Yesterday was the day. It's the day that I grieve.
Today's post is unapologetically raw, written without any restraint, and written directly from a broken heart. I allow myself this one post a year, to write from a place of grief. It's therapeutic for me to write this way, if not but once a year, about one of the hardest days of my life.
November 9th is a date on the calendar that makes my heart hurt. It's a date when grief revisits me. Grief, as it is, ebbs and flows.
I don't think I will ever be "done" grieving the loss of my first baby; the grief is always there, just far under the surface. However, around this time of year, my grief resurfaces, and I've learned to accept that it will and embrace it for what it is.
I wasn't very far along in my first pregnancy when I miscarried and so, there are times when I feel like I don't have the right to be this sad about losing my baby. There are even times when I think I should call it "losing a pregnancy", because "baby" may be too strong of a word. After all, we all know someone, if not personally, who has lost far more.
But then, as I think back to the days when I knew her heart was beating inside of me, and when I take the time to picture all the events that lead up to my miscarriage, that's when I remember; she was a baby, she was my baby, and we lost her. I have a right to grieve what I have lost, even if it is myself who sometimes needs the convincing.
I have found great comfort in believing that we lost our first baby for a reason. Some people don't like to believe that there is a reason in such circumstances, but, that's the beauty of us all; we're all different. I respect differences in everyone.
I had a strong feeling come over me on the day when the sonogram technician was finding her heartbeat on the monitor. I remember so vividly those moments in that dimly lit room. It was so dark and quiet, you could have heard a pin drop. My husband was there, holding my hand beside me as the sonogram technician took pictures, in effort to tell the doctors something more.
In that dark quiet room, I felt the word "messenger" come over me, and cover me like a blanket. I don't know how else to describe it other than to say that I felt the word. It was a very personal experience. Have you ever closed your eyes and visualized a word, or heard a word come to mind, in your inner voice? It happened to me in that sonogram room, only it was so strong that I felt it in my soul. That was when I knew she was not mine to keep, even before the doctor told me so, I knew she was a messenger.
Before my miscarriage, I was fairly certain that I was unable to conceive a child. I had gone years without conceiving a child, and I even have medical reasons why I shouldn't be able to conceive a child, and yet, I did. Twice. Praise be to God.
I was fairly certain that God had good things in store for me, even during the darkest days of my miscarriage; I felt hope.
The day after I miscarried, I wrote these words: "I feel so empty now but full in knowing that she was sent for a reason. She was sent as a messenger and is already with our God. Her message was that we can conceive and there is hope for our future."
Her message was very clear to me back on that day, her message was that we were able to conceive, and that I had work to do to prepare my body for a healthy pregnancy, one day. Without my first little messenger, I might not have ever been prepared to carry and give birth to my Piper Grace.
Without my faith, I don't know where I'd be after such a traumatic event. So today, I pray. I pray for anyone who is going through a hard time with infertility or loss. I pray that you find your peace, and I pray that you allow yourself to grieve in whatever is the healthiest way for you to do so.
For me, the healthiest way for me to grieve is to share my loss, and my hope with others. I find comfort in looking back on those dark days and at the light that followed thereafter.
Past in-memoriam posts:
2012 - I Was Pregnant
2013 - Today I Mourn
2014 - Praise Be to God
2015 - She Would Have Been Two