A baby.

I was pregnant and now I'm not. The finality of saying it stings more than I hoped it would. We had seen the baby, heard the heart beat and had begun to plan for its little arrival, but after a few months it ended. The heart beat was gone and a little piece of me had died. 

I was strong the first few days, even though the baby was still there, but as the hemorrhaging began I had to witness the loss leaving me. It was hell, in every way imaginable. The sickness, the labor pains, the blood, the passing out, the inability to hold my other children left me crippled for days and at the end of each night the sadness was so strong that I woke up in the morning weak with exhaustion.

Trying to remain strong for myself and my family was virtually impossible. The physical exhaustion left me helpless and at the mercy of others and our devastation was openly evident, it was then that family and friends began to carry our burden. They fed us, cleaned our house, rubbed the knots in my back, and tried to console in the best way possible and for that I will be forever grateful. I am so blessed to have so many wonderful people in our lives who at a moments notice would jump in the car or run down the street to help us. Thank you, you know who you are.

I thought I could muddle through my emotions after hemorrhaging for four days and then I found out that I would still need to have surgery. It was the crushing blow to an already unbearable situation. I cried. I cried out of sadness. I cried out of exhaustion. I cried out of pain. And when it was all I had left I cried out of sheer hopelessness. This body of my that had been so strong for so long was now fighting me in ways I never imagined and the lack of control left a burdening toll on my every move. Luckily, the surgery was quick which was a welcomed relief from the previous weeks of pain and a sense of recovery had finally been dealt my way. 

Looking back John was the strong one, he always has been. After each of our trialing pregnancies he's known who to call, how to keep our home in order, and what to say to keep us all functioning--he has rarely shown emotion and his calm and collected demeanor has been the anchor to our rocking ship. I would like to think that we could make it through any trial and while there are still things we haven't experienced yet (or may never) I know that through each pain staking experience that has been placed before us he's remained by my side through the tears and the pain. 

In the end, many have told us that we should count our blessings on the miracles that we already have--especially Brecken. And I do, everyday. But it still can't diminish the overwhelming sadness of having another miscarriage and the missed opportunity to be the mother to another child. I know God has a plan and that little by little my pain will heal and my body will find a way to mend, but for now my emotions are raw and the little life that was once there has left me with an emptiness that can't be quenched. It may sound a bit silly to make an issue when there are far worse problems in this world, but today this is my trial and it's one we've suffered before and more than likely we may have to suffer again. I don't know why this trial is ours but I hope someday to understand its meaning. 

For now I will miss my baby, miss the dreams of its future, and miss the hope of being its Momma here on earth. 

I love you baby, wherever you may be. 

to love life, to love it even

when you have no stomach for it

and everything you've held dear

crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,

your throat filled with the silt of it.

When grief sits with you, its tropical heat

thickening the air, heavy as water

more fit for gills than lungs;

when grief weights you like your own flesh

only more of it, an obesity of grief,

you think, How can a body withstand this?

Then you hold life like a face

between your palms, a plain face,

no charming smile, no violet eyes,

and you say, yes, I will take you

I will love you, again

-Ellen Bass