Grief,  Miscarriage,  Pregnancy

A year ago I learned of you, a year ago I lost you.

Last year, on October 2nd, I learned that you existed.

I knew before I really knew. I knew that there would be two lines on the test. The two week wait turned into a three week wait as I tested negative again and again. I should have known it wasn’t a good sign. But I knew you were there, even before you made yourself known. And I had hope.

During those weeks, I bought a maternity shirt that reads “baby”. I bought it right after getting another negative result. I don’t know why I did. But I wore that shirt to bed nearly every night. I wore a smile, too. I took pictures. I laid in bed, resting my hands on my belly. Wondering about you, praying that we’d get to keep you.

The doctor called with my blood test results, and he didn’t sound hopeful. I brushed it off. I had hope. We drove to a follow up blood test, saying “at least we’re not going in because I’m bleeding”.

I carried you with me all week. You were such a happy secret to keep. It was a busy week, full of stress and school and volunteer work. The last day you were with me was the busiest day. It was hot, I tried to drink enough water. We walked a lot and carried things, I tried to rest. Even though that had nothing to do with losing you, I still worried.

I was standing in the kitchen, chopping potatoes when the cramps started. I had to lay down. I hoped it would help, but it didn’t. Then there was blood.

The next morning we drove to the doctor again, but there was no “at least” this time. I wondered if we’d jinxed things with our careless positivity a few days before. We were silent.

A year ago I lost you.

You know when you dream about someone you’ve lost? Sometimes it feels so real it eases the longing for a moment. Just a dream can feel like the one more hug you wish you could have, the one more you smile you wish you could see. Even though the dreams are short-lived, they are settling. They give you hope. They remind you that, when it comes to love, nothing is ever lost. That’s what I feel when I think of you.

I didn’t mourn you right away. I don’t know why. We didn’t give you a name until much later. I couldn’t think of one, but your dad did. It is perfect for you. It is exactly who you were to us, and we keep it close to our hearts. It wasn’t easy losing you, but just knowing you were with us brought us so much light, so much hope.

I’m thankful to have carried you. I look forward to one day holding you. We love you forever.