This week is the one year anniversary of my miscarriage. I would love to say that it’s gotten easier with time, but it has not. The unique thing about miscarriage is that it’s not a loss at the end of something; it’s a loss at the beginning of something.
Pregnancy was a confirmation that all of the changes we made were worth it. We went through so much to get ourselves out here, to (basically) ostracize ourselves from every support system and way of life we’d ever known. Until we got pregnant we were just waiting. It was still an adventure. Still a “gamble” of sorts. We did this so we could have a family. Would it work, we wondered?
Once we got pregnant, it was like hitting the jackpot. Kind of like both of our lives had been leading up to that point. And all of our hard decisions and sacrifices were infused with meaning. It would work, we finally knew. We were here for a reason, and it was a good reason.
And then, not really.
So it’s been a year of hanging on. Of continuing to strive to make this work. Because maybe, maybe it’ll happen again, and the next time it will be different.
But you know what? Miscarriage turns everything sour. And a whole year hasn’t really changed that. I can’t be as happy for people who are pregnant as I was before. I can’t really look forward to being pregnant again. I can keep it under wraps, and recognize it as unreasonable, but while miscarriage has made me (and us) stronger, it’s also made me more bitter and afraid than I was a year ago today.
I will never be able to be as excited as I was during that first pregnancy, short as it was. I will always have a strong cord of fear to temper the joy. I won’t have that “invincibility” factor that so many new moms have; a result of no problems, of no loss.
I can only hope that, somehow, if a baby ever comes, for real, uninterrupted, this past year will have made a difference. Something positive will come of this.
Until then, baby steps.