Part 2: We Were Made For Loving You

I snapped this photo before I went into surgery. I needed to distract myself so I found joy in the patterns, the colors, and the folds of what was laid before me. 

The silence on this subject is quite overwhelming. I think that's due in part to the mothers who are afraid, guilty, embarrassed, and angry - I don't blame that for that. But I believe that it's time to paint a complete picture of what motherhood is. It's not always rainbows and giggles and cuddles. There's also pain and loss and death. When we acknowledge this truth, then healing will be possible. And then we can start trying again so that we can get to the rainbows and giggles and cuddles part with a fuller and more hopeful heart.

Here's to all those who have lost the ones we have never met. May they know that in the light of forever, they will always be found. 

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A miscarriage never entered my mind. Throughout the whole pregnancy, I never allowed it to. I was planning surprise reveals, blog posts, photos, nursery rooms, names. Instead we got a surgery, hospital bills, and medicine prescriptions. To shift from one end of the spectrum to another is a rude awakening (emphasis on the rude part); we went from embracing life to duelling death. Before the finality of it all dawned on us, we tried to negotiate, trade, and exchange, but it said, 'No, no, no, no.' So we screamed at it and said, 'No, no, no, no,' too. We all know who had the upper hand. 

The scariest part was picking up the pieces after the fight. When the physical pains of the miscarriage and of the surgery were gone, I didn't want to move. I wanted to stay where I found myself, in the middle of grief and loss and anger. I felt I had the right to since my questions haven't been answered: Why did this happen to us? Did I do something wrong? Is this karma? And the worst, what now? I threw these questions to everyone but they couldn't throw anything back to me. We are sorry, we don't know.

And then, when I hit the bottom, someone (or Someone?) nudged me to tilt my head back and whispered, 'It's time to go back up.' Climbing into the light, into normalcy, into restoration required acceptance, humility, and of course, an abundance of faith:

Acceptance of the pain, of what happened. That it did indeed happen. Acceptance of loss: we were pregnant and then not anymore. Acceptance of ugliness: the rearing of the heads of anger and doubt and jealousy and every despairing emotion possible. Acceptance of silence: there were no answers, at least not the kind that I wanted. 

Humility in carrying our crosses and laying down our burdens. In allowing others to see me in my brokenness and imperfections. Humility in letting go of my plans and dreams and timeline (again and again and again). In finally handing over the pencil to the Better Writer. 

And faith that in spite of the miscarriage - or rather because of it - we are always truly, deeply, and unconditionally loved. 

Losing a life is always difficult, especially one that is little because it makes you think that you don't have the right to grieve. But no life is too little for love. This everglow of a baby has shaped my husband and me, has made us into purer forms and better versions of ourselves. It has deepened our marriage, our parenthood. It has changed us. All of that the baby was able to do at only seven weeks. If that's not a miracle, then what is?

Like what I was beautifully told, some of the children we get to meet in this life, some in the next. Either way, I'm now a mother forever. Well, isn't that a kinder, more beautiful awakening?