Miscarriage is hard. Really hard. Nevermind the extreme emotions at the beginning. When you've have been or are going through a miscarriage it's hard. There are reminders everywhere. Babies are afterall, conceived, and birthed by the minute.
Our modern age of social networking makes it abundantly easy for every single pregnant person to express their elation at the passing of each pregnancy milestone. And rightly so. Every single pregnant person SHOULD share their joy, and it is selfish of anyone to tell them differently. But for a woman that's lost a baby, especially in the times when you *should* still be pregnant, those weekly or even daily reminders are painful.
This week I would have reached the milestone of 21 weeks. I'd probably have seen an amazing ultrasound of my childs progress, watched each measurement with intense attraction and, if it was my desire, know the sex of our up-coming arrival. Something to be shared and celebrated. But I have nothing to share. What I'd like to post on my status is "Today I would have been 21 weeks pregnant" But I don't. It feels inappropriate to say such things about loss. By our own doing, or by the tendancy of others to look away, or change the subject, we are made to feel as if our suffering should be done alone. Or worse, that we should be fine by now. Afterall, that happened 3 months ago already, it's old news. It is still very much current news to me. As my body cycles I am reminded. I am reminded at each pregnancy ticker that comes across my screen, that I've lost. Every time I see a pregnant woman, or a new baby I am reminded. The truth of these reminders is that it's easy to be reminded when it is never far from my mind in the first place.
We get caught up in our daily lives so much so that we move right past those that are hurting. Even moreso those that try to hide it behind happy faces. Am I happy? Yes. Am I blessed? Beyond measure, without a doubt.
Am I over it? No.
I know, and lean on the fact that I am deeply loved by the One who created me. I am comforted knowing that the little one I carried never had to seperated from Papa, or know the struggles we face. My little one knows Papa's infinite love in a deeper way than most of us. We have learned more of Papa's love through this loss, and for these things I am thankful.
Last night a 5 year-old girl spent the night with us. Just before the kids were to be settling down to go to sleep she said, "Jamie, I thought you had a baby. I mean, another baby. Mom told me you were going to have another baby, what happened?" I tried to explain gently that the baby didn't make it. She said, "You mean it died? But why?" The simplest and most innocent of questions we'll never get the answer to.
"Sometimes it just happens and we don't really know why."
"That's so sad that your baby died."
"Yes, it makes me sad too"
"I'm so sorry your baby died. I was really excited about your baby."
This child made me feel in a simple conversation, that my baby was loved by more than my small circle of family and friends that understand. It was refreshing to hear her say it. She didn't look away from me. She didn't change the subject to something inconsequential. She wasn't afraid I'd start crying and she would have to do something to make me feel better. She was real, and she expected nothing less of me.