I wish I had one tangible thing to remember my baby: a monogrammed rattle, a lock of shiny black hair, a fleshy baby tooth. I wish there were a way I could go back in time and ask the doctor to provide me with a picture of the baby’s first ultrasound with its heartbeat flashing on the screen.
Isn’t it strange how we take pictures of our pets, or frame the local newspaper with the headline GIANTS SWEEP!, or even take pictures of our meals for friends on Facebook to ‘like,’ yet there’s nothing to honor our lost unborn children? No gravestone, no ashes in an urn, no place to put flowers.
When I shared the news of my miscarriage, it saddened me to think afterwards that a simple blog post is the only way the world will ever know that this special life existed. I have nothing, but the pang in my heart.
My nights are sleepless, filled with severe anxiety. I’ll bolt up in the middle of the night, after tossing and turning, as if something dreadful is about to happen—even though death has already passed by our doorstep. The feeling goes away momentarily, only to catch me unguarded in the middle of the day without a tissue to wipe away the tears.
So many of you, dear readers, have written or called to offer your support. I feel so honored to hear your stories. Know that I am taking the time to respond to each of you with the personalized attention your message deserves. It may take some time as I recuperate and take comfort in my husband’s never-ending embrace. The cries are plentiful, the heartache immense. But I know I’m not alone. We are not alone.