Tag: miscarriage

To My Silent Sisters (happy belated women’s day to the ones who save us)

“You are a woman, this will be different for you.” I have heard these words so often the past several months that they have taken on a life of their own. These words that were spoken to me over and over again were meant as a salve: you are not broken, you are grieving, and your process doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s. It was meant as a reminder: this path that you walk has been traveled by others, but only those who have traversed these hallowed grounds will understand what this pain can do to you. You, my love, are a woman, this will be different for you, but you will be stronger for it- my arms are open and you are welcome.

There is something powerful in the sisterhood that will surround you during your darkest days. There is something sacred in the way these women carry their scars and lead you down this path so delicately. There is something strengthening in the way we recongize one another, pay tribute to the joint experiences and embrace the pain. There are things in this world that only these women will understand, struggles that they have shared in, burdens they will help you carry.

These women will not lie to you and pretend that life will be okay. We know better than that. When I was hurting they taught me to embrace the pain, to recognize that it would forever remain a part of me, but to take comfort in knowing that it would eventually loosen it’s strangling hold and let me breathe again. These women taught me that strength is not an innate force that we are born with, it is something that we build when our back is to the wall because there is no other option.

The life of a woman is not always an easy one. Far too many of us know what it is like when you are not taken seriously, when you are judged for every action you do or do not take. We know what it feels like when your body is not viewed as your own, when your choices are stripped from you by those who will never have to live with your struggles. We know what it is like to carry life, and some of us are burdened with the pain of intimately knowing what it is to hold death. We have learned to fight the status quo that we were so often forced to follow, to create a world for our daughters that was better than our own. We have joined our hands and stood in solidarity when it truly mattered. We helped one another up when the world knocked us down.

The past few months have been difficult for me, that is no secret. And yet I have learned so much about what it means to be a woman through those who reached out and stood beside me. In my loneliest moment I still knew that I had an army of my silent sisters with me. I will forever be indebted to them, and I know that the only way to repay this is to be there for the next woman I see lost on this path.

You see, women are far too often taught to hide our pain and our frustrations. We want to be strong and resilient and we don’t realize that within our weakness is our greatest strength. We bury our struggles until we see someone else in need, and only then do we speak our truths- we use our pain to ease the hurt we see in someone else’s eyes.

In October I learned what it meant to carry a life inside of me. And in January I discovered how the loss of that life can crush your soul into dust. I had been far enough along that everyone knew. It was both a blessing and a curse when people had to be told. But an amazing thing happened in my darkest moment- the women in my life surrounded me, whether they knew me or even liked me, they stood by me and helped me pick up the few miniscule pieces I still had of my life. They protected me, and fought against anyone who tried to act as though my grief should follow a specific pattern. When I was happy they let me embrace it, when I was angry they let me scream and fight the world, and when I fell to pieces they stood sentinel to make sure none of my broken shards blew away in the wind. Many of them shared their stories- women I have known my whole life, women who were still surviving and thriving- they told me that they had walked the same path. They didn’t give me false hope, they gave me the truth. And it was everything I needed to hear. When one in four women experiences a pregnancy loss, you begin to discover that you have an entire army surrounding you.

That is what the strength of a woman truly is- it isn’t always in your face, it isn’t necessarily obvious or showy. It is in the way that she can be ripped apart by the world and still pick everything up and begin to rebuild even though everything in her body wants to stop. It is in the way that she uses her pain to ease the burden of others. It is in the way that she shows up, in the way she subtly reminds you that you are not alone. It is in the way she stands for you when you can’t find your feet, and the way she cheers for you even though you might not be on the same team. Her strength is in her heart, in the way she bravely faces a world that has let her down so many times.

There are so many facets to being a woman, and every year on this Earth I discover a new one. To my sisters, my mothers, my daughters out there- I see you, I recognise you, and with every breathe I take I honor you. Thank you for saving one another time and again. I will spend the rest of my life repaying this debt, living in the way you all taught me. We are strong, we are fierce, we can survive and thrive through anything. Happy International Women’s Day, my loves, I know I am a day late and a dollar short, but I also know that you will understand why.

I Carry Your Heart With Me (a story of love and loss)

Disclaimer: this post deals with miscarriage, so please proceed with caution if this is an issue close to your heart.

I had a dream about you. You were swaddled all in blue, though I still don’t know if you were a boy or a girl. Knowing me, you still could have been either (I already had a picture ready for your nursery that talked about how all colors were baby colors). The dream was so simple and so peaceful. We were at home, just our little family. You were fussy, but content when I finally fed you. I carried you, I held you, I cuddled up with you and gave you tiny little kisses all over your chubby cheeks. We were happy. I woke up feeling content as I rubbed my tiny bulging belly, saying good morning to you.

I don’t know if that is the moment that you left me. You slipped out of my life as quickly as you joined it, silently and without production. I like to think that it was your final gift to me- your way of letting me hold you for the first and last time, for the only time. A chance to look at you, live out the dreams we had been planning. I like to tell myself that you wanted me to have that solitary moment to remember, a single space in time when the world was the way it should be. I like to think that you wanted it too, that last little thought before you slipped away from me.

I learned that I lost you on Monday. The doctor looked at me and I just knew before she even said those words. You were gone, and there was nothing I could do to ever get you back. “There’s no heartbeat” are the cruelest words in the world. I’ve never known that kind of pain. I’ve never felt that kind of helplessness. I was not merely broken, not shattered; I was crushed down to dust.

A few hours before I was planning your gender reveal, I was plotting out your nursery and looking at cribs. I was excited for this life we were going to share together; you and me, partners in crime, your daddy and the dog hot on our little heels. It broke us both to lose you, to lose the future we had planned.

Some people may not understand the love you have for someone you have never seen, but it was earth-shattering from the start. From the moment I saw those two pink lines I loved you with every fiber of my being, every atom in my soul. I was yours and you were mine, my love. I didn’t need to see you or hold you to feel like your mother. Now I am in limbo- one foot in two different worlds. I feel like a mother because of you, and yet I have no living child to care for. Does it still count when my sweet little baby had to leave so soon? Does it matter that I know what it felt like to feel you under my skin? To talk to you? To watch my belly grow? Does it matter when I never got to hold you?

How can I feel so lost without you? You were a part of me for so long, and yet it was just a fleeting moment. You were supposed to be safe. We waited to tell everyone, waited to know you would be with us forever and always. We did everything we could. I was 19 weeks on the day when my world shattered, but it felt like eternity, it felt like we had been meant for each other since the dawn of time. We should have been safe. The chances of losing you were only 1-3%. ‘Bad luck’ is what what they chalk it up to. We just had bad luck. What a phrase at such a time. It was meant to comfort, but it only left me with more questions. Why us? Why you? Why now? What was the purpose in all of this? How do we move on with our lives knowing you won’t be in it?

You deserved better. You deserved a chance at this messy life. And I wish I could have given that to you. I wish it had been in my power to fix it. I would give the world to hear that whoosh-whoosh of your heartbeat again. I would give up my forever if it meant that you could come back and live the life you were supposed to have. I would do anything for you. But I am only mortal, and I will never know why someone so special and so perfect had to be taken before they ever had a chance.

Perhaps it’s better that you weren’t touched by this cruel world. Perhaps it’s enough to know how deeply loved you were already. You were our little Jelly Bean, the hope in a world so full of pain. You will always be ours, you will always be the little love of my life. I don’t know if I could ever survive this again, but I know that I would do it all one more time just to know you, just to have you growing in my tummy for a little while. I would feel this pain all over again if it meant another moment with you. You, my dearest little love, were worth every tear and every single crack in my heart.

To anyone out there who has been there or who may find yourself on this path, to all of those who struggle with fertility and wonder what your future will hold: I see you, I love you. I know you only feel like you are being strong because you don’t have any other choice, I know the anger and the fear and the pain. I know you don’t think you could ever survive this. But you will. There is a silent army standing right here with you. One in four women will know this pain, and virtually everyone will be touched by it at some point in their lives. You are not alone, even at your darkest moment.

I am the one in four. I will never forget my little love. None of us will.