Once upon a time, I had a miscarriage. Somewhat inconveniently, the fact that the twins were no longer growing or even alive was revealed to us on my mother’s birthday, so once a year I spend the a whole day feeling terrible except for 15 minutes during which I suck it up and I phone up my mom to wish her a happy one. Maybe if that appointment had happened on some more random date like January 16 or July 14, it would be easier to forget. Probably not but at least it wouldn’t be attached to a date I’m supposed to remember annually.
Thinking about who those girls might have been.
Or how we would have made it work without going broke.
Remember the moment the neonatologist said “I’m sorry, but your babies have passed.”
Imagining what life with twins would have been like.
Or trying to imagine life without Bo since he never would have been born or they’d lived.
Wondering why, as in “Why me?” even though that is such a stupid question.
Wondering if it was something I did or didn’t do that caused it. Another stupid question.
Thinking about fate. Was I destined to lose those babies in some karmic turnaround.
Contemplating how it takes the body so long to realize it’s not pregnant anymore.
Wondering if anyone but me ever thinks about those babies.
Searching for other mothers’ miscarriage stories.
And asking myself if I’m odd for holding onto it now years later – especially when I’ve tried to talk to my husband about it and it turns out he’s not even the least little bit sad any more.
Wishing my culture had a way to mark the passing of a fetus the way the Japanese have the bodhisattva Jizo.
Every year I ask myself: Will this day ever be a day without some mourning ever again?
But not only on this day.
I can be dealing with the mundanities of life or be entirely absorbed in the task at hand and there it is. I’m there on the table and the tech is putting the ultrasound wand down and excusing herself from the room. Or I’m blindsided with the recurring thought that I could have had three girls instead of one girl and one boy. I’ll remember how exciting it was to have the consulting OB ask me if twins ran in my family. How devastating it was to have to tell the world that those twins were dead inside of me.
I don’t have some profound way I planned to wrap up this post because it is what it is – my musings. In lieu of a clean, snappy conclusion, I’ll ask you to please, please, please share your miscarriage recovery story if you have one. You never know… you could be helping a mom who is hurting right now realize she’s not alone!