Time

Yesterday was (seemingly) the last physical evidence of my miscarriage.
Yesterday was my last appointment with the Midwives and OB/GYN.
It was a bittersweet day.
I am thankful that everything has seemingly gone back to normal.
Yet I feel that time is stealing at every second.
I feel I am getting farther and farther away from the joy of pregnancy I experienced for such a short time and the necessary mourning I trotted through as I lost the triplets.
Yesterday was the physical end of my experience of being 1 in 4.
1 in 4 women experience a miscarriage or pregnancy loss.
So often it seems unfair that it happened to my husband and I.
But I am constantly reminded that I am not seeking 'babies'.
It's not about being a mother or having a baby.
It's more specific.
It's about my children, not just a baby.
Specifically, I lost my children and their future on Earth was stolen.
This is the part that cuts the deepest.
But at the same times, makes it surprisingly easy to see other children, other newborns and new mothers and be at peace.
Knowing that they do not hold my children.
They are not kissing my children, playing games with my children or singing to my children.
My husband and I are merely waiting for the time when we meet our children. All of them.
I love the song that I posted above. Every time I hear it play, I am reminded of this imperishable yearning to be with my children. To bear them and to rear them. It's as if I was born and crafted to be their mother. This is what I am anxious for.  

I'm learning that people generally have no clue how to react to someone who has had a miscarriage.

I found this hallmark card above and quickly felt offended.

 The grieving process that takes place after a miscarriage is unusual.

You are missing someone, or a few someones in my case, but you know so very little about them.

You are missing what could have been.

You are missing the moment when you took that pregnancy test and a little blue cross appeared.

You are missing the moments of excitement and planning.

You are left with an empty cradle that never got filled.

It's like your motherhood is stolen from you.

People have good intentions, but it seems challenging to be able to empathize with the pain of a miscarriage.

You can feel the pain of those around you who lose their already born children, their parents or their spouse, because you have those relationships.

But if you haven't had a relationship with a unborn children that is suddenly taken from you, then it's very challenging to understand how a miscarriage affects the parents.

I easily get disgusted with peoples expectations of how I deal with this loss.

It's not about 'luck'.

I lost three children that experienced life, even for the shortest amount of time.

Yes, I am young and I am planning for my children, but don't expect me to forget the connection I have with my three eldest children.

I created a journal for them, writing them the day I found out I was pregnant.

I dreamt of holding them, feeding them and hearing their cries and laughs.

That was stolen from me.

Allow the pain of a miscarriage to just exist.

I am choosing to never forget my first pregnancy and my first children.

Those unborn babies of mine have and will continue to shake up my world. 

These thoughts are a bit messy and not aimed at any people in particular.

I have simply developed a new passion to allow mothers and fathers to mourn the deaths of their unborn children, and encouraging them to hold onto the things that are evidence of their babies existence.

As time goes on and my husband and I continue to add to our family, I will always have my three musketeers tucked in my heart, but not so far away to not share them with the world.

Someday I will join them in their place.

And I won't regret all the days I spent apart from them.

Until that day, I will miss them every second of every day.

Dust it off, try again

It's an interesting thing to see perspectives change based on one's experience.

I would have looked at this image before my miscarriage and saw something different than I do now.

Let me provide you with my perspective now.

A woman and a bicycle.

She attempted a ride, but fell. She fell hard.

Now she waits.

She is resting by what is hers and letting what is hers rest by her.

She imagines what it would be like to try again.

She imagines what it be like to try again and succeed.

But the memories of the previous abatement put fear above hope.

But someday, hope will outweigh fear

and she will ride again.

Although it will be awhile before Ben & I can try to get pregnant again,

I am already overwhelmed with fear of what could happen.

I want to take time to focus on the experience we just had.

To not overlook our three musketeers and to not forget our short time with them.

Although I am thankful for the three children I am sure to meet in a different place,

I am also ready to meet all the other children I am bound to have in this place.

So I have thrown all my plans out the window and am letting life happen.

I cannot plan someone else's life.

I am not in complete control.

That takes away some burden.

I will wait for my body to heal and wait for my strength to return.

And hopefully, someday you will all celebrate with me as I once again carry life.

Or has it just begun.

This was a song my mother posted on my face book a couple days after my miscarriage. For some reason this song hit me. I don't know if it's the imagery in the video of things related to children or the lyrics or the fact that it came from my mom. Either way, It's been over a month since this song first entered into my suffering but each time I hear it I'm taken back to what the pain was like right after my loss. And I think it's okay to revisit that every now and again. Tears so easily build up when I hear this song, which is so funny because this isn't the genre of music that typical gets me. This is definitely my mother's genre, but this song will always be a part of my story now. Thank you mom. I know you miss the three musketeers.

The Frames - Star Star **

Music has held my hand as I mourn the loss of my children. Especially music by The Frames. It's like each song is written specifically for me. No one else will hear this song the way I do, from the place that I am. The music helps me recognize the place I am coming from and,without shame, guides me into sharing my fear, melancholy and hope with others. This song illustrates learning to loosen your grip on sadness and burn brighter from the joy and hope that fills the crevices of suffering, 'star, star teach me how to shine'. I am learning how to do this from a place that suffocates hope and steals joy. All the while, I know I am making it through alive, more alive than I have ever been.

Fruitful and without

The most painful loss I have ever experienced 

is one that others try to steal from me.

Statements stealing the legitimate pain experienced when one suffers a miscarriage.

Yes, I'm still young and sure I only carried them for 10 weeks, 

but I am their mother and they are my children.

No other children are like them.

Do not try to keep your babies or your children from my eyes, 

assuming that it is too painful for me to see others with their babies.

I don't want your babies.

I don't want a baby.

I want my babies.

No other children are like my children, not even yours.

Each parent knows that no child compares to their child.

And I am blessed to have been in the presence of my children for as long as I was.

I am blessed to see how the short life of my children has shifted the course of the world.

I do not regret sharing the joy of my pregnancy with so many and with such excitement.

I am thankful that when my three musketeers surrendered, I had a community of people to celebrate

their lives with. 

A community of people who walked the painful road with me.

I am thankful I didn't hide.

A community of people who have seen me cry, scream, laugh and grow all because of

the three children I was blessed to have.

Thank you to all of you who have opened your doors to us, had meals with us and let us spill

our hurt to you. Thank you for sharing yours in return. Thank you to those who sent cards and resources.

Thank you to those who just came by to say hello. Thank you to those who weren't afraid to ask us questions about our experience. Thank you to those who were there when I had emergency surgery due to the pain of miscarrying. Thank you to those family and friends who opened themselves up to experience the magic of our three musketeers.

Now that I intimately know the pain of losing a child, I have a desire to share my experience and growth with others who are/have/ or will be experiencing the same awful event. 

If you have not experienced a miscarriage, I pray you never do.

It is tragic and unimaginably hurtful.

For a month I have been watching the tissue that once formed three beautiful babies be soaked up

by man-made fabrics. I have gotten to know what contractions feel like without delivering a bundle of joy. 

Pain would sweep my day away in a matter of minutes. Pain that became immune to ibuprofen and other supposed pain killers. I have been jolted awake in the middle of the night with physical pain and emotional torment. I have waited for hours in the ER, only to spend the rest of my night in the hospital undergoing an emergency d&c and biopsy to make sure that fetal tissue that once was life wasn't forming into cancer. I was forced to sign a piece of paper that would determine where the 'remains' of my babies would be buried. I have had friends avoid  me because of the awkwardness they encounter when faced with my story.

However, it's merely a season. And I am thankful for this cold, dreary season.

No one has experienced my children like I have, and I look forward to our family being reunited.

And hope has never left me.

I know that more children will bless my life. 

And I have discovered how wonderful it is to have the friends that I have. 

I have seen the support and love of my husband carry me through this time.

And I have been  reminded of my own strength.

So I say, I have experienced affliction but it has not destroyed my hope.

I have seen what hope truly is from the grave of those I love.