A couple of days ago someone very close to me had a miscarriage. It was extraordinarily traumatic for a situation that's synonymous with tragedy to start with. Life required me to reach beyond myself, my pain, my grief and be there for someone else's. And so in under three months time I have held not one, but two dead babies in my arms. A couple of months ago my therapist shared a scripture with me along the lines of " How you are comforted, you will comfort" I found myself doing the things that I knew helped me when I delivered and lost Mateo. I took the stories of the women in my support group, the things they regretted not doing when they were in the hospital and I advocated for my loved ones sake. I made sure she had some time with her baby to say goodbye, that she took pictures, said yes to the memory box the hospital offered. In the moment you just want to move past the experience just as quickly as you were thrust into it but I know that for healing's sake even that moment must be honored- the moment you lose your child. So we held him and talked to him and she got to say goodbye. You are never ready to say goodbye but somehow you do. And you leave the hospital with a handful of mementos instead of a baby. Moms should always leave hospitals with their babies. And you go home and you put the mementos away, and you minimize the pain and let the world convince you that it was just a miscarriage and not to worry you'll have more children. But you can't just do that when you have held your baby, when you studied the smallest hands you've ever seen and held close this little person you gave life to and then felt life go out of. So that's when you look for the mementos, and the pictures you didn't feel like taking at the time and you sit with them, grateful you have these tangible things, proof that your baby once lived in more than just your memories and for a little while you have peace despite your pain. That moment of peace is what I advocated for. So I took pictures of her and her baby, and I examined the littlest toes I have ever seen, and I spoke to him and loved him and said goodbye. I did this so his mother knew it was okay for her to. I comforted as I was comforted or as many women wish they would have been.
I recently wrote her a letter and I wanted to share parts of it. In writing her I realize just how much I have started to heal these last three months. I know I still have a long way to go but I am not quite as fragmented as I once was. I am slowly and painfully starting to be put back together.
" You and I and millions upon millions of women are now part of a very elite and sad club of the strongest women on earth. We know what it is like to create life and we know what is like to lose that life we created. I don't know why this happens to some people, and I don't know why we are the some people this happens to. What I do know is this- it does get easier. You will heal. You will cry, you will mourn, you will grieve and then in time you will let your pain go. Find comfort wherever you can. Pray, read books on child loss, go to group meetings, don't be afraid to talk about your baby and don't ever apologize for wanting to. Cry with your husband. Write in a journal- every day, every hour , your every thought if you need to. Sit with your pain, never run from it. Don't distract yourself with work. Don't minimize the situation. It's okay if this is the end of the world for a little while. That's when you realize your pain won't kill you. That's when you realize you are stronger than you ever imagined. You realize you will never take anyone you love for granted ever again. When you let yourself experience the full extent of your grief that is when you can slowly start to shed it. Piece by piece you let it go all the while exclaiming- I have felt the pain of losing a child and I have survived".
I'm surviving...
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