The Box

There's a memory box that sits in a virtually empty room. The room used to be filled with storage boxes, a futon and two dog kennels that really made the room smell quite stale. Worse than stale actually. Ok, it stank. Early of last year my man and I got the thrilling news we were expecting. Soon that room was no longer just a room. We had plans for that room. We had dreams for that room. We pictured it being painted blue or pink, or maybe just yellow. A crib would go on the right wall and a chair in the opposite corner. I posted online magazine articles to Pintrest. We went dream shopping at Babies-R-Us.

Now the room is empty. Virtually empty. To be fair there are things in there. The futon is still there. The closet is still filled with storage. There is a bookshelf. And on the bookshelf sits a box of memories. Memories that should have overflowed from that room. Memories that should have permeated the rest of my life. Memories that only got the chance to form for a couple of months. Memories that now sit in a box.

Don't get me wrong. They flood my head every single day. Nothing I do can get them out. Not that I want them out. I don't. Not ever. But they can be exhausting. I haven't visited the box in a while. I didn't even visit the box when the due date came. I wanted to. My parents got me a cute yellow and green onesie set. It was complete with little hats. One was white and had tiny frogs all over it. But you see...I didn't want to just visit the box with the empty onesie. I want to hold my baby wearing the tiny froggy onesie. But I can't.

I miss my baby. It's especially hard these days. I wake up in the morning and my house is silent. Silence is deafening. Oh, what I would give to wake up to a screaming new born. Oh what I would give to be sleep deprived from a crying baby and not from crying for my lost baby. Oh what I would give.

But all I have is my box.

A Letter To My Unborn Child On Your Due Date October, 7, 2015

A Letter To My Unborn Child:

My dearest, sweetest baby,

Today my heart aches with a profoundly deep pain. It hurts worse than it normally does. See today is your due date. Today is the day your father and I were supposed to see you with our own eyes. Today was meant to be a day of celebration and joy. But it's not.

I still remember the moment I found out about you. Oh, how I instantly loved you! I remember going for walks with my hand lightly resting on my belly as I talked to you. I wondered how you would look. Would you have my wild hair and your father's hazel eyes? You would definitely be tall and probably have blonde hair. I told you how much I love you. I loved you fiercely. I loved you from a place I had been preparing for years and didn't even really realize it. Even though you completely surprised me, I instantly become a mom. You were a part of this family. We instantly fantasized about what you would look like. We made plans for how we needed to do Thanksgiving and Christmas. Every day I was filled to the brim with joy. I couldn't contain it!

The moment I heard your heartbeat...that was the moment. To see you jumping around in my womb made me beam with pride. I heard your little heart beating so strong inside of me. Our hearts were beating together. Even then my body was nourishing you. It was the most beautiful symphony I have ever heard in my entire life. No two instruments on the face of this planet could ever replicate the music that rang through my soul and echoed into my life that day.

But the song was a short one. For reasons I imagine I'll never know, the song stopped, and the Conductor took you home. I remember that day too. The day I rushed to the emergency room desperate to have someone reassure me I was just fine. I was frantic as the truth sank deep into the pit of my gut. I knew I was losing you, and I couldn't do anything. I hated myself for that. I hated my body for failing you. I blamed myself. I was sure I had done something. I realize that's probably not the truth, but it was hard to tell my head that. But don't worry, your daddy took very good care of me. He was perfect.

You, dear child, were loved. You were held every single moment of your life. You never knew cold or loneliness. You never were afraid. You never got your heart broken. You never knew how cruel the world can be. And the first person you saw when you opened your tiny little eyes was the face of Jesus. And I have to believe He smiled at you, picked you up and cradled you softly in His arms. I may not get to meet you today like I thought I was supposed to, so I hope against all hope that He is holding you until I get to.

I love you with all of my broken heart,

Your mother

Miscarriage and Motherhood

I remember a book I used to read when I was a kid. I think it was a little bird that fell out of its nest, and walked around searching for its mother. "Are you my mother?" it would ask. After twenty years or so, I think I relate more to this book now than I did before. Only my question is slightly different.  - "Am I a mother?"

The hardest part of this journey has been, aside from the general feelings associated with loss, understanding whether or not I am still a mother. Many of you probably instantly jump to tell me yes, of course I am. The answer is much harder for me to process, however. I do not have stick figure drawings on my fridge. Toys aren't haphazardly strewn across my living room, embarrassing me when company comes over. I don't ever have to find a babysitter in order to go out and have date night. The most jolting of all for me right now is that the room we intended to be a nursery is still empty, except for a futon and pile of laundry I never seem to get folded. There's no crib, no little clothes, no nightlight, no small toys. Nothing. All I have is a box filled with the very few memories of my two babies. It sits on a shelf in an empty room. Some days I visit it when my heart is particularly broken and my arms simply aching for someone to hold. But to a stranger, my house and my life show no clues that I am a mother. 

What if someone asks me if I have any children? What should I say? I know the answer they're looking for. The question isn't,  "how many times have you been pregnant?" Most of the time I answer none. That feels like a lie, though. I have two children, I just lost them both. But people don't like to feel uncomfortable. Loss, grief, tragedy. It's uncomfortable. 

That little book that is meant for children causes a great emotion to sweep over me. Because for me, the nest is my womb and is now empty because I lost my little baby. And now I am faced with trying to reconcile whether or not I am a mother even with an empty womb and empty arms. How do I convince myself I am a mother with nothing to show for it? I never stayed up all night with a screaming baby. I never kissed skinned knees. I never bought birthday cakes. I never cried on the first day of kindergarten. I never even knew if my baby was a boy or a girl. Am I a mother? 

This battle is particularly difficult for me. All i have to show are memories. Maybe that's why I am fiercely protective of these memories. 

Am I a mother?

Miscarriage

I have debated with myself about whether or not to even post this. I've always believed that social media is not a place to air your dirty laundry. But somehow writing, and sharing these thoughts helps me process. It helps me grieve. 

Pregnancy loss changes you. It dulls you. It dulls your highs. It dulls your happiness. Because nothing compares to the loss of your child, and no happiness compares to the life you expected with your baby. There simply are no words in any language spoken in this galaxy or the next to describe the emptiness a woman feels after losing her child. Once you know that you are carrying a growing being in you, life changes. Once you hear that precious heart beating so strong, the world becomes a brighter place. I was happier, it was a euphoric feeling. I saw every baby any place I went and beamed with pride knowing that would be me soon. The amount of love I felt, so instantly, was overwhelming. It seemed impossible to feel so much for someone I had not even truly met yet. Oh, but I knew my child. I already somehow knew my baby. I dreamed of the beautiful moments we would experience. I shared secrets with my baby of everything I was dreaming. My fiancé and I dreamed of how the nursery would be. Everyone thought it was going to be a sweet baby girl. We were both already proud parents. We saw hopes and dreams growing within me. We kept track of every development. 

Then the unthinkable happened. 

That horrible feeling of drowning. Pain so deep, it takes your breath away. Pain isn’t even the right word to describe it. It is an emptiness, a hurt deep within your gut. Grief is different for every person. But pregnancy loss is also different from other losses. I don’t mean to take away from other losses, but I lost a part of me. I lost a physical part of me. A part of me that I was deeply connected to, that I was connected to on a level I cannot comprehend. To many it was simply a pregnancy loss. I cannot tell you how many times I have heard that I should be grateful because now I know I can get pregnant and that I can always have another baby. What you fail to see is that I wanted THAT pregnancy. I wanted THAT baby. Yes, I will want every baby, but the presence of one does not redeem or account for the loss of this other. I l lost my baby. Sometimes I don’t know what else to say. I miss my baby. How do you get over the loss of your child? 

And then there’s the guilt I feel.

Guilt because I feel it is my fault my baby is dead. Guilt because I can’t support my fiancé during his grief. Guilt because I just can’t seem to “get it together” and get on with life. Guilt because I know sometimes I forget that my fiancé also lost his baby. Guilt because my fiancé is grieving differently than I am, and I feel like such a burden. Guilt that I can’t be who he needs to me to be, and that I don’t know if I ever will. Guilt that I am a mother with nothing to show for it, and the world will never truly view me as a mother. 

Things cannot go back to the way they were, and I don’t want them to. To do so would disrespect the memory of my child. Yes I will learn to live with this hole inside of me, but things will never be the same. A marathon runner who loses his legs will never run the same, even if he learns to run again, it will not be the same. I am changed forever now. I wasn’t even sure of who I was to begin with, now I am completely changed.