I'm always amazed at the amount of personal information bloggers are willing to share. People are willing to share their innermost feelings with, basically, the entire world. I think I would have a problem doing that, if I actually thought anyone was reading my dribble. BUT, thankfully, I do NOT think anyone is reading my dribble, so I have no problem whatsoever.
On June 28, 2001, I miscarried my first pregnancy. Obviously this means we're coming up on the nine year anniversary of that. At that time I was twenty, a college dropout, living in my abusive boyfriend's mom's apartment, and had just quit my $8 an hour job. I was a real winner. My baby was a twelve week old fetus and already I was a candidate for Worst Mom of the Year.
I don't really know how miscarriages affect other people. I guess it all just depends on your situation. For me it was pretty much the worst moment of my life, and the day is burned into my memory forever. I mourn every summer around the time that it happened, and I mourn every January, when my angel would have been born had it made it that far. I remember that I didn't want a baby. I knew I was in a bad relationship, I didn't know how to get out, and having a child was only going to make it harder. I remember how sick I felt. I had terrible migraines every afternoon. I remember all the things I unintentionally did wrong, like eating bologna sandwiches. As much as I thought I didn't want a child then (or ever, really), I remember how much love I felt for the little miracle inside me. How for the first time ever, I truly believed in God, because there was no way such an amazing thing could happen without a higher power's hand.
I remember that the night before I couldn't sleep. I stayed up all night watching tv. I watched all the reruns of Seinfeld I could find, then watched Woody Allen's Crimes and Misdemeanors on cable. I didn't like it. I remember the indescribable pain, unlike anything I've experienced before or since (including the two live childbirths I've had). I remember the EMTs, and how kind they were with a scared kid. I remember that, even though I was scared and unprepared for motherhood, I never once felt relieved that my baby was dead. I only felt burdened and dead myself.
Over time it has gotten a little easier. At first I hated every single pregnant woman I met. I couldn't be around them. I compared all of them to myself, and tried to figure out why they deserved a healthy baby and I didn't. I tried to make impossible bargains with God. Dear God, I will give up all the good things I have if I can just have my baby back. Dear God, if you give me my baby back I promise you I will run away and never let that asshole know she exists. I'll protect her from him. I'll do anything if you just give me my baby back. But He didn't... Then eventually I met and married and got pregnant the right way. I was so scared. I didn't want to go through it all again. I didn't spend a waking moment not terrified until I started feeling my son kick. Then my worries slowed down a little. I've been blessed with two healthy sons since then, and for a while I stopped spending so much time thinking about my little one that wasn't. But for some reason this summer feels harder than the last couple. I wish I understood it and could stop it. I wish I could stop thinking about how old my boys' big sister would be. What she would look like or act like.
I've taken now to wishing my whole life had been different. That I'd never moved back to this area, never met that guy, never gotten pregnant. I wish I'd stayed where I was, followed the original plan, experienced a completely different life. If I had that alternate universe life, I wouldn't be so sad right now.... I know maybe that's not entirely true, and I know that if I hadn't experienced all the bad, I could never have had all the good I do now, but it's still hard sometimes.
And there you have it. My entirely too personal tale of woe. The end.
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