I mentally wrote this post a few days ago but didn't think I had the courage to write it. Yet here I am, clicking away at my keyboard. My heart is racing and my hands are literally shaking as I type, fearing negative reaction or fake or forced condolences which simply aren't needed. This is what is in my heart, what no one knows. My husband doesn't know the depth of my emotions. My friends have no idea. I'm not sure my family even remembered I had this experience a day after it took place. But it haunts me. Horribly.
I had a miscarriage in the beginning of August.
We weren't trying to get pregnant, but it happened. I took test after test over the course of a weekend to make sure I wasn't losing my mind. I obsessed. In three days, I was attached to the little squid growing in my belly. Names? Check. Bedding situation for our cramped two bedroom home? Check. I was ready to call my doctor at 8:30 am Monday to go in for a blood test. I was ready to buy E a 'big sister' shirt to announce it to my wonderful world of 500 friends on Facebook. I. Was. Ready.
And then Sunday night happened, the cramps started. I went from slight aching to gut-wrenching, laying in bed quietly crying. I went into the bathroom, and there was blood. Not period-blood. I ended up curling up on my husband's lap, silently grieving a loss of a little soul I never got to meet.
Life went on.
Play dates and book clubs and story time and holidays and family and friends and dinners out and dinners in and life just went on. But inside me, it really didn't. I feel like I'm still trapped in August. I've become obsessive every month, despite all the precautions my husband has been taking otherwise.
And I've noticed a trend - some people talk about their loss. They commiserate with other women who have had similar horrible experiences. Some people write about it, go to a therapist, get their meds adjusted. And then some are silent. They stew. They become depressed. Things become gray. The worry of whether they will ever be able to create another little being is their sole thought process. People assume they are okay, because on the outside they promptly moved on. And some are okay, obviously. But some of us aren't okay.
And I'm sobbing as I write this, because I've always been scared I won't be able to give birth to another perfect little blessing like my Emma E. I still haven't even gone to a freaking doctor. I'm scared of what she will tell me. I'm scared of what damage took place in my body. I'm scared she will say that there may never be another. I'm also scared there isn't anything wrong with my body but everything is wrong with my head and my heart.
So, there you go. There is my verbal spew. I'm depressed, and I'm miserable, and I've never wanted another member to add our little family so bad as I do right now. I'm so incredibly excited for each one of my family and friends who is experiencing these little blessings. I'm so excited to meet their new little squishes and witness their chubby little hands pulling, their little mouths smiling. But my heart also has a constant, constant ache to feel that again for myself.
I'm depressed. And I can't believe I'm about to hit 'publish'.