and all I thought about was you

I was trying to write for Writing Workshop this week… 

I started a few drafts about light… and a few on summer…

And all I kept coming back to was the same thought.  If I hadn’t miscarried I would be 21 weeks right now.  I would know if my baby was a boy or a girl.  I could talk to her and she would hear me.  I could read her stories.  I could tell her about how wonderful her daddy is.

We don’t talk about the baby ever.  Not that I expect to.  AMP, like most men, doesn’t see the need to talk about something that’s in the past and that we can’t change.  And, I don’t want to bring it up.  I know he was relieved, but he was so wonderful when I told him that now I don’t want to hear any “well, it’s for the best” or “we’re not ready anyways”.  I’m not yet done mourning the loss.

I think I’ve done a good job hiding it.  Only six people know about it – AMP, my parents, my brother and Principessa.  My parents don’t seem to take it very seriously.  I guess it’s not a big deal after all.  Makes it silly that almost 4 months later I’m still thinking about it. 

But, I don’t think anyone knows that I think about it every day.  I don’t think anyone realizes that every time I see a baby, I wonder what mine would have looked like.  Every time I see a pregnant lady, I wonder how I would look pregnant – if I would be feeling my baby kick. 

It doesn’t help that everyone around me seems to be pregnant.  And they all seem to be at 18-24 weeks along.

I’m so sad.  I want to be a mom.  I really do.  I don’t know why this desire is so strong, but it’s all I think about.  I think I could be a good mom.  And I think AMP would make a great dad… But he doesn’t want to.  And I don’t want our child to have a reluctant father.  But, I still want a baby so bad.  And I don’t want to wait 3 more years, only to have AMP tell me that, no, he doesn’t think he wants to have a baby after all.  By that time I’ll be 28.  He’ll be 34.  I want to have a baby while I’m still young enough to have the energy to run after her, to play and to survive the sleepless nights.

And now, I will go back to the real world, where I pretend that everything is okay and that I don’t miss someone I didn’t even get a chance to know.

I want you

I want you.
Just you.

I miss you.  It may seem silly, since I never got to meet you.  I didn’t get to know you.  I didn’t get to feel you move within me.  You were gone so fast. 

But, still, I want you.  You would have been my firstborn.  I dream of you.  To me you’ll always be a curly-haired girl, though you may have been a boy.  I imagine you pouting.  I cannot imagine you smiling.  Smiling would have meant you were happy.  Seems impossible.  If you’d been happy you wouldn’t have…  That’s silly thinking, I know. 

But, it doesn’t change how much I miss you.  You’ll always be there – in the eyes and smiles of your future siblings (if that ever happens!).  I will watch them smile and laugh and play and miss you, my darling child, because no one will ever replace you.

- this post inspired by prompt #5 in the Writing Workshop from sleepisfortheweak.org.uk

Thinking about Baby

The more I think about Baby, the more upset I get.  Isn’t it ridiculous?  After all, I didn’t know of Baby’s existence till after she* was already gone.  But still… Baby would have been my firstborn. 

I know some would suggest trying to not think about it.  But that’s impossible.  It’s not like it’s consuming ever second of my thoughts, but yes, it’s there, in my thoughts.  I can’t stop thinking about it.  I can’t stop thinking about how Baby will never be. 

Yes, maybe there will be another child in the future.  Maybe.  But it won’t be Baby.     

Will I think about her every year on the day she died?  A hard date to forget – the day after our anniversary.  Or will I forget about her eventually?  Will she lose importance, since she wasn’t planned for, wasn’t expected, wasn’t known? Will she be there when I have another child?  Will she be in my thoughts as I watch my child sleep? Will I always wonder if she would have been the same?  If she would have been quiet and calm?  Or maybe fussy and colicky?

I think that she’ll always be there – always. 

 

I understand so much more now, why it’s best to avoid platitudes and cliché sayings, such as “Well, you can always have another.”  Yes, you can have another baby.  That’s true.  But the key word is another.  It’ll never be Baby.  It’ll be Baby’s sibling. It’s reassuring at least that Baby is just gone.  She is not in heaven, because God is not cruel to strip a mother of her unborn child.  She is simply gone.  Perhaps that is meant to be reassuring?  A few websites mentioned that sometimes, early pregnancies end in miscarriage because of something being wrong with the baby.  An article on www.americanpregnancy.org stated that ‘the most common cause of miscarriage is chromosomal abnormality – meaning that something is not correct with the baby’s chromosomes.’

The articles say to keep the lines of communication open with family and friends.  I don’t want anyone to know.  I don’t want to deal with sympathy.  Or worse, for those who say, “But you didn’t know you were pregnant, so it’s not that big of a deal.”  Believe me, people are insensitive that way.  A knows, my mom knows, and my best friend/cousin knows.  That is it.  That is all who are going to know about this.  I do not feel the need to tell anyone else.  Talking does not make me feel better.  Writing does.  This is the way I grieve. 

Maybe one day, when the pain has dulled, I will be able to speak of Baby to others.  But I think I prefer to preserve her memory untarnished from the words and thoughts of others.

*Clearly, as it was very early in the pregnancy, I have no idea of whether Baby was going to be a boy or a girl, but writing he/she was driving me crazy and I refuse to refer to Baby as “it”, so she it is.

I’ve been reading about miscarriages.  Apparently mine is called a ‘chemical pregnancy’ because it was before the 5^th week.  I’ve estimated that I was probably anywhere between a couple weeks to four weeks along.  Chemical pregnancies are common, and usually the mother doesn’t even know.  According to www.babyhopes.com ’50 to 60% of first pregnancies end in miscarriage very early in pregnancy.  Most occur without the woman even knowing she was pregnant.’  

 

Or, will she forever be there, in the dark recesses of my heart.  Will she hover there when I see newborns in the grocery store, or in the mall?  Will I feel this pain intensely in the fall, when she would have been born? 

Ignorance is bliss…

Yesterday, I had my gynocologist visit.  It was all going great – I got her to recommend a new birth control pill, the visit was not necessarily fun, but also not super painful either.  Everything was going along swimmingly… Until I found out that sometime in the last month or two, I’ve managed to become pregnant with my first child, and miscarry it.

I didn’t expect to be as devastated as I am about it.  After all, I didn’t know I was pregnant.  I hadn’t begun to love this little being or plan for its arrival.  I didn’t know about the baby at all, until after it was already gone.   But, I feel so sad about this little one I will never meet.  I feel like I’ve already proved to be a terrible mother – I couldn’t keep this poor defenseless child alive.  I know that’s stupid to think that way.  But I can’t help it.  I can’t help mourning the death of a little person who will never be – my little person.