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.