It’s hard to explain the peace I felt in those precious days.
You go through your whole life unsure of where it is taking you.
I felt like I had been holding my breath since the day I was born.
And then that day.
That day, that day, that day.
I held life.
I could breathe again.
Everything was right in the world.
Life had meaning. I had meaning.
I heard myself laugh and cry and love for what felt like the first time.
Life afterward, I cling to those moments.
The warmth of hope and calm.
For this grief is heavy and thick.
I wander through these days.
Repeat repeat repeat.
For sale: baby shoes, never worn.
In the 1920s, Ernest Hemingway’s colleagues bet him that he couldn’t write a complete story..with a beginning, a middle and an end in just six words….
(via emphasisadded)Emphasis Added!
Tomorrow I start a job that I hoped, dreamed, and prayed for. A job I deserve. A job that would’ve been hard to commit to with you right around the corner.
Tomorrow would’ve been 12 weeks. We would’ve been past the 1st trimester. We would’ve told people. Family, friends. Anyone who would listen.
It would’ve been real.
Instead, I am spotting again. Just like the day I held my breath and prayed I was not losing you.
But I did.
And I miss you.
I took a pregnancy test today.
Like a sick, sad, masochist.
Somehow seeing only one line brings it all back in perspective. Mentally, when physically, it is anything but.
My body is so confused. I’m still tired, all the time. Starving, but I know it’s to fill the void. After all it’s not what you’re eating, but what’s eating you.
In the end, I am blessed. I am so blessed. There is not a day - maybe a few minutes, or hours - but not a day, that goes by that I don’t appreciate it.
Life is a journey. Sometimes dark. Unexpected. Overwhelming and desolate.
But eventually… comes the light. Dawn. No matter how long the night feels.
So until then, I will wait. Wait, and wait, and wait.
For my dawn.
It wasn’t ever supposed to hurt. You weren’t ever supposed to cry. And I never dreamed you’d sometimes feel so helpless.
Yet, as things have turned out, lots of folks have trouble getting out of bed on cold, dark mornings.
Anyhow, should there also be the occasional pain, tear, or touch of sadness beyond that, please realize these were anticipated, bargained for, and even sought after. As each would illuminate your resiliency, prove your strength, and help you blast through every flimsy notion that would otherwise keep you from seeing that even now I hold you in the palm of my hand and that all things are possible.
Such a deal,
Couldn’t you just turn on all the lights and pretend the sun is already up?
Email from The Universe.
"How do you feel?", he said.
And I did. Every step I took was a little softer, more careful. Everything I did was to protect this new life.
Now? I feel empty. Hollow.
I know that life must go on. I’m just not sure when. How.
Last Friday, the words stared back at me from the counter where I stood in disbelief. Pregnant. I took the next one. Pregnant. I called for back-up. 6 tests and three different brands later - I knew my life was changing forever. Every symptom, every slight notion in the last 4 weeks had been for a reason. I tried to cry, but I couldn’t. All I could feel was an overwhelming sense of calm. Everything was going to be O.K.
We started making plans. We would protect you, nurture you, love you. We walked around with a secret glow. We did not stop smiling. I went to sleep in this very same bed, with my hand on my belly and a prayer in my heart.
The next few days were a bliss filled blur. We stocked the pantry, checked every label. I took my vitamins twice a day. We went to church. We prayed harder and sang louder than we ever had. We were having a baby.
On Monday I started spotting. They told me it was “perfectly normal”. By Wednesday, somewhere deep down, I knew. I had stopped getting up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. My chest didn’t sting so much from the beads of hot water in the shower. Feelings of dread began to creep in.
The ultrasound technician showed me where the black space should have been, explained that by 7 weeks we should have been able to hear a heartbeat. It was over. No words can describe the emptiness. No amount of consolation from the nurses or statistics from the doctor could console me. The lab receptionist asked for my date of birth, and I fell apart. People stared, wondering what could be so wrong with me. I didn’t care.
We stopped making plans.