This Is What Today Is

I thought today was going to be easy.  Another due date come with no baby to usher it in.  After all I’ve done this twice before, right?  No, it’s just as hard as the first time; just as sad and painful.

Just like the last two times I’m surrounded by expectant mothers, new babies and announcements.  Even my next door neighbor got to come home with a perfect baby boy this weekend while I’m left awkwardly side stepping the issue when my four year old keeps announcing at random, “I don’t have a sister!” and “I don’t have a brother” all across town.  It feels like it it’s getting harder.

A rational part of my brain tells me it shouldn’t be.  The rational part of my brain tells me I’m over reacting and really shouldn’t be so attached to something that was around for such a small amount of time, that I never really saw, touched or heard.  That grieving should be reserved for those with physical interaction or some such.

My mind has been telling me many things today.  That I’m over reacting, that I’m worthless, that I’m stupid and foolish, that I’m over emotional and irrational.  That I was an idiot to give up everything I did to be parent.  That my worth in my circle of friends is dependent on my experience as a parent, and without experience I have nothing to contribute and no place among them.  That I if I had made different choices, tried sooner, sacrificed something else or just been better that things would be different.  That my beliefs, my faith and ideals are all a pile of meaningless, stupid fantasies.  That not only am not good at anything tangible – no career or defining skill – but that my own body fails at doing that one thing it’s made to do.  That I’m no just no good.  That I’ve been forgotten and ignored, over looked while others receive prayers answered and miracle attained.

I can’t even sit here and wrap this up a shiny bow, with a lovely, inspiring defense of myself.    Today is the day that I can do nothing but believe everything my mind tells me, to see every choice and failure in stark contrast to those around me.  This is the day I’m laid bare with nothing to offer.

This is what today is.

29 thoughts on “This Is What Today Is

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  1. Hugs and prayers for you. This is such a hard day, and you are allowed this time to grieve and question. I know you know intellectually that the loss of this child wasnt a punishment for being 'bad' or that you have no place among your friends or that the number of children in your family gives you more wisdom, right to call yourself a mother, etc. These things AREN'T true, but knowing that doesnt make it easier.

    All I can offer to you is that after you sit with this dark time, you will wake up again to a brand new day, new possibility, and so many blessings. Keep your heart open and know you are on the journey you are meant to take! Wishing you so much joy and happiness in your future— no matter how it happens. Joy and happiness, friend 🙂

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  2. I have three very early miscarriages I rarely, if ever, talk about. I think it falls into that category of feeling unworthy of grief, that there's some guilt in grieving a child who lived days, not weeks, months or years. As if there's a timetable that makes the life more treasured.

    Sharing your grief is a gift. In this culture of death, it's not until we can all openly mourn our early losses without feeling guilty that we'll start gaining ground towards a culture of life.

    So many prayers for you and your saints.

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  3. You''ve definitely hit it on the head Heather – it's not that a believe these things about myself, but on the bad things these are the thoughts that creep in. And not only do I want to get these thoughts out of my head (writing helps a lot for me, it's like I can actually force them out of my head when I type), but hopefully it's helpful for others to have a glimpse into what these days are like for a friend or loved one going through similar.

    I'm looking forward to a good, restful sleep tonight and waking up feeling like myself again.

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  4. Thank you for sharing!! A child is a child and you absolutely have a right to grieve. I haven't miscarried (that I know of) but have very dear friends who have and who are so helped by the openness of fellow suffering mothers. So, thank you!

    We've struggled with sub/infertility and it is so, so hard to be surrounded by people who pregnancy comes so easily to. Prayers for you, dear one!!!

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  5. Thank you for sharing!! A child is a child and you absolutely have a right to grieve. I haven't miscarried (that I know of) but have very dear friends who have and who are so helped by the openness of fellow suffering mothers. So, thank you!

    We've struggled with sub/infertility and it is so, so hard to be surrounded by people who pregnancy comes so easily to. Prayers for you, dear one!!!

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  6. Would be due dates are so so hard. I have been there three times and this Summer I will hit a fourth time. It never really gets easier. We lose a part of ourselves, our husband, our family when we lose a baby. Loss suxs, there is no way around that fact. And when your living child turns 4 it becomes a whole other ball game as they are at an age of understanding, expression and they grieve too. When my living daughter was 2 and 3 we were just dealing with our grief, now that she is four hers is in the mix too which makes it all that much more hard.

    ((Hugs)) and prayers for you.

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  7. My heart aches for you. Loss is loss. I held my daughter's lifeless body in my arms four months ago and it hurts more today than it did then. It hurts deeply and I did get to hold her…and that helps with the hurt. I'm so sorry you didn't get that. It terrifying the thoughts I have sometimes about how I failed as a parent. In fact the only thing I said to my daughter in the first moments I held was how sorry I was…over and over I just told I was sorry and asked her to forgive me. You did not fail your children, nor did your body. Fear leads us to think of regrets we may have and we have to not let our minds go there. My heart truly aches for you…as I contune to grieve and miss my daughter, I will offer up my suffering for you.

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  8. Oh Molly, I am so, so, so sorry. I have had some of these thoughts and feelings too: Thinking I'm overreacting to a loss of life that ended so early. Feeling left out and worthless when all of my friends are having babies and my older kids are asking why we can't.

    I'm just so very sorry for your loss and for the grief and dark moments that hit especially on days like would-have-been due dates. You are in my prayers.

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  9. Oh Kellie… I know even in my pain I cannot know what you've gone through. Sometimes I've wondered if it would have been easier if they had grown to that point. I wondered with my first two losses if it would be easier to bear if I had just had one little ultrasound picture to hang on too… and I got that with my daughter, but I can't say it made things easier either.

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