I’m tired of having my emptiness so apparent. Successful families are everywhere. During conversations I’m always reminded of what I don’t have, and if I feel like they’re implying that my babies don’t count, I feel quite upset (naturally). They absolutely do count, and they’re all I have. People don’t know what it’s like to have nothing but hope that one day you’ll meet your babies, and hopefully you’ll have younger siblings for them to meet. I’m clinging to hope but at the same time I feel like my hope is a rope of sand.
Karl said last night that it will work this time. While I 100% believe we can have a healthy, full term baby, we can’t say that with certainty. We are not in control. There is absolutely nothing to say that this will work next time. I just want to be pregnant again and have it go well. No problems at all.
I think the question of the day is “how?”. How on earth do you get by when you’re surrounded by questions and comments? And even when the questions and comments stop, the thoughts are still there.
Sometimes I wish I could just be taken to a parallel universe and live my life just for one day, where the miscarriages didn’t happen, or where I have 2 perfectly healthy babies. But that can’t happen. And because of that I know that I want either kids or no kids. My life at the moment is a strange combination of the two scenarios. I am a mother of two, but I have nothing but hospital records to show for it. I’m locked in this weird silence where only a few are allowed to know this top secret information. It’s a horrible existence with no escape. Even subsequent pregnancies and birthed children won’t make this 100% better. There will always be the first two who never came to be.
My whole body aches to be pregnant again. I have this overwhelming need to be a mother, which is heartbreaking and frustrating. I never asked for this grief. I think once you fall pregnant, something inside you changes. You’re a mother even before you know you’re expecting, and even after a loss you stay a mother. You’re so aware of what you are but also what you can’t be, because after a loss it’s physically impossible. Nothing makes this better.