This is the story of the first time I woke up and my miscarriage was not the very first thing that flashed through my mind.
I woke up. The sun was streaming through my windows. I distinctly remember thinking, what day is today? and then realizing comfortably that it was Saturday. I looked over and Chris was still asleep. I gazed at his long eyelashes and thought, as I often do, about how unjust it is that boys always get the loveliest doe eyelashes. I thought about how when he wakes we would go and have brunch around the corner. I’d get eggs benedict. Or maybe heuvos racheros. Chris would get French toast. We’d bring the paper and linger over mimosas. I reached for my phone and checked the weather. I walked into the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee while I waited for Chris to get up. I lit a candle that smells like freesia and the ocean to me. As I plopped myself down at the counter and opened my laptop, I noticed my blog was open. It hit me. I realized I had spent a good part of the morning without one thought of losing the baby or about blood work or about my wonky uterus. I remember musing to myself that this must be how it is. It must happen in tiny increments until one day I make it to lunch without thinking about it, and then to dinner, and then a day or even two might pass without defaulting to that now-familiar emptiness. I don’t recall exactly when on the calendar this day occurred (which I suppose is a good sign because it means there have been many of these days since), but I remember clearly the emotional response to the gift of a tangible sign that on some level my heart was healing. I felt hope beginning to take up more prominent space within me alongside the pain (which doesn't appear to be vacating any time soon, but rather taking up fairly amicable residence within me). I got to experience this new version of me for a moment as if the Universe was nudging me forward by giving me a taste of what could be.
This is a short, but significant post for me. I hope if you are reading it out there in the world and you feel like there will never be a day where you are not sleeping, breathing, and living the pain of miscarriage (or whatever sadness might be plaguing you) every solitary moment, you can take my word that a morning will come where you will notice what you have before what you don’t. There will be a morning where you find yourself conscious of the possibilities that are available to you before the ones that were taken away.
I woke up. The sun was streaming through my windows. I distinctly remember thinking, what day is today? and then realizing comfortably that it was Saturday. I looked over and Chris was still asleep. I gazed at his long eyelashes and thought, as I often do, about how unjust it is that boys always get the loveliest doe eyelashes. I thought about how when he wakes we would go and have brunch around the corner. I’d get eggs benedict. Or maybe heuvos racheros. Chris would get French toast. We’d bring the paper and linger over mimosas. I reached for my phone and checked the weather. I walked into the kitchen to brew a cup of coffee while I waited for Chris to get up. I lit a candle that smells like freesia and the ocean to me. As I plopped myself down at the counter and opened my laptop, I noticed my blog was open. It hit me. I realized I had spent a good part of the morning without one thought of losing the baby or about blood work or about my wonky uterus. I remember musing to myself that this must be how it is. It must happen in tiny increments until one day I make it to lunch without thinking about it, and then to dinner, and then a day or even two might pass without defaulting to that now-familiar emptiness. I don’t recall exactly when on the calendar this day occurred (which I suppose is a good sign because it means there have been many of these days since), but I remember clearly the emotional response to the gift of a tangible sign that on some level my heart was healing. I felt hope beginning to take up more prominent space within me alongside the pain (which doesn't appear to be vacating any time soon, but rather taking up fairly amicable residence within me). I got to experience this new version of me for a moment as if the Universe was nudging me forward by giving me a taste of what could be.
This is a short, but significant post for me. I hope if you are reading it out there in the world and you feel like there will never be a day where you are not sleeping, breathing, and living the pain of miscarriage (or whatever sadness might be plaguing you) every solitary moment, you can take my word that a morning will come where you will notice what you have before what you don’t. There will be a morning where you find yourself conscious of the possibilities that are available to you before the ones that were taken away.
RSS Feed
