It will always hurt, they said, but no one mentioned the second wave.

The one that came when she was supposed to be born. But wasn’t because I had a miscarriage seven months ago.

No one said pictures of newly born babies that have been flooding my Facebook page would knock me low, again. Or that all the online ads catered to me would be for maternity clothes and boxes of developmental toys.

That it would become difficult to get out of bed or make decisions or eat or spend quality time with my toddler.

That I would apologize to my husband because I want another child so badly that I stopped wanting him for him and started wanting him for what he could give me.

That I would feel guilty for all of the above and that comparing my pain to others’ for perspective would only make me feel worse.

I must have sounded more desperate than I thought, because my mother offered me a ticket to Virginia for a mini-vaca after I told her I was struggling.

A vacation might have refreshed me on the surface but it wouldn’t have solved anything deeper than my farmer’s tan. Instead, I opted to see a therapist.

During my first visit, I realized I never gave myself time to mourn.

The day we found out, we had already made an appointment to pick up a new car the dealership had been holding for us for two weeks. Pinochle club was that night and we needed ugly Christmas sweaters to wear. Christmas festivities and company and a vacation to ring in the new year came next.

By then, everyone — including myself — expected me to be over it, I rationalized, burying the grief.

I didn’t bury it deeply enough, though, and it started to resurface a month or so ago with the flood of baby photos. Then, I found out I (still) am not pregnant and I dissolved.

I’m supposed to be having a baby too.

But she’s not here and I’m exhausted from pretending that someone we love didn’t die just because it’s hard to talk about her. I can’t live in this dark anymore. I can’t miss out on my toddler and my husband and the good things God has blessed us with anymore.

Maybe it was as simple as telling the therapist, a total stranger, all the details, or maybe it was the conversation I had with my husband afterward when he gave me a piece of stained glass as a memorial, or maybe a combination. Whatever it was, I’ve given myself permission to just say it.

So the next time you ask me when we’re planning on giving Squidget a sibling, be prepared to hear the truth.

We’re still recovering from a miscarriage, I’ll say.

I don’t want you to be sad for us. I just want to acknowledge the life we love but never met.




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