The floodgates have opened

I was feeling nauseous. It had been all day – on and off.

I described it as like when I was pregnant.

Why, oh why did I make that comparison? 

He got excited.

I told him to slow down. We had JUST had sex a few days ago.

He commented that we also did it 2 weeks ago to be exact.

Isn’t it ironic that he remembers better than I do now? 

He asked if I had taken a test.

I didn’t have any.

He offered to pick some up on his way home.

An hour later, I started puking and the fever set in.

I texted him to forget about the tests. It was only the flu.

I couldn’t help but feel a sense of sorrow.

That spark of excitement at the possibility of a miracle pregnancy had been ignited. And just as fast as it was lit, it burnt out again.

I told him I was sorry.

I didn’t realize how stupid and naive I would feel thinking that we could possibly be pregnant…

I didn’t realize it would catch me so off guard.

The floodgates have opened.

The possibility and hope for another child has been brought to the forefront of our minds.

Or maybe it just never really went away? 










The relay of bereaved motherhood 

I heard from an old hometown friend tonight. The last time we connected it was about cloth diapering just after my son was born. 

I always enjoy when someone reaches out after years of non-contact and you are able to bond over life experiences –  except for times like this. 

Tonight, her tone was rushed and anxious. She wondered if I knew how long it took to recover from a miscarriage. She had just experienced one at almost 6 weeks pregnant and wasn’t feeling normal. 

How do I explain to her that you will never feel normal again? 

How do I tell her that your womb will always seem dark and your heart will remain broken? 

She had noticed the posts I share on social media about infertility and loss. She wondered if I could recommend any resources that had helped me. 

Where do I even start? 

I linked her to Standing Still, Unspoken Grief and my personal fav, A Bed for My Heart. 

I told her to trust her intuition and speak to her doctor if she still isn’t feeling right. 

I let her know that the physical recovery would happen much quicker than the emotional recovery. 
Geez. How does one even find the words to describe lifelong loss? 

Finally, I told her that she could reach out at any time. I’m here if she wants to talk about it. 

Because really that’s what we all needed… 

Someone to listen. 

Someone to reassure us. 

Someone to remind us that we aren’t alone. 

I never wanted to become that someone, but I’ll carry the torch proudly and teach her what she needs to know for when it’s her turn to pass it along. ❤