Yesterday was a day that I wish upon no one, and yet one so many of us experience.
Yesterday was the day I was told I’d be holding a baby in my arms. And yet, there I was, my arms heavy with emptiness. 28 weeks, and instead of celebrating another week of a healthy growing baby, I was mourning the baby I would never get to hold.
The following words are a few of the candid thoughts raging through my head. They were meant to sit in my “drafts”, to never see the light of a published page. However, I remember how alone and alienated I felt when we were going through the entire ordeal of a miscarriage, and something inside me is hoping that by sharing this, I might be able to help someone know that they aren’t alone, they aren’t the only one, and that there are people out there you can talk to.
It hurts to look at my husband, it hurts to look at my son. It just hurts.
I feel like a lesser person, a lesser mother, because of my miscarriage. That word. That freaking word. I hate it, I hate what it means, I hate what it makes me feel.
Every square inch of my body aches. It feels bruised and sore. I ache in places I never thought possible. I can literally feel my heart wanting to break and burst. It feels heavy in my chest. It feels cold. I feel cold. But no matter how many sweaters or blankets I pile on myself, the feeling is still there. I burn hot from the anger and disappointment.
Why? What did I do to deserve this? I wanted this so badly, WE wanted this so badly. Why?
I may never have had the chance to hold this child in my arms, but I feel the weight of her on my chest and in my arms when I close my eyes. I begged and prayed and bargained for this child to be conceived.
The day that second line showed up on the test, it was so light I almost thought I was seeing things. By the next day, my gut told me something was wrong. After weeks of blood work that showed my levels rising, then leveling, then falling, then rising and falling again, my instincts were proven right. There’s nothing quite like the glimmer of hope that a nurse can give you by uttering the words “they rose again, which is a good sign”, and theres nothing quite like the ultimate defeat of her final call: “they fell again, at this point your pregnancy is not successful, and this is a miscarriage. We need to discuss whether you want to schedule a D&C, or whether you’d like to let this pass naturally”.
Those words still ring in my head, clear as day. It hurt. It still hurts. It really fucking hurts. Something inside me died that day, and I don’t know if I’ll ever get it back.
Everyone keeps asking “what do you need?” I need to feel like I’m not a complete failure. I need this to have never happened. I need these dark feelings to go away. I need people to stop telling me that “its for the best” or “you’re still young, you have plenty of time”. I need for people to stop minimizing my feelings. I need my baby back.
I don’t get to take time off to wallow in my sorrow and grief. As a mother, I have a person to take care of. I don’t get to lay on the couch in sweats with a blanket pulled over me as I want to, I have breakfast to make, books to read and games to play. I have a little person who needs me to be present more than I need to hide away. Because when mom is shaking on the floor, crying, and your toddler comes over to ask “you ok? mama ok?” and wipes away your tears, it makes you cry a little harder before you recover. Because the worried look on H’s face as he watches me, hurts almost as much as my emptiness does.