The room was dimly lit; meant to calm? Make the monitors easier to read? Create a somber environment? I had disrobed and was sitting in the middle of the table, my small family anxiously standing off to the side.
We had just been told I was suffering a miscarriage.
My mind twisted with what if’s. What if they could help me? What if there was possibility? What if this pregnancy could be saved?
My heart raced when the tech entered the room and squeezed liquid on my belly, pressing down uncomfortably to see inside.
I prayed for good news. This would all be a mistake.
Not a mistake.
The tech took my hand and apologized explaining that there was nothing I could have done.
STOP SAYING THAT.
It didn’t change the intense hopelessness I felt or the hole in my heart. I didn’t take away the anger or the unanswered questions.
It didn’t bring the baby back I had wanted.
But as time went on my attacking anyone who tried to help soon relaxed. My world, that felt so tiny and misunderstood, opened up and I began to see that I wasn’t alone.
I began to reach out.
Let other women know that I’d experienced a deep loss.
That I’d been there.
It feels lonely and dark, holds moments of anger and guilt, and leaves you feeling drained.
And I get it.
I get the feelings of despair and overwhelming sadness, I understand the deflated excitement that once filled every ounce of your body.
Soon the dark days will be less than the bright ones, but until they are, feel the sadness.
You’ll laugh again, enjoy your family again, and feel joy again.
The rush of feelings you have now will subside as you sort through them.
Lean on supports, write, cry, walk, talk, remember.
And find spaces that welcome you and your feelings.
You’re not alone.
Let’s get through this together.
This is that space.