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I dream about your little face all the time.
Would you have my curly brown hair? Your father’s chubby cheeks? What would your smile look like?
The dream is the same, every time.
I walk into the nursery and hear you babbling in your crib. The room is white, and there is a big, wide window by your crib with the sun shining in. There is a sense that time is standing still. Everything is quiet, except for your sweet noises. I walk over and see you there smiling up at me. I can almost smell you and feel your squishy body as I pick you up, and hug you.
I am filled with so much love and, even though I am fully aware it is a dream, I pray it lasts a little longer than last time.
It never does and I wake up, alone, in my room without you.
After seven years of infertility treatments which included two rounds of egg retrievals and only three eggs to make an attempt, we got pregnant with you. The joy I felt hearing my doctor confirm “Congratulations! You’re pregnant!” is now only but a memory that fills me with heartbreak.
I carried you for 19 weeks.
In those weeks, I felt so alive and full of hope.
Losing you unexpectedly tore me apart and sent a shockwave of grief throughout my body, throughout my marriage, and throughout my life.
Three years later, I wonder what you would look like now as a mischievous toddler running around and giggling, screaming, and snuggling with me in the morning. I wonder what your favorite food would be, and if you’d love Cocomelon as much as all the kids these days do.
People ask me if I have kids whenever we meet. It’s a loaded question to answer… most of the time, I say no politely and smile.
But the truth is, I want to say, “Yes I do, she’s just not here physically.”
I never say this because it will lead to questions that I am not ready to openly discuss.
The world is full of childless mothers.
If you ask any one of them how old their child would be now, I’m almost positive that every one of those women will know exactly the age.
Marley would be two, going on three. Instead of celebrating birthdays however, I remember the day I lost you: November 8, 2017.
There is such a stigma and pain around people who have lost a child and regardless of how that loss happened, it is a heartbreak that truly never heals completely. Some people are blessed to mend the pain by enjoying the birth of a tiny new human, that fills them with unconditional love. We all know that one child never replaces the other, but it must be such joy to see your baby’s face in person.
I am not so blessed, at least not yet. I guard my desire to be a mother of a living child—deeply.
Childless mothers are still mothers.
We knew what it was like to grow life inside us and we will never forget the would-be life that once held so much potential for us.
Whenever someone I know goes through a miscarriage, I relive that awful day and have a deep understanding of what they must be going through. I try to avoid trigger comfort statements like “At least you know you can get pregnant.” or “It was barely a baby, just try again.”
Instead, I treat their loss delicately by saying “I’m so sorry for your loss.” and offering the reminder, “Whatever you’re feeling is valid, and I’m here in whatever way you need.”
We are a club that none of us wanted to be a part of, all sharing the same gut-wrenching feeling of tremendous loss and grief. We carry it around silently as we move through the world, day by day.
This is for all my fellow club members:
May you remember you aren’t alone. Your child mattered, and even if for a brief moment in time, they were so deeply loved. I hold on to the faith that maybe that was their whole purpose, to just show us how much love we actually are capable of.
~
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