Sunday, November 15, 2015

September- otherwise called Agony

My husband and I were delighted on Saturday when we discovered we were growing our little Jedi.  We are excited all weekend and into the week.  We have this beautiful, glorious secret that is our own private joy.  I feel miserable, so we know all is well.  

Then, on Wednesday, I realize that my breasts are no longer tender, and I don't feel crazy anymore.  

On Thursday, I have some light spotting.  I know this could happen, but it still makes me nervous.  I call my new doctor, who I haven't seen yet, and the receptionist says that since I am a new patient, all they can do is send me for labs to make sure I still have hcg in my blood.  This is not helpful to me.  I keep telling myself to be calm.  I had spotted before after IVF pregnancies took hold.  All would be fine.
On Friday, I have some bleeding.  Not okay.  This has never happened before.  I am not okay.  By Friday night, I am bleeding.  I know what is happening.  I am losing my baby.  I am losing this beautiful little miracle we worked so hard to create.

On Saturday, we celebrate my son's 12th birthday.  It is a beautiful day, and I wake up cramping and bleeding.  How am I supposed to go to his birthday party, welcome his friends, and celebrate when I feel my unborn child dying inside of me?  How do I smile when at any moment, what was once a living embryo will fall out of me?  

I go to the party. I sit in my red camp chair and watch the children playing in the jumbo waterslide and paddling boats around the pond.  I watch them swim and play and enjoy their childhood.  Inside I weep with the pain I can not share- the pain of a loss I have never before experienced.
(This is me pretending all is well at my son's birthday party)

We sing the birthday song, we cut the cake, we open presents.  We celebrate my last born child's special day.  I smile and hold him and tell him how much I love him. Today, I realize what a miraculous gift he is.  I appreciate more than ever how blessed I am to be his mother.  I appreciate how blessed I am to have three perfect children that came to me so easily.  Perhaps it is fitting that this never-to-live baby comes today, on a day when I can appreciate the blessings I have and temper this pain with joy.  Or maybe it is ironic that this pain should come on a day that must be filled with joy.

I tell myself I am blessed.  I know I am.  I now know how miraculous each of my children are.  And I ache.  I ache physically where my body is pushing out this pregnancy and this baby that was not meant to be.  I ache in my soul where our dream of holding our little Jedi in our arms has died.

That night, when what was my little baby appears, I cry.  A dream has ended.  And my mother's heart cannot fathom going through this ever again.  I think of all the women I know who have gone before me, and I ache for them.  I think of the women whose children I carried for them, and I am more grateful than ever that I chose to help them.  I can't imagine having known only this ache as motherhood.

I tell my children what happened.  I tell my mother.  I don't tell anyone else.  I realize that miscarriage is one of the many sorrows that people carry alone.  It shouldn't be.  

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