Refocusing

Today marks a week since we lost the baby. Surprisingly, I feel fine this morning, but I know that can change by the afternoon. Who knows where I’ll be at when 3pm hits–the moment all of our fears were confirmed. It’s hard to know which part of this miscarriage story will pop up in my memory and hurt me. It’s a new part every day. One moment it’s the memory of handing my baby to the doctor in a bag, or of lying on the chair feeling the doctor remove whatever tissue she could still see, or of the actual labor itself and the mix of relief and despair–that the pain was over and what that signified. Other moments the memories are tinged with what I can only conclude is pity for myself. I think about the first warning signs and how I couldn’t do anything but hope things were okay, and I cry over my naivety and for my baby who was struggling the whole time. I think about the hours leading up to the miscarriage (it was such an ordinary day in some ways) and the hours spent in extreme discomfort and pain. Those moments hurt me too, but I can’t quite put a finger on why.

This morning, however, I pause to refocus my thoughts. I’m still trying to iron out all of the emotions and their sources, but I can conclude a couple of things here.
Firstly, it’s okay to grieve over what could have been for our family. I see videos of children with their parents and their first steps and discoveries, and I want that sorely for me and for Heech. He will be such a good father. He was already a good father when the baby was still with us. This source of grief presents itself the strongest most days. I’m working towards acknowledging it and then moving on instead of letting it overwhelm me.
Secondly, while it’s okay to grieve over what could have been, there is still a future to look forward to. I need to remember that motherhood is not out of the picture for me. It’s easy to confuse grief over losing the baby with hopelessness. Sometimes they intertwine and I’m not sure which one is presenting itself. A friend of mine encouraged me by saying, “You’re such a good mom (presently) and you will be a good mom in the future.” I do have a baby, and I am a mom, they’re just not here with me now. I lost a physical baby, but I didn’t lose the relationship. I’m disappointed and sad, but I’m still my baby’s mother and I hope one day I’ll be a mom to other babies too.

I wish these thoughts were clearer, but I’m still working through them. These posts are largely for me, but if you’re reading these–thank you for reading them and for sitting in this uncomfortable place with me.

I love you, baby. Rest easy up there and listen to my voice while I lead praise today. It’ll sound a little different from when you were inside me, but I hope you hear Mommy’s love in every note.