Graduating Gratitude
🌷 Phil, I, and Kimmy met at our high-risk OB for an echocardiogram. Babies born via IVF have a higher proclivity to heart issues and defects, so at this 22-week mark, we went in for this very intense, ninety-minute ultrasound where they look only at the heart. Every valve. Every ventricle. Every blood flow. It was more intense and more nerve-wrecking than the anatomy scan. But, if everything looked good, we would graduate!
We graduated.
Our baby girl’s heart was pumping strong and beautifully (almost as much as her legs! Girlfriend is going to be B.U.S.Y.) Getting to see our baby, her heart, her body, her nose. It will never get old. I wish I could see her every day.
Besides our happiness and joy at seeing our baby and knowing she is thriving, I was reminded of how much sadness and pain it took to get here.
One of my favorite people in the world reached out to me. She had/was having a miscarriage. She was heartbroken, devastated. My heart broke for her, with her; she wanted this baby so badly. She had a name picked out, and as she said, she suddenly saw her life in a different way (she doesn’t have any children.) We talked over this past week about how you can’t go back once you experience pregnancy. Once you see your life with children, you can’t go back to envisioning your life without. The reset button doesn’t exist.
The moment you are pregnant, your life changes. Your perspective changes. Your being changes. Before you feel your baby kick, before you have a baby bump, before the pregnancy symptoms kick in, you become a mom. You have a new identity that can’t be reversed. There’s a saying that “a woman becomes a mom when she becomes pregnant. A man becomes a dad when he meets his baby.” I don't entirely agree with this statement. Phil, after all, felt all the feels of fatherhood when he learned about Henry, and I remind him that Henry was lucky to have him. But, it is a reminder of how (and why) the miscarriage experience tends to be different for the person carrying, often much more traumatic - physically and emotionally.
As much trauma as my pregnancy caused, I would never give up my 19 weeks of pregnancy. I don’t regret a single moment of it. Being pregnant made me a mom. It changed my life. For my dear friend, I know it changed hers. Regardless of how long she was pregnant, she is now a mom, and I so hope she sees this as the beautiful thing it is.
This was the first time since we lost our son that someone has told me about her ongoing miscarriage. She was experiencing similar things I had. She said the whole experience is so painful, and then on top of that, so very isolating. Despite how common miscarriages are, for the most part, people don’t talk about them until well after they have one. And for my friend, the people that did know about her loss didn’t know how to interact with her. They either one, acted weird around her two, ignored her, or three, said [unintentionally] unhelpful things. It made me think about how I wanted to comfort and support her. The things I wanted to say to her that didn’t make her feelings worse. I leaned on a post that expressed the following:
1. Instead of saying, “I know what it feels like,” say, “I cannot imagine your heartbreak.”
2. Instead of saying, “You’re strong, you’ll get through this,” say, “You’ll hurt, and I’ll be here.”
3. Instead of saying, “You look like you’re doing well,” say, “How are you holding up today?”
4. Instead of saying, “Healing takes time,” say, “Healing has no timeline.”
5. Instead of saying, “Everything happens for a reason,” say, “This must feel so terribly senseless right now.”
And when there are no words to say at all, you don’t need to try and find some. Love speaks in silences too. (Showing up is all that really matters.) 🌷
