You Were Here...
...And now you're not. The most horrible thing has occurred, and I am heartbroken- I've had a miscarriage. I found out yesterday during our first OBGYN appointment. "Blighted Ovum" is the proper term. The doctor couldn't find anything but "debris" on the ultrasound, the very place you were meant to be. We thought we would get our first small glimpse at you, our little raspberry, but instead, there were only snowy remains. I am so hurt. I didn't know I'd lost you, didn't know you were gone, as I had no symptoms. I have never gone from excited to distressed so quickly in my life; my how a single world can crumble so. My heart is shattered and my mind is fractured. The grief is strong and I mourn you. I mourn what you were and what you could've been. I mourn for your father; he hurts now, too. I'm crying as I write this, I cried when we found out, too. I cried in front of three complete strangers, but do you think I care? I'd cry in front of the world a million times for you, for how my soul quivers.
I don't know when it happen, nor why, but the doctor explained that 20% of pregnant women experience a miscarriage, and I guess I was always destined to be apart of that God awful statistic. The numbers don't make me feel better, the fact that she assures me that this isn't my fault and that there was nothing I could've done to prevent it from happening doesn't make me feel better, in fact, nothing makes me feel better. How could it, when you're gone? How could it, when I feel rent down the middle? No longer whole? A piece no longer there? You've practically vanished into thin air. I have to wait for what remains now, and I am going back and forth between feeling scared and telling myself to be brave. If what is left does not depart naturally, I will have to have a procedure done, and that is much more frightening.
It tortures me to think, that all of the pains I felt were not you gaining life, but losing it. But, were you simply a mass of cells that went wrong? Or were you closer to child than that? I am unsure how to feel about you, because of this demise. Do I mourn an actual child or do I mourn something else? Either way, I cry. Either way, this lump hasn't left my throat. I forgot to ask the doctor if she knew at when you'd terminated, but I'm not sure she would know. I'n not sure it matters. Goes this matter? Where's the line between life and cells?
"Everything happens for a reason," they say. I understand the sentiment, but I cannot hear this right now. We'd told your family and our friends about your arrival merely one and two days before we knew you'd passed, and I mourn for them now, too. I pray they don't pity us. I hope their disappointment is minute. Your family had gathered unexpectedly, and we thought it'd be the perfect time to tell them. Originally, we planned on telling your grandparents on the cruise that we're leaving on in two days, and that would have been after the doctor's visit. How I wish we'd have done that instead, then no one would have known about this miscarriage except your aunt. They all know now. How awkward. How awful. How hard. How unfair. How stupid. I'm unsure why I feel so embarrassed by this. Is it embarrassment? Anger? Or is it something else I can't name?
While you are gone, you will never, never be forgotten, regardless of how far you actually came.
I don't know when it happen, nor why, but the doctor explained that 20% of pregnant women experience a miscarriage, and I guess I was always destined to be apart of that God awful statistic. The numbers don't make me feel better, the fact that she assures me that this isn't my fault and that there was nothing I could've done to prevent it from happening doesn't make me feel better, in fact, nothing makes me feel better. How could it, when you're gone? How could it, when I feel rent down the middle? No longer whole? A piece no longer there? You've practically vanished into thin air. I have to wait for what remains now, and I am going back and forth between feeling scared and telling myself to be brave. If what is left does not depart naturally, I will have to have a procedure done, and that is much more frightening.
It tortures me to think, that all of the pains I felt were not you gaining life, but losing it. But, were you simply a mass of cells that went wrong? Or were you closer to child than that? I am unsure how to feel about you, because of this demise. Do I mourn an actual child or do I mourn something else? Either way, I cry. Either way, this lump hasn't left my throat. I forgot to ask the doctor if she knew at when you'd terminated, but I'm not sure she would know. I'n not sure it matters. Goes this matter? Where's the line between life and cells?
"Everything happens for a reason," they say. I understand the sentiment, but I cannot hear this right now. We'd told your family and our friends about your arrival merely one and two days before we knew you'd passed, and I mourn for them now, too. I pray they don't pity us. I hope their disappointment is minute. Your family had gathered unexpectedly, and we thought it'd be the perfect time to tell them. Originally, we planned on telling your grandparents on the cruise that we're leaving on in two days, and that would have been after the doctor's visit. How I wish we'd have done that instead, then no one would have known about this miscarriage except your aunt. They all know now. How awkward. How awful. How hard. How unfair. How stupid. I'm unsure why I feel so embarrassed by this. Is it embarrassment? Anger? Or is it something else I can't name?
While you are gone, you will never, never be forgotten, regardless of how far you actually came.
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