Last week was a tough one for me.
I had a miscarriage late last year, or was it very early this year? It’s funny how you forget. But have I truly forgotten?
I woke up feeling inexplicably sad on July 13. After a flood of tears it occurred to me this was the original due date for the baby we wanted to have. It surprised me, the due date was definitely not at the front of my mind, or so I thought. After the miscarriage, all I wanted to do was get pregnant again. I felt I was ‘owed’ a baby; to make things ‘right’ again: to take the hurt away.
The truth is, I still feel the loss almost as keenly as I did on that awful Saturday morning nine months ago, and the weeks of painless but heartbreaking bleeding which followed.
Lately I’ve not been able to stop myself thinking I should be holding our new baby. I saw a lady at the post office the other day, with children around the ages of mine. She was very pregnant. As she told her mischievous children off for running around and taking merchandise off the shelves, to my eyes, she looked like a queen. I thought, That should be me. It was all I could do to not cry; lately, I can’t talk, type or think about the miscarriage without tears.
The truth is I am scared to try again. What if it happens again? I don’t want to be controlled by fear. On the other hand, having another baby won’t make me forget the pregnancy we lost. I have two beautiful children already - I’ve got one tantrumming at my feet as I write this, actually - so perhaps we should leave things as they are. Perhaps it wasn’t meant to be. I am almost at the point with my two where I will be able to gain back some independence, some time to myself; maybe even return to work, which I’ve missed. Is that something I really want to put back another 2 - 3 years?
Yet as I held my two and a half year old while she slept last week, I cried. Quietly, a river of tears streamed down my face. As I looked at her perfect, sleeping, still-babyish face, I felt a deep and painful sadness. No more babies will be held by these arms - well, not my babies. As I held her close I thought of the miscarriage; for a moment it was as if I was able to physically hold the baby which was never brought to life. I felt the hurt, but with that moment, healing began. Then she was back to being Grace again, miss almost-three. I held her and listened to her breath, kissed her softly on the forehead, paying particular attention to the feeling of my lips lightly pressing on her smooth warm brow. I watched her perfect, sleeping, still-babyish face for over an hour, acutely aware of how much I love her.
