In the last 6 months, I have suffered two miscarriages. This second time, we heard the heartbeat. We heard it on a Wednesday, but by Sunday my blueberry sized baby was gone.
This major loss in my life, a loss I wasn’t expecting and didn’t want and wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, has forced me to realize that I cannot plan for this. Sure, I can track my ovulation days and all that jazz. But I truly can’t plan this. It isn’t up to me how this will go, when we will have another child. It won’t go according to our plan, we had to throw our plan out the window and we’re starting over again. It has taken therapy and many sad, angry moments for me to get to this realization.
And though we have endured two very sad losses, not knowing if our rainbow baby will come, I found a silver lining. This came during bath time, of all times. Usually, this time of day is when my son is exhausted and at his wit’s end and so are we. My husband and I both had long days at work and just want to put our son to bed so we can relax. But, more than usual lately, sweet moments happen when we aren’t focusing on how tired we are. We do bath time together as a trio. We giggle and sing songs and we’re focusing just on our son and each other. It is all in the moment and nothing else, and it takes me by surprise how happy and blissful I feel. I never use the word blissful, but that is how I feel in these moments. I’m healing. And though I’m terribly sad about having lost two pregnancies, I have this one child who amazes me every day. I get to squeeze his belly and laugh with him. When he gets a “boo-boo” on his arm, I get to kiss it and make him feel better. He recites his version of the ABCs to us and we clap and tell him how smart he is. We get to do that, and not everyone is as lucky. He is my silver lining. I get to write in his baby book. People have told me how lucky I am to have my son, but I needed to realize it on my own.
I wrote a letter to the two little souls that I lost. Though it is short, it was therapeutic and helped me cope, being able to express how I felt to someone who will never get to hear my words in person. If any of you have been through this, I recommend you talk and/or write about it. It helps. Here is that letter.
Dear little ones,
I lost you, and I’m so sorry. I tried really hard to keep you, but it was out of my control. You didn’t even have a chance, and that feeling of your loss will always be with me. I daydream of how it would have been. You both would have chubby cheeks and a round belly with a full head of light brown hair. You look just like daddy in my mind. And your daddy and I would have loved you unconditionally. Your older brother would have taken you under his wing and made you his sidekick. You would fight for our attention, but there would be plenty of love to go around (except for Charlie, the cat…he would hate you just as much as he hates your brother.) There would be plenty of big group snuggles in the morning when you woke up for the day. And before bedtime, our hectic nighttime routine would end as we wrap you up in your blanket and read you bedtime stories, nestled next to your brother. As I hug your brother tighter, I am desperately sad that I don’t get to do this with you, hug you, kiss you, snuggle you. I didn’t get to keep you, but I will always be your mom. You will always be mine, in my heart and never forgotten.