They don’t tell you that. Tear.


You can have it both ways with this one – ‘tear’, as in the things which drown my eyes and shine tracks down my face in the lamplight; or ‘tear’, as in the portion of my heart which ripped and ripped again with each loss and each reminder.

A year ago today I shared my poem ‘Dear Beans‘, for Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness day, with my heart full-on breaking with grief and hopelessness. Today I write, because there are updates to that tale, which are complex and painful and I still don’t know what to do with them.

November 2nd, 2012 – Jesse; March (?) the day before Mother’s day, 2013 – Sam.

The short story is; I’m glad they didn’t live, and I kind of hate myself for that.

So there you have it – the six-sentence breakdown of what I’m hoping to get out of me by writing this – the absolute paradoxical dichotomy of the difference of one year. Or two. Or closer to three. Because the time was, my world was consumed with the hope of having a baby with (now ex) Husby.

Dark Pit InfertilityIn part, we were following rote, and trying so hard to do the things we should do. We’re both pleasers, to an extent (or we were, at any rate), and it seemed the thing to do once we were married. It’s what you DO do, right? You settle down. You have kids. You get to endure interrupted nights and stretch marks and chip in your five cents when the topic of breastfeeding in public comes up. You have something in common with every other mother, and there’s always a way to connect.

It was what we were going to do. Until it was something we couldn’t do, because of his (extensive and complex and oh, I can’t go over it all again – it’s in the archives somewhere if you really want to read it) health issues, and then it became something we urgently-so-very-desperately wanted to do. Because if we left it much longer, we could never do it. Ever.

We had a window of less than a year. And he was pretty ill already, so you can imagine how that affected his sex drive. It was simply unfair to both of us to expect anything to come of it (no pun intended), and yet somehow, one day, I felt a change.

They say you know before you confirm it officially with sticks to pee on, and blood tests. They say you know because you feel different. Or, some women do, at least. They say it’s quite standard to start peeing every five minutes, and for your breasts to feel like barrage balloons so tender that even the lightest touch is agony. They say that when you’ve missed your period, really properly, and have a bunch of other symptoms, it’s probably good to check, though with the caveat that at first, there’s not necessarily enough pregnancy hormone to raise a blue line, and not to be discouraged.

But they don’t tell you, they never told me the way it feels to pee on a stick and be confused because nothing happens and a mere hour later you start bleeding in a way you never have before. They don’t tell you, they never told me the deep and unassailable pain of having your confirmation come through losing your baby.

And they don’t tell you, they never told me about the shame.

The body-slam agony which puts you on the floor, because you fucked it up and your baby died. Because you don’t deserve one and you aren’t good enough, never mind that dumb-ass teenagers get knocked up every day of the week, and never mind that children living or dying has (usually) nothing to do with the relative merits of their mothers – you fucking failed.

They don’t tell you that. Tear.

So you hide it. Maybe. Probably, if you’re like me. And you carry on as if nothing has happened and you don’t – you can’t – let your Husby know, because you have house guests, and you’re all on the way out for the evening. So instead, you’re a grumpy bitch and piss everyone off so they don’t like you, and you can be sad about that, too, because you’re losing your baby, but at least you don’t have to talk to anyone.

And later you tell him with grief-riven whispers, while your guests sleep. And he holds you because that’s all he knows to do, Because neither of you know what to do, because this was meant to be your chance, and you blew it.

The next day you go out with your guests, as scheduled, and the world is too bright, with colours and lights so harsh they burn your eyes, and you laugh too much and talk too fast, and your enthusiasm feels like a fairground gone crazy, where the rides have turned traitor and begun to murder the riders. Your carousel is spinning off its cogs, and your ferris wheel is flinging passengers as far as it can, and all the sparkling lights are laughing and laughing at you, with crazy, tinny, canned-laughter which just won’t stop.

Except you have to stop because something leaked, and you have to go to Subway because that’s all there is, and you have to pour away the broken pieces of your baby in a nasty, grimy, public bathroom, where the guilt nearly takes you to your knees and all you can do is keep breathing, because…well, even the toilet at home leads to the same sewer, and it’s practical, and anyway, there’s no ceremony fit for pieces, is there?

They don’t tell you that. Tear.

They do tell you that you probably won’t feel like having sex for a while after, and they mention things like ’emotional’ and ‘traumatic’, and ‘counselling’, and all of those are good and right, but when your situation is that you have maybe six months left (or maybe not) to have a baby, otherwise your chances are gone forever, and you’ll never be a mother, and all of the dreams you’ve had since forever will come crashing down around your ears, and your marriage is at least rendered ‘else’, rather than ‘family with kids’, then you have to keep trying, if you can.

They don’t talk about the times when you won’t, or he can’t, or both of you are just too heart-sick to connect. They don’t talk about the times you baulk because you’re actually terrified to get pregnant again because you might lose another one, and then where would you be?

They don’t tell you about the times when you’re lying in bed, both naked, back to back in floods of tears, and neither one of you is able to comfort or even touch the other, because your individual griefs are too separate and too impossible to overcome, when once again, it didn’t work, and The Sex was unattainable, and you might as well not even bother, because who would want you anyway – you, whose body can’t sustain life; and him, whose body cannot give it? Not each other, that’s for damn sure.

They don’t tell you that. Tear.

Black HeartEventually, though, healing happens. it’s inevitable with the passage of time, even when you live inside your head as much as I do. And the good people around you hold you and help you and boost and encourage and ootz you along every step of the way. Seriously – get good people around you and keep them there. You need them. I’m telling you that. And once you’re a bit more healed and a bit less stuck inside your head, you find you’ve got it in you to try again. When those times coincide with the times he’s got it in him, you try. And you pray that ‘sporadic’ will be enough because it only takes one…

And it does. Only take one. Only this time every moment is tinged with terror. Each ache of breast. Each twinge. Each visit to the bathroom accompanied by a panicked glance into the crotch of your undies to see whether you fucked it up again, or whether somehow, maybe, this one will stick. They tell you that. And they tell you it feels like you live your life holding your breath, waiting for things to go wrong. And sometimes they don’t, and you’re one of the lucky ones. And sometimes they do, and you aren’t.

And sometimes that timing bloody sucks and you stand in church because you felt obliged to be there to keep up the front of normality, and you watch as all the sweet little kids bring mother’s day flowers to all the mums, and you cringe when one of the little shits brings you a bunch, and you grimace and wave them away with as much of a smile as you can, because even as they offered you bright dandelions and glossy evergreen leaves, your body was expelling the remains of your second chance, which you also fucked up, so don’t you dare fuck up by not at least appearing normal, because you don’t deserve a break – take the pain and the hurt and the soul-wrenching agony and just fucking choke on it already, and keep going.

They don’t tell you that. Tear.

DaffydowndilliesThey don’t tell you that most people will be understanding and kind, but that some people will say things like “Well maybe you weren’t pregnant anyway – you never had it confirmed with a test”.

They don’t tell you that you could find yourself faced with deteriorations in your mental health which leave you incapable of supporting your husband, and that his deteriorations in mental health could lead him to try to take his life twice, behind your back, and not tell you til months later, and that the doctor who looks askance at you, judging you for not making him get helps sooner, will widen her eyes in shock and pity when you inform her that this is the first you knew of it.

They don’t tell you that you’re going to be told “I love you, but not enough to want to be alive at the end of the day.”

They don’t tell you that a missed period is going to cause a panic, not because you’re scared to lose another baby, but because you’re now scared to have one, because being a widow and a single mother seems like such a big ask, and being a single mother to a child with a depressed father seems like an even bigger ask.

They don’t tell you that you’re going to reach the very end of your tether and snap, cruelly, telling your Husby that you’re glad you weren’t pregnant, because there’s no way you’d want to have a child with him now.

They don’t tell you that in the end, and once you’ve chucked in the towel because one or both of you would have ended up dead by your own hand, your Husby might tell you he wishes he’d broken up with you after the second loss, and that all the trying you did since then was just a waste, because that’s when it was over for him.

They don’t tell you that. Tear.

And they don’t tell you that one day in the future, when you’re struggling with an eating disorder and marriage breakdown and all the shams which were part of the marriage anyway, and life being so, so complicated and hurtful, that you’re rather glad those babies didn’t live, because what kind of life could you have given them anyway?

They don’t tell you that you’re probably right, and if your home wouldn’t have ever been stable enough for adoption (which is why you never went there), then it certainly wouldn’t have been stable enough for your own child, and it’s probably better that way, especially in light of everything which surfaced SINCE then.

They don’t tell you that you might find yourself so scared at the idea of your body changing so drastically and all the FAT coming back, that you think it’s okay that it didn’t.

They don’t tell you that when a far-off friend dies three months after giving birth, because having a baby made her too sick to live, that you think you might definitely not ever ever have a baby.

They don’t tell you that sometimes, having a part, or a borrow, or a loan, of other people’s children, will be enough, and not just enough, but maybe everything, because also you get to do what you want, and spend money on yourself, and sleep in, and do all the spontaneous things that mothers just can’t do.

They don’t tell you that. Tear.

The scars on my heart will be there forever, fancifully twisted into a J and an S to commemorate them, and will always remind me of what might have been. Except metaphors don’t leave real scars, and your heart still beats and life goes on, and your brain does the remembering, no matter how else it might feel.

The pain of losing two babies was indescribable, and somehow every now and again it still catches me off-guard; when I see a newborn, or when I observe a moment of beautiful closeness between a mother and her child, and just *wish*, or when someone makes a callous remark about miscarriage which breaks me into pieces again. Except there were no ‘babies’, because they were too early. They were the first stage of humans, admittedly, but destined never to be more than ‘pregnancy tissue’, or ‘products of conception’, because they weren’t viable, and that’s the end of it.

Now I exist in a weird place, where I desperately want to spend time with ‘my’ kids, but at the same time don’t want to look like I could be their mother, because I never could be. And I want to be buff and fit and trim, because it’s something I CAN do, and something I CAN have control over. Which makes it worse when you fail at even that, because even if the babies dying wasn’t your fault, it *is* your fault that you look like you could have had babies, if it even matters, which it shouldn’t, because all of this is getting far too tangled.

I wish so much that they hadn’t died. But you’re glad that they did, and that makes you certainly most definitely not deserve them, which brings you full circle to perhaps why you couldn’t have them in the first place.

In the end, I’m still living life in silver linings, because without all those horrendous experiences (and the good ones, too – there were those), I wouldn’t be where I am now, or who I am now, because my life and character wouldn’t have been shaped by these losses, and the interactions and friendships made, and pathways taken during/since/because of them. For definitely the better, I think. Probably.

And they don’t tell you about the tears in your heart and soul which might never mend, but which might be okay; they don’t tell you about the tears which will fall and keep falling every time something opens up the wound and pours on salt; they don’t tell you that even though you figure out that ‘deserve’ is a dirty word, you’ll still believe it’s your own fault, because now babies would be inconvenient, and that makes you a terrible, awful, very-bad person; they don’t tell you that in the end, you can think two very contradictory things at once, and both of them are perhaps okay, or at least not NOT okay, because they’re just thoughts, and just you, and just your storyline for now.

They don’t tell you that sharing these things might be better in the long run, even though right now, it feels like it’s something to be ashamed of, but that you might just feel nothing instead, because that’s how it is, and it has to be okay because they’re just feelings and everyone has those, even if they don’t make sense.

They don’t tell you that you can write this without crying once, and that you’re not sure whether that makes you a terrible person or a maybe-part-way-healed one, or something else entirely.

No. They don’t tell you that.


J S Heart

80 thoughts on “They don’t tell you that. Tear.

  1. My grandfather, whom I named after, was Jesse. And I think you are brave and lovely and wish so many Good Things for you. I’m glad you are still here because you are an Important Person in my life. I truly love you, Diamond.

    Liked by 1 person

    • *HUGS* I didn’t know you were named for your grandfather. How wonderful πŸ™‚ I love that. And thank you. I hope you know I think precisely the same things about you, Pinky ❀ ❀ We will both have to continue to be here across the wires, until we can next be 'here' in person πŸ™‚

      Liked by 1 person

      • I was supposed to be Jennifer Rebecca because my mom wanted to call me Jenny. But everyone kept saying it was too long a band for such a tiny baby so she named me after her dad and herself. Her middle name is Kay. So is mine. Funny thing is that growing up, people always called me Jenny anyway because Jennifer and Jessica are close in sound and syllables.

        Liked by 1 person

  2. Pingback: The Things I Left Undone | Considerings

    • Thanks Ginger. I know different people have to go through all sorts of things, and this is just a part of the pain in my own story, but I think it’s worth writing, because I found it so useful to read other peoples’ experiences when I was going through it. I want to give back, as well as organise my own thoughts…


  3. The loss is devastating. My experience was different, all four times. But I can relate to some. It breaks my heart that you carry so much guilt, and I pray you will always have hope that it gets better. What might have been is never the end of the story. What’s meant to be is how it always ends. You have a lot of “meant to be” ahead of you. πŸ’—

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thanks so much Donna – that’s really helpful to hear right now, because I feel as though the ‘meant to be’ is a pipe dream which never can come true. And I feel a bit lost and desolate about that right now. I have a very good friend who tells me “never say never”, and I’m clinging to those words and searching for hope.
      I’m so sorry that you’ve had these awful losses too. There are no words really sufficient to ease that level of hurt.


  4. Honeybee, wow. I am catching up on my reading today and finally got to this post. I honestly don’t have the right words to describe my feelings after having read this. I do know that I love you even more (if at all possible). You captured all the thoughts and feelings and questions and hurt someone in your shoes would experience, so incredibly honestly. I hurt for you, but I also celebrate your ability to own your feelings and thoughts.

    I have also experienced the loss of an unborn just conceived child and know the hurt too well.

    If I may, can I tell you that even after having been blessed with two beautiful children, I admit to at times mourning a life that may have been. A life with less stress, less responsibility, less obligations and more freedom. The guilt of having those feelings is unbearable and weighs me down but we both need to remember that we are good people with a lot of love to give and are only HUMAN.

    Besos y abrazos. xoxo

    Liked by 1 person

    • You need have no guilt, Honeybee. I think altogether too much shame surrounds these events, and (usually) however an unborn child is lost, is a traumatic and awful time for the mother, and I don’t think we ever really heal from that. I wonder sometimes if we’re not supposed to, because the ‘supposed to’ bond with a live child is so very strong, and we begin preparing that bond from conception onwards. Maybe.

      It’s explainable and allowable to mourn the life which could have been, dear one. Because things would all have been so different, and your life would have taken an entirely different path, and you would have been spared the pain of loss. It’s okay to wonder and wish, even. But you know that the love you HAVE, and the family and lifestyle you HAVE, are huge, wonderful silver linings, and wondering and mourning the loss of another possibility doesn’t undermine that.

      Thank you for your openness and for sharing part of your story, my lovely. I think it’s only when people write so frankly about these things that others feel able to come out and share their own stories, because as a culture it’s something we DO try to hide, and something we DO (collectively) feel shame and massive guilt over, and I don’t think that’s fair – to us, or to anyone newly going through it. And so I write.

      *HUGEBIGSQUEEZYHUGS* ❀ I do love you, Honeybee πŸ™‚


  5. Oh, my dear – this twisted my heartstrings into a knot. It made me think of a story I’ll have to tell one day…if I am ever brave enough to do so. And the part about the marriage ending! Isn’t it odd that more than a year and a half later, it made me incredibly sad because my own husband told me that he left the marriage ten years before he ever physically left the marriage. It is a kick in the head. I’m better off now, surely – and you will be too – but the shit you have to deal with in the interim is a bitch.

    Liked by 1 person

    • There’s no obligation on you to tell anything you don’t feel comfortable to, Jana – I promise. *hugs*

      And yeah…that knowledge about the marriage being over so so much longer before you ever thought it was over…that SUCKS bigtime, and I’m so sorry you went through so much more of it than I did. I’m glad you think yourself better off now. I think we both are, if I’m honest.


  6. I’m glad that you were able to write this and to share it and through the sharing know that there are others who care and some who have experienced similar pains and sorrows. In addition it is nice that you can now see this as an old wound and not have it be so raw and painful as before. In time, though you will still remember, it will get easier. Hope you can feel this hug. πŸ™‚

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you so much Pat – I’ve found that the sharing led to SO much caring that I was completely blown away…initially, and still – I have people who have been through all of this history with me; who have quite literally talked me down from ledges, and who have held their tongues as I’ve ranted and raged, or cried, or who have just held me and loved me…and I’m so, SO blessed by their presence in this journey through life. All I can see, in spite of the silver linings, is their gold.

      Thank you for the hug, and for your care about my story, and my sadness, and my future. It will get easier. It will be different. Change is inevitable, and with hindsight I know it can be far, far better than I ever thought possible.:)


  7. Tear….they never tell you all the ways you heart, mind, body and soul will be broken beyond what you think can be repaired, for them to be reborn like the phoenix. That is what you are, my friend. A phoenix constantly being reborn after every struggle, every heartache into a being who is not only determined to see those silver linings but to sparkle them.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you – I really like that imagery. I AM determined not to just dwell (any more – having been told so SO many times that there is life after loss, but never having believed it until I’d lived it (which is perhaps how it’s meant to be)), but rather to make the most of life, and find the good and joyful bits, and bask in them, and share them with my friends.

      And no, they don’t tell you those things either. They don’t tell you about the ripples and the sometimes constant threat of bursting back into flames. But they also don’t tell you about the incredible, unwavering support which can be found in corners of the Blogosphere, and just how very very much that can help. Thank you for being part of the people who keep me afloat πŸ™‚ *hugs*


  8. They don’t tell you how much your friends will love you and worry for you and understand and that for years and years you’ll wonder but less so with each one and that you’ll be filled with thankfulness and regret at what hasn’t been and never will and that you’ll continue to know that they’re “just” thoughts and feelings and you’ll also know that thoughts and feelings grow and scar and evolve to a more simple state of being.
    I’m glad you wrote this. Today, and all of the days, it’s okay to feel what you feel and not know which is worse – the having or the not. That sadness and thankfulness coexist and that maybe they are more compatible partners than we realize…
    You’re amazing as you are and would be no matter the scenario. KNOW THAT, over all else.
    Love and hugs, you. So much and so many.

    Liked by 1 person

    • But now I have hope, because you were right (I know!) and life does carry on and other things creep in at the edges and the focus changes, and once you find that that’s okay, then other things can begin to take centre stage, until this loss part is a chorus member, which occasionally steps out to take a solo, but which begins to harmonise with the rest of the ensemble, rather than just standing in the middle, screaming. And yes – that’s okay. And nothing in life or on earth or in experience can undo these things, but perhaps nothing’s meant to, and that pain and thankfulness have a way of reflecting into each other, and somehow making each that little bit more poignant than before.

      I’m looking forward to the simpler state of being. I feel like I might be getting there, and also that I haven’t even started yet, but there’s time. And that. at the end of it all, is something. And at least I know that it’s okay to feel both things at once, and to just sit with that and have it be okay, (astonishingly, for me) without overthinking more than the thoughts which were already attached to both.

      I am capable of managing either scenario, probably. So there’s that. But thanks for thinking I’m amazing. You know I feel the precise same way about you. All the loves, and huge hugs back atcha xo ❀

      Liked by 1 person

  9. This just sucked all the air right out of me. You are saying what I think so many people could never say out loud. These things you feel now, they don’t mean you’re a bad person for thinking them. So much of this is grief, how we process and handle great loss. And no loss can ever just be “replaced.” We can’t cover up a loss and pretend it never happened. You are brave for writing this. I hope it was at least a little cathartic for you.

    Liked by 1 person

    • It was cathartic in a kind of ‘taking off a mask’ kind of way, just because I feel my attitude is so repugnant that I’ve been wondering how anyone else could see me differently…and I’ve been really pleasantly surprised by the compassion and understanding I’ve received (perhaps I shouldn’t be – I know *really* awesome people, and so it’s par for the course that they would be kind). Thank you, though, for not thinking me a bad person.

      I think one of the things about me, where I like myself so little, I don’t mind being out there with an opinion or viewpoint which potentially stands me to lose face. I think if people had ripped me off a strip for my attitude, it would just have confirmed my own thoughts of myself, so I wouldn’t have minded…if that makes sense.

      But yes – I need to remember that grief is a tricky beast and a law unto itself.


  10. I’d like to say that I understand because I’ve been in your shoes – but I think that we all experience the loss differently. They don’t tell you that either. They don’t tell you much. Because it’s unspoken. Not talked about. Shameful. You mustn’t discuss it.

    Thank you for proving them wrong. Thank you for speaking about it when so many of us can’t find the words. Know that you are loved.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Yes – no two losses or experiences of loss can ever be the same. And it’s frustrating because they are SO varied, and so unique, that trying to find a similar experience shared so that you (I) could have a CLUE how to handle it, is a pain. So that’s another thing which fuelled me to write.

      I think it’s worth bringing some sunshine to. It’s important, and the shame is awful and needs NOT to be. And thank you ❀ ❀ I think the only thing which has kept me going sometimes is knowing that I have people all over the place who care so much about me.

      And…one way or another, I will always find the words. Somehow. It's worth writing.

      Liked by 1 person

  11. My God Lizzi, this is a hell of a way to get to know you. This is so very powerful. I am just floored. And yet I have never seen anything but a smile from you and I know you are the source of life and light to all your friends. Bless you

    Liked by 1 person

    • Yes, you rather got dropped in at the deep end there – I promise you that there ARE pieces which far better reflect my usual *twinklysparkly*ness, and which are less heavy-going. But I’m glad, in a way, that you’re getting to know some of the worst of me first, or at least at the beginning, because I’m no good with pedestals, and I make no bones about the fact that I try my hardest to be sunshiney when I’m feeling the pressure of impending storms.

      That said, it’s so wonderful to hear that you think I’m a source of light and life for my friends. That’s really lovely. Thank you πŸ™‚

      Liked by 1 person

  12. I wish I had the right words to say right now, but I don’t. I can only try to (and fail to) imagine the wrenching of your heart and soul as you wrote and shared this so courageously. (Don’t argue.) You know my heart is with you- always and always. I love you, Lizzi.

    Liked by 2 people

    • No arguments, my DA. It’s not something I felt good about sharing, if only because I think it casts me in a pretty poor light. And those words might have been just right – I know that you’re always in my corner, and always a source of level-headed encouragement, and I’m so thankful for you. I love you too ❀

      Liked by 1 person

  13. my initial impulse is, as always, to get all metaphysical which, in and of itself, is not a good thing, in fact, I would maintain is the best of things, if, for no other reason than the fact that writing a Comment to a Post of this nature (and quality) is, in itself always an attempt of ‘the other person’ (i.e. the Reader) to reflect on the thoughts exhibited in the Post… that being said, the unavoidable fact of reality is that reflections (on our appearance, our intentions, our actions, our words) are always modified by the person holding the mirror, sort of what Heisenberg said, except not so simplistic as position or momentum, I will, however, thank you for sharing because that is the one unalterable good that we are all capable of, to allow another person to identify with (some portion of) our lives.

    Liked by 1 person

    • If only by the very virtue of being human, and yet there are deeper layers even than that, and I think that being a reader who already has much of the history of the writer stashed away in memory is one of those mirrors through which the writing must be seen. History casts light on the present, and shadows, and there is no way to come to a piece like this without some inherent expectation or perspective which has been tinted by the past. That said, I’m glad of it, because it means (inversely) that at some point I will be able to achieve the same position as the reader, at some point in future, and find commonalities with another (Heisenberg notwithstanding).


  14. i love you. I really do. I love the beautiful phoenix of you that is rising from these ashes. This is so terribly beautiful and I wish more than ever that I could hug you. I did not know about the day today, but now that I do I will make sure to have a wish and a prayer for you before it ends.

    Liked by 1 person

  15. You tore my heart out. After waiting a very long time to finally be with the right guy and getting married, I too had a miscarriage. It slayed me. I wailed and keened. I’m glad you seem to be better with it all. There have been many a day that being a mother to my son takes everything I have, and then some. During those times I envy people with no children. Thank you for sharing.

    Liked by 1 person

    • See, there’s THAT as well, and I think I’m likely far too selfish at this point in time to even CONSIDER having a child. I’m sure I could make it work, because people do, but I’m not sure I’d want to right now. And I completely understand that envy – it’s totally explainable and valid.
      I’m so sorry that you experienced this pain as well – I know what it is to wait and wait and then to feel like all your hopes have been dashed. It’s just awful.

      Liked by 1 person

      • You say selfish as if it’s a bad thing, but being aware of what’s best for you and your particular situation is actually a form of self awareness and self care. Not allowing judgment from others to drive your choices is honoring you.

        Liked by 1 person

        • That’s a far better way of looking at it – thank you so much πŸ™‚ I just don’t think I would be able to cope with a baby now, and I never wanted to be a single parent…and to even imagine finding another person to have a baby with (as though that were the only consideration) makes me feel tired out and as if I just don’t want to. So many reasons to not, and I am blessed with so many wonderful children in my life already. I hope it’s not a thing I regret, but I think regretting having a baby would be far worse…

          Liked by 1 person

  16. Oh, Ivy is wise! You write so well about such difficult experiences.
    I didn’t realize today was Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. I did not intend my 6 Sentence Story to be cruel in any way, and I hope my story of infant survival did not cause additional pain.

    Liked by 1 person

    • No, it didn’t at all – I really liked it. I felt like it provided the flip-side, and it was a really good thing.
      Ivy is VERY wise. One of the wisest people I know πŸ™‚
      And thank you πŸ™‚ It matters to me to write these well – partly because it helps me, and partly because they might help someone else one day.


  17. Thank you for sharing this with us. It is so important that you have. You are not alone many others have been in the same situation but I know it is so personal for you. Words from a stranger are just like leaves blown in the wind but you are still alive and still have a chance to live your life to the fullest which I hope you do.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you – I think sharing and being honest are important things, because of how frank sharing about the tough subjects can really help people going through them (as I found at the time when I was able to read other people’s experiences, and it was so so helpful).

      Liked by 1 person

  18. I understand so much of this. I didn’t cry reading it, and I thought I might. Not that it wasn’t powerful enough for tears, just… I know you know what I mean.

    Sometimes I find myself glad my baby didn’t happen either. For my body, for financial reasons, for feeling not selfless enough to be a good mom. I feel like we blew our chance because now, when I want to try again, my husband doesn’t want to try at all.

    I can’t even find a name for my baby. I’m glad you could. ❀

    Liked by 1 person

    • I’m glad you didn’t cry, and that you’re in that same weird place of it perhaps being better this way, even though it’s maybe not really.
      I don’t think you blew your chance. Give it time. Give it so much more time. People get through this at different rates, and men experience it so so differently (they DO tell you that).
      We went for names which could have been either gender. We didn’t use any of the *actual* names we had hopes of naming our kids. But we were gonna have four, and I can only remember two of the names we decided *sigh*

      Liked by 1 person

  19. No tears are not to be felt as guilt as much as healing and room for wisdom to move in now that the most raw emotions are less frequent…a sign of growth… Of remembrance and a sign you can have permission to live and move on despite the agony of the past… Grief is like that…

    Liked by 3 people

  20. It tears me still to think of the daughter i lost, even though i have other children. None of this makes you a bad person, any more than i am a bad person because i sometimes wonder what my life would be like were i suddenly unencumbered with family obligations.

    Liked by 1 person

    • I’m so sorry you lost a daughter 😦 I think there’s a gross misconception that other children could ever replace those lost to us. And thank you for not thinking me a bad person. I don’t think you are one, either, for having those wonderings.


  21. The baby I lost (around 27 years ago now) was named Schuyler. I had two middle names chosen beginning with K, depending on whether it would turn out to be a boy or a girl, which would have made his or her initials “SKY”. I thought that was so pretty!
    I have no regrets, looking back on the ruins of the past 30 years, about any events which happened to me concerning my children.
    I cannot express how close I feel to other women who have suffered miscarriages or lost babies or children for whatever reason. There is no reason which makes sense for what we undergo when this happens.
    The worst thing which was said to me was, “The fetus isn’t viable. You must undergo a D&C”.
    Not viable! What a phrase.I couldn’t believe the doctor spoke those words to me, I remember them as clear as if it were yesterday.
    The pain I see other women go through when someone says, “Oh well, you will have other babies” is my pain, too.
    Thank you for writing this, dear Lizzi.
    love, jean


    • “Not viable” is wicked, and also true, and perhaps two of the most heartbreaking words to go together. I’m so sorry you were told in such a callous way. That’s awful.

      And yeah, I call bullshit on the whole “You can have other babies” thing, because yes, you absolutely can, but you wanted THIS baby….THIS one, to live – to hold – to love. And I think anyone who hasn’t been through it just won’t get it. And I guess I hope they never have to get it.

      Schuyler is a beautiful name, and to have the initials SKY, would be lovely. If I had ever had a daughter, I would have named her Felicity, because I love the idea of a child whose very name means ‘happiness’.

      Que sera sera.

      And perhaps ‘no regrets’ is a better way of looking at it. *HUGS*


  22. Okay. Wow. Tear.

    You are not a bad person. I will tell you something that I felt when my older song was actively using heroin. I wished, with all my heart, that he had never been born. I was willing to give back every wonderful memory I had of him just to not feel as horrible as I felt when my son was using. I felt guilty for that, I felt like a horrible person and an unworthy mother…but what I feel is the truth is that I’m a person. I feel the way I feel. Of course I love my son….and I am not wishing him away now..but I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I truly meant it then.

    I’m sorry that you suffered through so much pain. Pain is weird…it doesn’t have a correct path to take…it takes the path it takes and then you have no choice but to follow it.

    I adore you. I wish I could shoulder a little of that pain for you.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Michelle, I love you for this comment (and anyway) – thank you so much for sharing something so personal and so…oddly comforting; to know I’m not the only one who thinks/feels this kind of thing and carries on regardless. I’ve been trying so hard not to get bogged down in the duality of thoughts I’ve been having about this – about them – and it keeps rolling around and around in my mind, going nowhere and coming back to the start again.

      Thank you so much for your understanding. I truly appreciate it. ❀

      Liked by 1 person

Comments are where the magic happens...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s