I have to take a break from child-filled adventures in traveling and sight-seeing. Although I have more stories to share, my heart’s not in it. It’s preoccupied with something else. Generally, I think life is best when viewed with humor. I enjoy blogging because I love taking the mishaps and incidents of our days and trying to turn them into funny(ish?) posts. Sometimes though, life happens and you’re just sad and there’s no getting around it. The best you can do is say it, straight up.
I had a miscarriage last week and I’m sad.
Not crushing, can’t think, can’t get out of bed, would do anything to dislodge the small black beast from my chest and make breathing a little easier sad. I’ve been that sad. After our first pregnancy, a ten week miscarriage, I was sad like that. I lie awake some nights and dread the first time one of my children is that sad. I know the little boy that didn’t stay with us felt that sad and I lie awake on other nights hoping his forever mother has touched that spot in him and eased it.
This is different. In part, because it was earlier. There was only enough time to find that magical forty week date and grow attached to it. But mostly, because of my children. They are with me all the time, joyous and healthy and alive. They blur the edges, disrupt my focus. They fill my chest and leave the beast no room to curl up and get comfortable. I can’t let myself miss too many moments with the children that I have, grieving the children that I have not.
I don’t know how to put words to this sadness. It’s familiar. It’s like the poignant sadness I feel over the passing of time. It’s a sadness that makes happiness more. Sharper. Deeper. More compelling. More fulfilling. More, happy. Painfully happy.
So that, when Quinn comes wobbling towards me on his unsteady legs, and grabs my leg in a baby bear hug and chirps “ai’ee” (mommy, we worry about him a little), the hug resonates up my leg and into my chest and the little black beast stretches languorously and leaps like a graceful cat to the ground on its delicate paws.
So that, when Saige and Garrett and I dash through a Virginia downpour, laughing over the sound of the rain and yelling “oh, no! oh no! The rain is getting us!” I physically feel it slink away and leave a warm, almost welcoming spot around my heart that the happiness floods and fills.
So that, when we sit at the dinner table and each child gravely holds an imaginary phone, carrying on animated, nonsense conversations in perfect imitation of my tone, I have to hold the stitch in my side and I ache from laughing. The small black beasty finds a sunny corner across the room and curls into a doughnut in a huff.
So that, in the dark, when I slip into their rooms to see their soft, sleeping faces one more time before I go to sleep, I feel it curl around my feet, rubbing my legs and I almost smile. I reach down to stroke the soft fur of it’s back. Familiar. Sleek. Beautiful.
I can bear it. I can welcome it’s soft touch in quiet moments. Because of them. Because of these moments. These shiny, perfectly formed, glass pebble moments. I get the briefest second to hold each one, finger it, roll it around my palm, before it slides away and the next one falls, hard and smooth and beautiful into my hand. I want to collect them and keep them all in bowls on my window sill, so that the light will hit them just right and make all the colors shimmer together, reflecting under water patterns on the walls. A mother’s collection of moments too small to remember on their own, but together, collected together they are a work of art, a masterpiece, a symphony, beyond anything I could ever consciously create. It surpasses me and my small life and my small griefs and makes it all seem grander and bigger. More.
I’m sad right now and a little afraid. I let the little beast slip, quiet and sure, through a crack in the door and now I fear it’s here to stay. Maybe one more is too much to ask. Maybe I’ll have to be content with this.
There isn’t much room for sadness in that.
Wow. This is my first time visiting your blog, and I’m nearly speechless. I realize today’s post isn’t your usual tone, but it’s perhaps the most beautiful, dead-on-real expression of sadness I’ve ever read. Thanks for taking on the topic and for sharing it with all of us. (Btw, I love humor, too. I’ll be back!)
I am so sorry. I would say that I am amazed by your ability to weave this loss into such a beautiful tapestry of words, but really, I am not amazed because even in your funniest moments, you have this remarkable ability to paint life exactly how it is but yet so much more beautiful, even in its ugliest moments. I truly am sorry for your loss, but I am happy for you that you are able to see the blue sky through the clouds, see the amazing gifts you have in the three beautiful children God has graced you with, and continue on. I’ll be praying for you.
I’m so sorry. I know how inadequate that is. I wish you comfort and peace at this time. I hope you’ll be good to yourself and let yourself feel whatever it is you want to feel. (((hugs)))
Oh, Stacey. How my heart reaches out for yours. You’ve hit it just right. I could not have explained that dark beast and how it slips away with the tinkle of your children’s laughter any better. I ache for you, but at once I am happy for you.
It is my hope that whatever you choose to do next – try again or let it be – I hope that it rests well within you and will dismiss the crouching shadow altogether.
Hugs, my friend.
I am fairly certain that the words I am looking for don’t exist. But there are thoughts that I send you…a cup of tea, a cozy chair, the silence of friendship. From my heart.
hugs and tears.
i’m so sorry. truly sorry.
i kinda had a feeling after reading a comment of yours somewhere.
it was about sea glass.
here, we call them angel tears.
they are my rememberance of my almost baby.
c’mon back to mn, and i’ll take you to lake superior to look for some from your almost babies.
visit:
http://fertilegroundzine.com/i402.html
good thoughts and ideas.
take care of yourself. love those babies. we’ll be here when you need us.
sending love.
I said it to you before, but it hurts whether it was your first child or your tenth, whether you were in your 2nd week or your 12th. Own the sadness for a while.
As usual your writing says it better than any comment I could leave. I’m glad you are finding comfort in your gorgeous children. I’m sending you virtual hugs.
Amazingly put. I am sorry too, and wish you strength.
I am so sorry. I don’t know anything else to say besides that that wouldn’t sound foolish.
WOW, I’m so terribly sorry for your loss. God Bless
I agree with all those very articulate commenters… words are inadequate, i’m sure. There are many of us sending you strength, appreciating your honesty and just plain thinking of you.
I’m so sorry. But good lord, your writing is spectacular.
Oh I’m so sorry. I am crying for you. I’ve been there and I know nothing people really say helps, but I’m here for you and I’ll be thinking of you.
I am truly sorry for your loss and understanding of your sadness. It is ok to feel sad. You are amazing with words; this is a very beautiful and touching post. Thank you for sharing such personal feelings. May the happy moments beat the beast!
i’m so sorry, stacey.
Stacey, I love the visual of your colors and symphony. Absolutely beautiful. Sadness is ok. Don’t lose hope, this wasn’t the right time. There is a plan for you and it will happen as it is supposed to.
I will be praying for you and your ham eating husband :)
Oh, Stacey. I’m so sorry – especially that you had to go through it all away from home.
Love you, girl.
I’m so, so sorry. My heart hurts for you. Your words and your post are beautiful. Finding beauty in sadness is a wonderful gift. Finding a way to paint the beauty and the pain into a masterpiece of words for the rest of us is amazing.
Thinking of you and sending hugs.
I’m so sorry Stacey. I am an infertile, and I’ve had to deal with pain and loss, but this particular loss is not one I’ve experienced on a personal level. I wish you strength to get through it. I wish peace for you and your family in this hard time.
I’m sorry.
Stacey, I am so sorry for your loss. Your beautiful writing articulated what you are going through so well.Thank you for sharing something so hard. God bless you.
I’m so terribly sorry. I know how much this hurts. But, like everyone else, I have to say that you express it so well.
Hello, it’s me again, the incredibly insensitive new reader who was so taken with your writing that she failed to express sadness for your sadness. I am so sorry—for what you’re going through, and for my utter insensitivity. Some day I’ll get it right. In the meantime, blessings to you…
Love and hugs to you…
I’m still horrified that I asked you about it.
Thinking about you…
Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. Give those babies a hug for me. And yourself too.
Love,
Truda
Oh friend, I’m sorry. So sorry for you and your family.
Be sad, let it hang around when you have a moment. It’s important.
like kristin, this is my first visit and i just wnated to tell you how sorry i am and give you a big hug, cause hugs from perfect strangers visiting your blog for the first time is totally normal, right?
thank you for writing this.. it was beautiful.. truly. my thoughts are with you
My thoughts are with you , you are always allowed to be sad – your loss is real. I’m glad you can enjoy your little ones and they can distract you.
I’m so sorry.
Despite the sorrow, I’m glad that there is also so much joy in your life. You write beautifully about both.
:(
I’m sorry about your loss. I don’t expect that to mean much, but you’re still in my thoughts.
I know you’ve heard all the sorries. I’m sorry for you too. I’ve miscarried too. Many times. The first was horrible and I couldn’t believe my happiness was being ripped away from me. After that, when I got pregnant I kept counting down the weeks to make sure I was past the “safe” week. I never did. One time I even carried 11 weeks. I thought, this is the one! It never was. We’ve adopted both of our children. I wouldn’t have it any other way. The dispair and sadness I felt with losing those babies doesn’t even compare with the joy my two little ones bring that found me another way bring to me. Sorry for your pain. It’s never easy.
I am so sorry.
i am so sorry for your loss. you & your family are in my thoughts. your post was beautiful & your family is blessed to have you.
Stacey, if I could I would reach through this here computer and give you a big hug. My thoughts are with you…
S – talking to you, having you as a friend, reading what you write, has truly deepened my understanding of what it is to be a mom, and what it means to have a family.
Oh, Stacey. I feel for you. I’m so sorry to hear about your loss. I know nothing I say will ease your pain, but know that I’m thinking about you.
And for Quinn — at least the STs in our area count sounds that are used for words as words up to about 24 months. Quinn isn’t that old, I don’t think. We’ve gone through speech therapy with both kids if you want some thoughts and ideas or just some reassurance.
*hugs*
This is a beautifully written post and I thank you for sharing your lose with us. I am so sorry to hear about it but am thrilled that you are able to keep that beast from taking over completely.
I am so so sorry.
That was beautifully written. And I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry. A loss is hard to bear at any time, but it has to be doubly so when you’re away from home and away from your husband and need to hide it.
Be gentle with yourself my friend, and take the time you need to to grieve when the moments come.
sorry to be hogging the comments here…
but had to note…
immediately after reading this last night, i sat through a 3 hour long conference and all i could think about was the analogy of
you took an amazing swan dive…and your beautiful children are waiting for you in the water.
peace.
::hug::
{{{{{{{{{{{{{HUGS}}}}}}}}}}}
Thank you so much. Your thoughts are so comforting. I appreciate each one and the time it takes for you to read and care.
beautiful….and spot on
Oh I am so sorry. I know how much you wanted this. Let the hugs and laughter carry you through this and know that we are all thinking of you.
I am so sorry to hear of your loss but your post is so beautiful. I am glad that you can see beyond it and enjoy the moments you do have with your kids.
oh stacey, big hugs. Big warm hugs.
Love.
I’m sorry, honey. I so admire the way you’re dealing – writing a beautiful post like that. I’m amazed
Mwah.
Stacey I know I said it when it happened but I am so sorry you had to go through this. *HUGS*
As usual I am in awe of your writing. Hold onto those babies tight.
I know exactly how you feel and I’m so sorry for the loss. Thank God for our kids who remind us everyday that there is love in the world waiting for us no matter what happens.
Many Hugs to you my friend.
I’m sorry.
Stacy
Every once in awhile I read something that I don’t want to forget. I put it in a folder called ‘Inspirations’. When life gets too overwhelming or crazy, I often look in that folder and find something to make me laugh or cry, somethings to just make me forget and feel better for a moment. This post is that for me. Especially this: “Because of these moments. These shiny, perfectly formed, glass pebble moments. I get the briefest second to hold each one, finger it, roll it around my palm, before it slides away and the next one falls, hard and smooth and beautiful into my hand. I want to collect them and keep them all in bowls on my window sill, so that the light will hit them just right and make all the colors shimmer together, reflecting under water patterns on the walls. A mother’s collection of moments too small to remember on their own, but together, collected together they are a work of art, a masterpiece, a symphony, beyond anything I could ever consciously create. It surpasses me and my small life and my small griefs and makes it all seem grander and bigger. More.”
As a busy mom of 3 I hope I can always remember this- that all of these little, insignificant moments make a beautiful symphony. Thank you for sharing in the midst of your sadness. I pray that your family will be completed somehow and you will have all the children you can… manage?? : )
Nicole
This was my first night ever posting on a blog, hours ago (have been reading for a few weeks with pleasure one has in finding a new community). I came this evening via a link from another great mom’s blog (Motherhood in NY), noting your posting about Quinn’s birth story. I was moved at the chance to read yours and others’ and share my own, for the first time in years. But I completely missed Marinka’s “posted a few weeks ago” reference; failed to note that I wasn’t reading your most recent posting, this painful news. How not the tone-deaf venture I wish I’d made into this shared community.
Thank you for extending your words and your feelings (all of them). My sorrow for your loss.
oh wow, how beautifully you’ve written about your loss….
I am sorry for your loss.
I thought I commented on this? I keep looking and I can’t find it.
Maybe I’m thinking of our emails.
I’m glad you got this out, and, again, I’m so very, very sorry.
I am so sorry. Weeping tears of sadness for you….
Oh Stacey, I’m sorry.
I experienced a miscarriage at almost 11 weeks, and then one at 7 weeks. I can so relate to you comparing the two. It was vastly differing experiences – both painful, but one much more so.
Sending you hugs and peace and light. May your sadness lift and joy replace it. Thinking of you.
(((hugs)))
Oh, Stacey.
Hug your babies to your heart and tell the beast to heal.
No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born
Stacey-
I’m so sorry for your loss. I’ve had two miscarriages, too, and you’ve captured perfectly the ‘beast.’
It seems there’s no way to open the door to the joy we share with our children (I had one child after each miscarriage), without also leaving room for the beast to enter.
Reading these comments just fills me up with peace and, I don’t know what to call it, togetherness maybe. I am so sorry that so many of us have experienced this loss, but so glad that we have this space to share it a little.
Kristin t. – It wasn’t insensitive at all, my writing is part of me. But, thank you for all of your thoughts.
Nwmama – You didn’t leave an email, so I wasn’t able to respond to you directly. Hopefully, you’ll see this. I love that post and I enjoy it every time someone shares their birthstory in the comments. I’m so glad you did because I went back and read about the beautiful birth of my baby again.
Welcome and thank you for your thoughts.
To all of you – thank you, for everything.
Oh I am so sorry. You still managed to write beautifully–eloquently even when your heart hurts.
I am so sorry.
I’m so sorry, Stacey. My love to you.
There’s nothing I can add to everyone else’s comments. I’m sorry for your pain. Your post was beautiful and worded perfectly. Sending hugs!
When I read the poignant words of grief, I physically ached. Having a miscarriage is something that becomes a different type of pain. One that is thread through your body with no true ending.
I am sorry.
I understand the darkness.
Let your grief live and pass, give yourself the time and comfort that you need. Let your feelings have the place they need and when you are ready, you will know when they are leaving.
Saying sorry isn’t even remotely adequate. I’ve been down this horrible road myself 3 times in the past year.
I’m shedding a tear for you too.
I am so sorry Stacey. Thinking of you…
I am so sorry to hear of your loss! It is amazing how the children you do have help you through the pain and grief. If I wouldn’t have had to be there for my children, I would have been in a really horrible place for a very long time. And I know that really there is not much to say that will bring you comfort. Being able to talk about it in the open does really help. It is staggering how many women have gone through this and blogged about it. There is comfort in their stories. Only because you find out how not alone you are in your sadness and grief, and whatever else it is you may be feeling.
I wish you the best and hope you start feeling better soon.
I am so sorry. I went though it many times before having my son and vowed to never have it happen again – therefore only child. I understand your pain and can only give you virtual reassurance that so many of us in the blogosphere share your sadness.
I’m a little late with this but just wanted to let you know I am thinking of you. Sending you virtual hugs.
Oh my gosh, so beautifully written. I am very sorry for your loss.
Anymommy
Sorry I have been on vacation and this is the first chance I’ve had to keep up with your blog. I know you will still get this comment even though it is late.
As a person who has had 2 miscarriages and an ectopic pregnancy it doesn’t matter how far along you are – there is always sadness, and time always heals, but for me there was often wonder. Wonder what that little one would have been like. Like you I have other children, but every now and again I have a little tinge of wonder.
Sorry Stacey – I feel for you.
I am so very sorry. Just read this for the first time. You expressed something so horrible so beautifully. I have been through it more than once as well, and — I am just very sorry. It looks from the pictures that you have something very beautiful indeed.
genevieve
thank you so much for this post!!! I lost twin boys at 21 weeks (Theodore Holden and Tristen Jeffrey) last Mother's day 2008 and on May 28th of this year I had a lovely little boy (Aiken James), I also have an almost five year old (Teagan Patia)I love the spin and the positivity of the loss… It really made me appreciate the children I have. (not that i didn't before…)