A year ago tomorrow, I wasn't.
I had/was miscarrying. Miscarriage is one of those things a person doesn't really think about, doesn't really think will happen, until it happens to you. I had had two healthy babies, and assumed life would continue along that path. That a pregnancy would lead nine months later to a beautiful little person. Then, I miscarried.
Intellectually, I understood that it happens, and that when it does, it's for a reason. That reason really has nothing to do with you, the mother, more to do with something not being right with the baby. That there's really nothing you could do. However, that knowledge doesn't fill the void it leaves when you realize you're loosing your baby, that you'll never get to know this little person.
It doesn't take away the moments that take you off guard. The times when I glance up to see my two kids playing across the room, and in my mind see a third sitting on the floor, playing with them. When a friend comes to tell you with excitement that she's expecting, and is due when you would have been. And as happy as you are for her, as much as you want to convey happiness, all that comes out is "I'm miscarrying." When your arms just feel so empty.
And suddenly, there are babies everywhere.
The next few days were ones of functioning. Waiting to pass the fetus, then when I did, wrapping it in a little blanket, putting it in a shoebox, burying it, saying a prayer together, as a family sending him up to heaven.
It began to fade. I adjusted to the idea of not being pregnant. Started making plans that don't involve fitting a new baby into life. Even went days without thinking about it.
Then came the due date. And suddenly, it was fresh again. My arms felt empty again. And once again, there are babies everywhere.
Then, once again it begins to fade. It will never go away, it can't. He is a part of me.
As hard as loosing a baby was and still can be, I am thankful that I have been blessed with healthy children and a wonderful husband. It is immeasurably easier to fill these arms when they are feeling empty when there are little bodies to fill them with. They are living comfort.
My other comfort has been faith. Knowing that my child will not face the trials of this life, that he (I've always thought it was a boy) is safe up in heaven and that some day, I will get to meet him. Shortly after the miscarriage I had a dream. It was utterly vivid, and in it, my little, precious bundle of baby boy was sleeping quietly, in the arms of my grandfather. In that lies the greatest comfort, knowing that Grandpa is taking care of him until I get to be there to take over. Until then, he will always be in my heart.
Going through a miscarriage can make a person feel stranded, alone. It's hard. It's loosing a baby that you're already so in love with. Typing this, I've had to stop multiple time because of the tear streaming down my face. I hope that in sharing this experience, someone who is feeling that pain will find some comfort, knowing that you're not alone and that as hard of a place it is, you can, and will, make it through.
I had to end with my two tales of happiness, the joys of my life, each on the day they came into this world.Mr. Oliver. Going on four already. Yikes.