I’m at a loss for words.
I have so much to say.
I never would have guessed that I’d be writing about this here – on this blog. I started this blog when I was pregnant with Cameron. I meant for it to capture my journey into and through motherhood. I wanted to reflect on the joys and the triumphs and the frustrations and the pain. I wanted to discover miracles that were evident and search for the miracles that were hidden.
I got pregnant without even really thinking about it. It was super easy. We barely even tried. After a healthy pregnancy I was faced with a few hours (okay, it was 37) of strenuous labour and then I was handed a healthy baby boy. Perfection. He nursed. He grew. He developed and learned. My beautiful little miracle.
Why should I have expected anything different the second time around?
When the idea of a second child started to seem like a good idea, pregnancy was not hard to come by. I was quickly reminded of a line my Mom used to say: “He just had to look at me and I’d be pregnant!”. Getting pregnant was clearly not a problem for us. I was pregnant. And after a little coffee date with my husband to share the joyful news, we began dreaming. A family of four. Perfection.
But it wasn’t perfect. Not even close.
I became part of the 20% of pregnancies that end in miscarriage.
A statistic. A lost miracle.
Despite being shocked to discover how high the rate of miscarriage was, I was yet optimistic. 1 in 5. That should mean I had at least three more healthy pregnancies to look forward to. 3 more healthy babies. 3 more miracles realized.
Soon enough I was again reminded that pregnancy was not my problem. After one good long look from my husband there was another bun in the oven.
This time, we were cautious; Cautiously optimistic. No more texts to everyone I could think of the day I got my positive test. We waited as a family, slowly and surely, joyfully silent, for the time when we would be safe – when we could share the news. Waiting for when the news would start sharing itself through my blossoming body. We waited.
For eight weeks.
I was optimistic. I was sure we had passed the danger zone. I was three weeks more pregnant than I had been last time. I was halfway through my first trimester. Finally, our family of four.
And then I felt a cramp. Just one. A couple of seconds that reminded me of that moment a few months back. Just one cramp that a few hours later resulted in a flood of heartbreak.
No longer part of the statistic. No longer just 1 in 5. Now 2 in 3. Another lost miracle.
And suddenly along with the pain, the tears, the heartache, I felt fear. Fear that this might no longer just be a statistical event. Fear that two miscarriages in a row points to a problem inside of me. Fear that I am killing my babies.
Motherhood is racked by fear. That much is natural. It is part of the job description. But this is a fear I never wanted to face.
A fear I never expected to face.
Maybe this is nothing. Maybe this is a case of an overactive imagination.
Or maybe it is everything.
This has become part of my story. Losing pregnancies. Wanting to be pregnant. Worrying that something might be wrong. I can’t help but incorporate it into the telling of my story. I’m not going to be scared to talk about it. I’m not going to be silent. This is my reality. And I am sure I am not alone.
But my reality goes beyond the losses. My reality reaches to my biggest accomplishment, my most precious blessing. My reality stretches to include the the person who made me a mother. Those bright eyes. That happy smile. Those clapping hands. The millions of hugs.
This is what is means to be a mother. All of this. The losses. And the abundance of gains.
