Sculpture by Martin Hudáčeka
I wrote a couple weeks ago that I was going through a trial of some sort, but I wasn’t ready to talk about it. That trial was a second pregnancy, which unfortunately was not meant to be in the end. The doctors all say that it didn’t look good from the beginning, and that it was almost certainly a genetic issue, so nothing I could have done to prevent it. Hearing those words from a medical professional should make you feel better, but it turns out it does absolutely nothing to relieve the pain, or the thoughts of “What if?” coursing through your mind.
What did, at least somewhat, relieve the pain, was that so many people reached out and let Orlando and I know that they, too, had experienced loss in early pregnancy. It was amazing to me to discover that on average 1 in 5 women will experience a miscarriage. On top of that, 30-50% of fertilized eggs will be lost before or during implantation, sometimes so early that a woman will go on to have her menstrual cycle as normal. The next thought to cross my mind was, “Why don’t we talk about it?” Why do we suffer in solitary confinement, never knowing that there are those around us who have been through similar situations?
I do understand the need for privacy, and it is still uncomfortable for me to wonder who knows, who doesn’t, who just thought I was “sick” for a week or so. But it helps to feel that you’re not alone. It helps to see mothers who have experienced loss and still gone on to have more beautiful, happy children. A friend here in Xalapa told us he believes that baby will come back. He or she was here for a short time, but there is no need to mourn, because that baby’s arrival has just been delayed for a little while.
That’s the strange part about all of this. It feels like someone has passed away, and I guess in a way someone has. It was still so very early in our pregnancy, but it feels like after a funeral when you’re not sure when it’s appropriate to laugh, joke, to feel normal again. Should I be “sadder”? Should I be thinking about the baby more? Some days I start to feel normal, and then I see someone announce their pregnancy on Facebook and it feels like someone punched me in the gut. Or a little infant is sleeping in her mother’s arms and I think, “That should be me in nine months. Why can’t that be me?”
The scariest part of all this is that I know my pregnancies will never be carefree again. I know there will always be that dark little voice that whispers inside of me, “What if?” With Cora, everything was so smooth and perfect, I never dreamt that I would experience this sort of pain. The good news is Orlando, Cora, my family, and my friends have all been the shelter from this awful storm. It’s hard to stay in the shadows for long when there is so much love surrounding you. That’s what your support system does, they pull you out in to the sunlight and help you see that it’s going to be alright, life will keep flowing forward.
That’s also why I wanted to write this post today. Because if there’s anyone else living in the shadows, I want you to know it’s ok. It’s ok to experience grief they way you experience it. It’s ok to talk about it, it really truly is. And if you see me sometime soon, don’t feel like you have to avoid the topic. I would rather be open and honest about it, because that baby deserves to be included as a part of my life that happened. And while this struggle is near impossible to endure, it will make me who I am in the future.
XO,
A
P.S. I think it’s important to note that I am posting this with Orlando’s support. I know this has been difficult for him as well, but he agrees that sharing is better than holding your troubles inside.
