For those of you who didn’t know, I am pregnant. Well, I was pregnant. I guess I technically still am. We learned this week that the baby died sometime between eight and twelve weeks. And while I was hopeful to have been announcing very different news today, sometimes that is not how the story is meant to go.
I began this writing a few weeks into my pregnancy. After writing part one, I had all intentions of writing more but sickness and exhaustion took over and I spent a great deal of time watching crime shows on television rather than writing all of my experiences down. So I concluded that I would spend more time writing once we announced this pregnancy to the world. Unfortunately, that is exactly when this story took an unexpected turn. And I wondered if I should even write anything more at all.
As I stared at the blank pages of this intended piece, with news of no heartbeat repeatedly washing over me like an incessant wave, I grieved the robbery of the plot I had imagined. It was a prologue and an epilogue, with no chapters to justify its existence. But Mike reminded me that this isn’t the end of our story, it is just the beginning. And the ellipsis that I leave at the end is the space that we make for hope in second chances. I also know that the outpouring of empathy from mothers with a similar story has given me light as I navigate this darkness that I am feeling right now. Maybe my words can do the same for someone else.
When I began to share my story on this blog, which has since become an eight part journey of a million emotions, I was shocked to find out just how many women in my small world alone dealt with this type of grief. I felt a part of a newfound “club” that I didn’t know existed. A membership I didn’t want to own, but felt so honored to receive love from so many women who could say, “I understand.” Millions of women deal with miscarriage every year. I’m not unique in that regard. In fact, my story is not really about my own heroic survival but more about the bravery of the many women who carry this often silent grief with them and then continue to carry others who have had to deal with it too.
I’ve been carried. By angels and friends. By mothers and sisters. And by my husband, who has literally carried me from the couch to the bedroom. Letting me curl up like a child in his arms and cry. This story is for my brave heroes, the silent and the loud. Thank you for carrying me through.
part 8 – due date
D. Willson 