Day 2 - The Saddest Roses

*via Naked Heart Poetry

I wanted to start out optimistic and happy and positive, but I have to do this first, I have to get this off my chest. This is a journey I'm on and it won't make sense without sharing where I've just been.

Aren't these the saddest roses you've ever seen?

I've kept them around, petals wilting, dried out and brown at the edges, because they make me feel sad, and I want to be sad, I want to remember. I want something physical, a symbol of what I've been through, a physical manifestation of my love, my sadness.

I can't believe I'm writing about this publicly, but it's a form of catharsis. A way of saying to myself "this was real, it happened".  A memorial of sorts.

I had a miscarriage recently. I had another one a year and a half ago too, which I've never written about. But this one has hit me harder, in ways I don't understand and didn't expect.

I'll keep details to myself, but share a little, because I need to get it out, to write it down, to bare my soul, to carve this memorial stone.

When I found out (shockingly) I was pregnant, it took awhile to let myself be happy, to hope, and when I did, it was a beautiful thing, a rose colored bubble of joy, so delicate. It popped a month later at finding no heartbeat at our first doctor's visit. No reason why, no answers, just ache.

Even though I'd tried to prepare myself for the possibility of this, my emotions felt like an explosion of pain - negativity coming out of me in every direction, spewing all over everyone around me, the world around me, like dark sticky bile. I didn't want to talk to anyone for awhile, out of fear I would sound like a madwoman.

The intensity passed. And then it was the waiting. I waited another month to have a natural miscarriage. I waited through spring break and family visits and my son's birthday. And then it was over.

There was one last painful gasp of grief, followed by quiet exhaustion and withdrawal. And eventually, little spurts of energy and laughter returning.

Life goes on and I go on. At such a fast pace it goes on, and I run to keep up with it. All the while wishing I could shut myself away for a week, draw the curtains and lay in bed. But it is sunny spring and there is work to do, and an energetic boy to chase after, and so here I am, picking up the pieces and going on.

At times life seems so normal again. But then I see the roses and remember that baby I loved and wanted, who flew away.  It hurts to remember, but I don't want to forget.

I can't speak for everyone's miscarriage experiences. I know each is unique. But I know they are common and I know they hurt.

We are a sisterhood, those of us, who've walked this path. "Me too," we say. And "I know." It's a mystery, a deep and painful, one of life and death, we've been initiated into.

And it can feel so lonely. Even though I think it's not something to be ashamed of, it can be hard to talk about. So I'm talking about it, for all of you, like me, to know, you are not alone.

Coming out of the other side of this, I don't feel like the same person I was before, and I'm not sure what that means, and what the future holds. Everything seems cloudy. But I'm venturing on, hoping the clouds will part and I'll see my path clearly again. And I'm here, writing about it and blogging, because I'm alive and I'm ready to step into something new, even if I'm not sure what that is.

It's time to say goodbye to these sad roses. But I won't forget.