Exactly a year ago I was pregnant with our first baby. We told our families on Christmas. I miscarried on January 3, 2015. For those of us who have experienced this, we know miscarriage is more than only physical; it is mindful and spiritual as well. Whether someone tells you that or not, the simple truth is, you are not prepared for its complexity. And you cannot be prepared for its longevity.
Gruesome details are not necessary here. What I am concerned about is the mother left behind after the bleeding and cramping and hormonal surges cease. Back in January I thought I was strong enough to rebound from it quickly. But in reality I quickly realized after our second miscarriage in February that grief changes a person and that our losses are now a permanent fixture of who I am. The question is not whether I will forget, it has become a question of how the experience will shape me as a person.
And so, with desperation, I wrote.
I was given a pregnancy journal for Christmas last year, and although its contents are dismal compared to its intention, the journal became my security. Because what I discovered is that my perfectly supportive friends and family could only bear so much of the repetition I fed them; the frustration of another period instead of a positive test, the feelings of worthlessness, the bitter taste of mixed grief and joy at the announcement of each friend’s new baby. How can conversations possibly subsist on just these thoughts? They cannot, and they shouldn’t. But, these thoughts and emotions have become my constant companion. They may emerge out of thin air with any given trigger. Or perhaps I awake one day to realize they will muddle within me throughout the day until I find myself crying on the bed at night mourning failure, despising myself.
I have come to learn a few things this year. First of all, there exists a thing labeled the “Stages of Grief”, and I have walked through them. And secondly, there exists grief, the bastard of loss. And I have learned that walking through the mess it leaves you with is infinitely easier with friends and family around you. But I have also learned I am the only one who can walk it. These truths are no one’s but my own. How isolating and comforting and thought-provoking.
And so it has been a full year now. Like the song sings, “So this is Christmas. And what have you done? Another year over, a new one just begun.” And this year, I can truthfully say I have done the entirely unexpectedly and unwelcome work of walking through true grief and loss. I have held a baby within me, twice. And I have experienced losing them both. And I am still working at it, but I am accepting myself more and hating myself much, much less.
The other night as I prepared dinner for my husband and I, as I played on the floor with our dogs, and I saw the lights on our stoop outside reflect in glass, I was at peace. And that feeling has lasted beyond those five minutes, but it was a defining moment that said to me, “You have arrived here. Enjoy it.” And rather suddenly I realized that at some point very recently, pregnant women are a symbol of hope instead of a reminder of personal loss. Perhaps it is the stories of others I have learned from being open and honest about my own. Because at this very moment, I personally know three pregnant women who have either tried for years, or experienced many miscarriages, or never thought they would get to this point in their lives at all. And my jealousy and hurt is somehow redefined as joy and hope. I think of them and remind myself to rest in this moment, for our time will come. And it is well.
But then again, it took me a year of walking through the innermost heartache to arrive at this better, happier place. And the tears still come easily at times, and the lump in my throat still exists all-too-suddenly. But I am content, I am so very content and ready to love the people who are my family here and now. After the seemingly endless subsequent months of a deadened spirit, this newfound peace rejuvenates me.
At the beginning of the year I wrote a quote in my pregnancy journal that reads, “The biggest happiness is when at the end of the year you feel better than at the beginning.” -Henry David Thoreau. When I wrote that on January 20, 2015 I was convinced we would be expecting by the year’s end. But today as I write this I realize how much more depth that statement has as I sit here, accepting what is with not only contentment, but a hope that has not died.
