If I were a total nerd, I would have called this blog post MOMorial day. But of course I would never even think of something that nerdy because I'm so flippin' rad. This is another late-edition blog post because I did a weekend away for Memorial Day and instead of drafting up a blog post on Monday, I fell asleep on a sunny deck with a drink propped against my side. So, a different kind of productivity. Over the weekend we spent time with friends who have a house by the beach. While we hung out with their friends from the little beach community there (a fun couple who have two kids). 

Over afternoon drinks, the husband of said couple asked me when Chris and I were planning on having kids. Feeling like it was not the place to launch into one of my signature real-talk heart-to-hearts I answered playfully with "who knows!" and shot a knowing smile at my girlfriend who is my sister in the trenches of reproductive dysfunction. I couldn't help noting how that question no longer has the emotional sting for me as it once did. A little later in the afternoon again it came up when one of the children was having a tantrum and he joked, "Aren't you glad you made the choice not to have kids?". Again I kind of just shrugged it off, no biggie. I coached myself internally, saying : not everything has to be a miscarriage in-service, Becca. Then in the early evening when we were slouched in the living room even more socially lubricated from day-drinking, I got asked a THIRD time, this time more directly, "No really, I know its a personal question, but are you guys planning on having kids at all?" 

I don't really know why this was such a topic of interest, but I guess people just like to figure each other out sometimes. I wasn't going to do a big song and dance, but by the third time I felt I had held out long enough that no one could accuse me of being "that chick who always brings up miscarriage" so I might as well just answer openly and simply. I did. I said that our lack of children wasn't due to lack of wanting one, but that last year we had lost a baby. The honesty was met with comfortable honesty in return. He said he was so sorry to hear that and shared that they had lost a pregnancy very early on. And that was it. 

It is wild to look back and see how this question used to throw me for SUCH a loop and now I actually in a way enjoy the chance to share and be honest about my experience. I think people like stories of success, but what they like even more are people who are honest about the stumbles, bumbles, tears, and falls along the way, because those are moments to which we can all relate. This brings me to a topic that I have been musing a lot on due to a book that my dear friend Courtney recently gifted me about embracing failures and getting back up even stronger after. To be continued! Stay tuned for my big "celebration of the beauty of getting the crap kicked out of you by life" post next week...

I thought I'd outsource a bit and share this article about Miscarriage Myths. I was mostly struck by number #6 which talks about the emotional realities of miscarriage. In a study published in the journal of Obstetrics & Gynecology. Only 45% of women surveyed who experienced miscarriage reported they received "adequate emotional support" from the medical community. This is personally and professionally very interesting to me. I touch on my relationship to this topic a bit in THIS POST I wrote about the day the day a physician (not my physician, mind you, just the one that happened to be there on call when I had that fateful last sonogram) told me I miscarried. I remember the way the doctor awkwardly sat with me for a few seconds as I sobbed and then got up and left apologetically. I remember how the sonogram technician would not make eye contact with me. I remember looking back how no emotional support services of any kind were offered. How can this be? I think I may have to get around to fixing that. In the meantime, if you are reading this and looking for further support while you wrestle with any phase of the aftermath of miscarriage, feel free to reach out to me here : [email protected] and I can help point you in the right direction! 

I did a Mother's Day de-briefing last year to process all the ways that day had poked at prodded at a very fresh wound. I really didn't expect to do one this year, because as we all know I am totally FINE...like completely FINE....DOESN'T EVERYONE SEE HOW FINE I AM???!! So as it would turn out, being well out of the acute phase of the trauma of miscarriage does not exempt you from needing to excuse yourself in the middle of the afternoon to sob like a baby. I mean, so I've heard...

I happen to love motherhood. I love my mother and the magical way she gets me because she made me. I love maternal, nurturing energy. I loved seeing everyone smiling in pictures with their moms all over Facebook on Mom's Day. I've always felt this way. I've felt drawn to the pure magic of pregnancy, childbirth, and the role of being a parent since I was a tiny little girl. Because mommyhood has always been in my blood, it is a bit of cruel irony that of all the medical or emotional traumas that could have been dropped into my lap, miscarriage and reproductive issues were the ones I ended up saddled with. I think that's what made Mother's Day hard for me this year. Despite everything that happened, I still genuinely love the institution of motherhood and it hurts my feelings to not have the kind of ownership of it that I wish I had. 

I wish I could guarantee that I would be one of those smiling mommies cradling their newborns on their first Mother's Day. It's always the not-knowing, isn't it? Will I get to be part of that sisterhood? Then I was absolutely blown away by the love and care that was shown to me by my friends and family that day. I truly didn't expect that, but out of the woodwork came friends telling me that they recognized my maternal energy even if I did not have a baby to show for it. One girlfriend sent me this article about a woman who speaks of still being a mom even though her baby was never born, my mom got me a little present, another girlfriend left a heartfelt message on my machine listing the ways she felt I embodied the goodness of motherhood, other friends and family sent texts, emails, and good vibes. It made me realize that I already was part of a pretty incredible a sisterhood (personhood) even if it's not the one I expected to find myself in this Mother's Day. 

My would-be First Mother's Day reminded me to embrace the fact that this experience lives inside me and accept that it is going to continue to rear its head at various significant moments. There will never be a point in my life when I the experience won't hurt. However, as the months and years go on, it seems that its memory will transform and highlight the ways I have grown and those that have been by my side for the ride. Even though my pregnancy did not manifest a baby, it manifested a brand new relationship with my body, a transformed outlook on the word, and an even deeper connection to the support system I have around me. 

Every now and again I snap into the parallel universe that might have existed. With Mother's Day approaching, the distance I have been able to maintain from that parallel universe seems to be (temporarily, I hope) closing in. This weekend will be the second Mother's Day I have experienced (and by "experienced" I of course mean, the second one that has been a real B-word to endure).  Even though I have made the personal decision not to actively pursue another baby right away, I was surprised to find those old ghosts haven't gone far.

It's spring time and just as the hyacinth and peonies and cherry blossoms are bursting into bloom, so seem to be the mamas in my neighborhood. Why does my baby bump radar seem to kick into hyperdrive at this time of year? I feel like preggo bellies and newborns are absolutely everywhere. What's the most wild to me is that those mamas are no longer my parallel universe doppelgängers. My parallel universe chicas are the ones with EIGHT month olds strapped to their chests or nestled into strollers trying to run me off the sidewalk. If all had gone as planned, I would be celebrating my first Mother's Day on Sunday with an eight month old tiny Becca spawn glued to me. That blows my mind. As it stands now, however, I don't even know what having an eight month old means. I mean, I do, developmentally, but I simply cannot wrap my head around the reality of it. Oh how very different my life might have looked right now if my pregnancy had gone the distance.

I realize I can mark my mental state over the last few Springs in peonies, my favorite flower. Two years ago when Chris and I were casually "not not trying" to have a baby he bought me a bouquet on Mother's Day "for my future baby-mama", he said as a sweet joke. Then last year, when we had just lost the baby a few months earlier, I bought a bunch for myself as did Chris because we decided babyless mamas deserved flowers too. Fast forward to this year, when I bought myself the glorious blossoms pictured above without even connecting it to Mother's Day at all (man, the difference a couple years make). They sit in a big mason jar lighting up my kitchen counter reminding me that time really does heal (very slowly, but surely nonetheless). The healing process is in full effect, but the specter of that trauma still comes and goes, floating around me as it pleases. 

I wonder if it will always be like this, for we mothers that might have been. The more time that passes, the more it seems clear that I will always have an awareness how old the baby would have been at every special occasion, of each Mother's Day where I buy my own flowers, of the birthdays that won't come in August. Sometimes I wonder why I am still writing this blog a little over a year after my miscarriage, but I think I keep doing it because I am continuously surprised by the big ways and small that his experience has colored every season of my life. I want to keep talking about it because as I move farther away from the acute experience it becomes even clearer in my rearview mirror. I would never want any of you out there reading to think you are alone for still getting sucker punched by the ramifications of miscarriage even when there are years between you and it.  There is no expiration date on the scars that losing a pregnancy leaves. Sure, those scars transform over time, sometimes they are more noticeable than others, but they are always there. It's hard to imagine anyone who has experienced this NOT thinking about it on a holiday dedicated to motherhood. So to all of my compatriots in this weird sisterhood (and those who love them), I'll be thinking of you on Mother's Day and honoring the ways we continue to make sense of the longterm impact of thwarted mommyhood.