I am 1 in 4.
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 too caught up in mourning the lost baby I would never get to hold.
Miscarriage changes you in ways you could never expect
A friend recently told me that miscarriage changes you in ways you could never expect, and those words hit me hard. Today is a little easier than yesterday, but the loss is still so fresh. Feeling so conflicted over the emotions I’m simultaneously experiencing, like grief and thankfulness, and praying so hard that come sometime September when I look at baby Bear’s face, so much more of this pain will be alleviated with the knowledge that our sweet rainbow is really here.
I ache, it hurts. I feel empty, but my womb feels heavy. I am simultaneously overcome with emotions, yet blank. I’m going through the motions, but everything is a blur.
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 begged and prayed and bargained for this child to be conceived.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.
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.
As a mother, I have a person to take care of. I don’t get to take time off to wallow in my sorrow and grief. 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.