I’ve been having a rough go of it all lately. I am so lucky to have many great and wonderful friends, and fantastic and supportive family to support me, to love me, to talk with me. Unfortunately, even those who understand pain like that still can’t do much to soothe my soul. I guess miscarriage is like that, right? People can know what you’re going through, can empathize, but still… nothing can fix the hole in your heart where hope used to reside.
My body is still stubbornly holding on to this pregnancy. Hey! My body is all, “Shitty pregnancy or not, I AM NOT LETTING GO.” Way to stay strong, body. Now, I give you my permission… let go. Please. Please let go. Let me let go of this whole nightmare, and move on. Let me stop hoping that PERHAPS they just saw the other sac from our first scan (oh yeah, I didn’t mention that- there were two sacs, one had a yolk sac, the other didn’t), and that’s why there was no baby in there. Let me stop hoping the REAL healthy baby with a beating heart was hiding somewhere, ready to pop out to say “Surprise! You’re not broken after all!” Please, body. Let me forget this ever happened, because if I have to live another day of “Is this the day when my baby leaves forever?” then I am pretty sure I might die. Please, let me stop asking Paul for the 20th time, “Are you SURE you didn’t see anything in the sac? Are you positive the tech looked for a long enough amount of time?” I want to stop asking that. Stop asking him if he’s sad that I can’t stay pregnant. I want to be free of worry, free of guilt that I am carrying a baby that should have been Piper’s sibling.
I want to be free of all of this heartache and pain, the stress and the anxiety and the uncontrollable sadness and anger. This time around, I had enough time to get used to perhaps getting to keep this baby. But God, I didn’t mean keep the empty shell of a baby. I meant keeping this baby alive and well. Why won’t the world stop taking everything I say so literally?? As I drove past Paul’s parents’ house on the way to get Piper from school, I’d again thank my deceased Father in law for the luck of getting pregnant again. I’d thank him and ask if I could please keep this baby. But again, I wanted to keep it and grow it, not live this purgatory I’m living now. Perhaps it’s time to stop asking otherworldly people for the right to keep our babies. No, perhaps it’s time to just accept that I’m on my own here. Nothing can help us now, higher powers can’t stop me from losing our babies. We have to walk this road alone, Paul, Piper and I. We have to realize that sometimes things don’t work out how we had hoped and prayed.
Losing two babies has changed my life. My day to day life, my likes and dislikes. I can’t watch certain tv shows, I can’t talk to certain people, can’t read certain books or listen to certain songs. Music that I had loved and considered music of hope has now been tainted with a tinge of sadness and anger. What was happy music is now forbidden. I don’t want that joy in my life anymore. There is no joy if I have to deal with this shit AGAIN.
Then there is Piper. Before, when I’d look at her, I’d think she was magic. After the last few months I know- she IS magic. This girl of ours is what’s keeping me from completely breaking down, from letting go and just crumbling into myself because I had nothing else to live for. I DO have something to live for. It’s not her fault I’ve been so unlucky. It’s not her fault that I’ve been living a nightmare for the last three months. Piper is keeping me afloat, reminding me of what I have. Waking up in the morning, hoping I’m bleeding, but I’m not- that dismay and anger is soothed by her greeting when I get her up. Her joy at peeing in the potty is like nothing else. I mean, how could I not want to be around for that? And no, I’m not dangerously close to that line that goes from sadness to pure depression that borders on suicidal. I would never do that to Paul, to Piper. Just because I’m (so far) unable to give them that other child that they so want, it doesn’t mean that I can’t give them the rest of me that I have left to give.
My mindset might border on the morbid right now. But it’s not because I feel worthless. I just want this baby out, as naturally as possible. I can’t live this way. I’m terrified of the future, simply horrified by what is ahead for us. I don’t feel like I have anywhere to go. I’m surrounded by pregnancies, by good news. My good news is fleeting, and isn’t enough to bolster me up enough to be around the rest of the good news. My resentment is strong, stronger than my ability to be hopeful. I feel like I’m alone, wandering with a belly full of the end of my hope. Looking at the world from a dark corner, grasping at my girl to keep her safe, keep her away from everything that is horrible in this world. I cling to her, pressed up against Paul like my life depends on it. I can’t stand on my own, it seems. I feel badly for Piper right now. I’m constantly asking her for big hugs, for kisses, to hold her hand. I’m so clingy, it’s scary. If I could hold on and never let go, you bet your ass I would. Right now I must be content to hold on to her, to smell her perfect head, and to just cry silent tears for the siblings she won’t know, but be thankful she DIDN’T know about them because the idea of having to explain to her why the baby in Mama’s belly isn’t coming home is enough to make me want to just never try for another baby ever again.
Piper has saved me. If there is a God, he hit a home run when he gave us this perfect little angel. I can’t blame him if he thinks that I got all the good I deserved with her, thus won’t give me another chance. I get it.