It probably wasn't a year that we had tried to get pregnant with Harry, but it was close. It felt that way at least. But eventually he came. We were concerned that it would take a while to do it again, but when we had a positive pregnancy test when he was 15 months old, we were elated. We tried for one month and had successfully gotten pregnant!
And I was overjoyed. I was breathless. I was excited, and I was getting sick. The first part of pregnancy is really very weird. I mean, I had just done it not 2 years ago, and I felt so weird doing it again, almost like it was the first time all over again. But I remembered the nausea. I remembered the bloating.
We took pictures of the test. Not only that but I still do have is saved somewhere. My edd was almost the same as it had been with Harry. I was going to have a baby 2 years after the first. You know, that is the optimal spacing...so I've heard.
It was fall. The leaves on our huge tree in our back yard had fallen. I was raking them up. Putting Harry in the leaves and playing with him. I was painting a fence headboard for my brand new king size bed.
And then, suddenly, I felt weird. I went to the bathroom and found blood. A lot of blood. Big d didn't understand. I called my mom, I called my doctor. There was nothing to do but wait. I bled pretty heavy for a week or more, got a blood test to show there was no more pregnancy, and that was it. The book closed. Try again later they told me. This happens a lot they told me. You'll be fine they told me.
And I was. And I wasn't. It hurt when I heard my sister in law was having her second baby, and then my other sister in law told me she was having her second baby. And I still didn't have my second baby. Harry's birthday when he was 2 was hard. I was supposed to have a baby. I missed my baby. I looked for my baby.
Then I found out, or at least my mom told me, that I was pregnant. I didn't believe her. I didn't want to believe her because I was scared of loosing again. But I was. And it sticked. I passed the 8 week mark. Then I began to have dreams about my baby.
I have always been a dreamer. I feel that is the way I learn things from my Heavenly Father. I have seen many things in dreams that have come to pass. I dreamt my first baby was a beautiful baby boy, and he was. I dreamt about my grandfather, and my grandmother who I never knew. And I dreamt about a little girl.
She had on a white dress. She was there with my grandma who had died before I was ever born. My grandmother told me many things that I never knew. I looked at this little girl and knew that she was mine. I knew that she was my daughter. So I thought I was going to be having a baby girl.
As the months passed by, and I finally had my second child, Chilly, very obvious a boy, I reflected back on the vivid dream. It's details never had faded from me. And I remembered this little girl holding a little boys hand, leading him on. A little blonde boy. My second born. I was so focused on the little girl that I almost missed seeing my premortal little boy.
I have since understood that sometimes there needs to be a spirit left behind to help the others come. I don't think this is true for every miscarriage, but for me it really did bring comfort to know that, at least in heaven, my little girl is there holding down the fort, sending forth these little boys.
Maybe it doesn't help a whole lot, maybe it is really just my own imagination, but I don't think so. I have had miscarriages since and before, but I never did have a connection, other than sadness and defeat. This single one has carried me on depressing and hard days.
But even then, I still mourn her. I mourn the chance to raise her here. I will always miss out on the little girl dreams, and the mother daughter relationship. And I've seen her, at least with my spirit eyes, and I know she is real. I mourn the date that she was due. She is the one I didn't get to keep.
Every miscarriage is hard. Every time. If you haven't done it, you won't understand. You may never have been honestly pregnant, but the loss is still there. And it doesn't get easier with time, it just gets less...Intense. You have good days and bad days, but it is always with you. It makes you who you are. Some people gain strength, and some don't. Some people look back on it as a blessing, and some don't. Every person mourns it differently. I have seen some try and get pregnant weeks later, and I've seen some who never get pregnant again. I don't know what is right, and I don't' think there is one thing that is right for everyone.
But my advice for anyone who has done it, is to take the time and cry it out. Ask the questions, mark the date. Live it. It was you, and your experience. Don't let others tell you the statistics and try to make you feel better. Stop them. Tell them it doesn't make you feel better, because no matter if you were 8 weeks or 36 weeks, a baby died. And not any baby, your baby. Don't let them tell you it is going to be okay, because it isn't. At least for a while. It sucks. It's hard. But do take from the miscarriage a lesson learned. That life is precious. Life does go on.
And you are not alone.
Our stories may not be similar. But there are many sisters out there who have done it before. Some so many times, they've lost count. It's a club nobody wants to belong to, but one that I'm grateful for.