, “what the hell am I doing here?” I started to cry.
“How has it come to this?” I thought. I’d heard acupuncture is a very relaxing experience. But I just felt sad. Plenty of people are out there having multiple healthy babies with no trouble and I’m laying on a table trying to fix my messed up chi and hoping that has something to do with reproduction. What am I doing?
I pulled myself together for a second and thought, “look at me, I can’t even do acupuncture right.” Remembering Iron Fist and the importance of meditation to recharge his fist or whateverthehell, I started to wonder if maybe I was so analytical all my chi was in my brain and we needed to push it back down to my uterus. Maybe my brain is a chi hog that’s left the rest of my body chi-less!
I felt hopeless, and ridiculous to boot.
I thought of the Keurig pods I’d since abandoned for my glass french press because I’m supposed to stay away from bpa plastics. I thought of how I now wear rubber gloves to wipe down my counters because I don’t want even the organic cleaning chemicals to touch my skin. I thought of the crunches I no longer do because I once read laying on your back can cut off valuable circulation to your abdomen. I thought of my elevated thyroid antibodies that might be the problem but there isn’t much research on treating it so my endocrinologist just said, “keep trying.” I thought of all this and then thought, “if chi is a good thing, there’s no way it’s all in my brain because that’s not working right either.”
Eventually, she came back in and asked me how my “rest” was. “Good!” I lied. I give good acupuncture excitement. As I checked out, another patient came in. “Oh look! Here’s one of our clients who just had a baby!” exclaimed the secretary. The cute, brunette lady, who looked a little like me, affirmed that she did just have a baby and that Dr. NR is amazing. “She’ll definitely get you pregnant!” she said, “there’s like 5 of us that see her that are pregnant right now only because of her!”
I used to be put off by this kind of remark. I used to want to reply, “you don’t know that” or “easy for you to say.” But I didn’t feel that in this moment. I felt softened and endeared to this woman who was trying to cheer me up. If she had come to acupuncture for baby having purposes, there is a similar pain in her past, and as most stats suggest, probably in her future. She probably avoids Keurig pods too. And if I’m being honest, her chi looked very balanced.
I felt a kinship with her. I even felt a little prick of excitement.
I think it was hope. Maybe it was chi. Maybe it was relief from the short cry to let my cynicism out as I fight so hard to keep it at bay. Maybe I really was all balanced now and a little chi had made its way back to my heart or ovaries or wherever. Maybe it’s all the same thing. But I liked it. And I’m not picky about where my hope comes from these days. Or chi for that matter.
Did you like this piece? If so, you’ll love this.
