As November looms around the corner, there is nothing that can be said or done to make the painful memory of the miscarriage go away. Come November 28, there will be no child in our arms or family of three. Dwelling on this makes me incredibly sad at times. Will there ever come a time when that date doesn't make me sad?
For me, this entire year has been one gigantic hurdle. One large mountain to climb. One nightmare that will not end. One year filled with tragic and life-altering events.
At times I feel like I struggle to just keep a grasp on my sanity. Most of the time, I want to hide under a rock for an indefinite amount of time. Months ago I wanted this year to end, and now I'm afraid to think of what a new year will bring. This to shall pass, right? Who the hell knows.
My faith is not doing much to sustain me. Friends and family bring me temporary joy. My husband is supportive and loving beyond belief but still I feel a void. School and work keep my mind off of things but contribute to my stress levels. The only way to explain how I feel is that there is an emptiness inside of me that won't go away. That emptiness seems to not want to be filled by any of the positives in my life.
I've done enough poo-pooing for the day and need to pull myself together. My heart goes out to you all that are swimming through a similar sea of crap.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Friday, October 14, 2011
From the Heart of a Husband
I gave the Husband access to my blog. Enjoy-
March 20, 2011
Today is one of the happiest days of my life. Around 4:30 this afternoon, Kristin and I found out that we are going to be parents. When she showed me the test, I was overwhelmed with joy, excitement, and pride. After making a life for ourselves, we have created life together. I cannot put into words how it feels to know that our son or daughter is growing inside the body of my beautiful wife. Soon, I will be able to see a picture our child in her belly. She is the most special woman in my life, and I could not be happier to be starting a family with her.
This is the first entry in my baby journal. I vividly remember being called into our bathroom by a shocked Kristin, seeing a plus sign on the pregnancy test, and being unable to do anything other than crack the biggest smile of my life. I knew instinctively right then and there that my life was never going to be the same again, and that I was going to do everything in my power to ensure that my wife and child were happy and provided for.
As new parents, our lives became about our baby. We researched which foods to avoid, which supplements to take, and argued about baby names while we waited for our first chance to see our baby on the ultrasound. After a seemingly endless two weeks, the day finally came. As Kristin lay on the doctor’s table with her hand in mine, we saw our baby for the first time. Just as I thought my capacity for joy and love were saturated, they grew ten fold. Far beyond a mark on a stick, I was now looking at an actual picture of the life we created growing inside her.
Five days later, I was working a 17-hour overnight shift. It wasn’t the sort of work I would normally take, but I had a family to support so I bit the bullet. In the wee hours of the morning I felt pretty good, having gotten most of the shift behind me without any trouble. Then it started. Kristin told me she was having problems. We were both scared. Her obstetrician offered little comfort. After an eternity, I convinced her to call an ambulance while I made my way to the hospital. It was raining hard and a few streets were flooding, but my only thought was getting there as fast as I could. I didn’t want to believe that we were going to lose our baby. I hoped that they would find nothing wrong and send us home.
When I finally arrived and found Kristin’s room, it was already too late. Overcome by shock, all I could do was hold her. After a few moments, it started to sink in: our baby was gone. We would never get to see or hold our baby.
I joined Kristin in a complete emotional breakdown. We cried and prayed together, trying to come to terms with what had happened. Our world was destroyed. There was nothing we could do to change that. All we could do was mourn our loss.
I wonder where the term “expecting parents” came from. In my experience, there is no such thing as an expecting parent. From the very moment I found out that Kristin was pregnant, I became a dad. Not an expecting dad; just a dad. Even though I never got to see our baby, or hold or kiss or snuggle with our baby, he or she was a real human child with a heartbeat, and I am his or her father.
Going through a miscarriage is losing a child. That may seem obvious, but many people seem not to understand it. I doubt anyone would try to console a parent who lost a 10-year-old by saying that they will have other children, or that everything happens for a reason. Why then do some find it acceptable to offer such words to victims of miscarriage? Yes, I take comfort in the knowledge that we are likely to have other children—and I hope that what we’ve been through will only make the experience sweeter—but that does not in any way, shape or form make up for the child that we lost. Nothing ever will.
After losing a child, there is really nothing comforting that can be said. I found comfort in genuine interest from loved ones. Being reminded that I have family who love and care about me was the only thing that made me feel better.
Because of this experience, I now know a father’s love. I also know the love a man has for the mother of his children. There is a incredible level of intimacy that comes from creating life together.
Our baby lives on. Not only in our hearts and memories, but in the very essence of our beings and our relationship. Our baby is part of us, forever.
March 20, 2011
Today is one of the happiest days of my life. Around 4:30 this afternoon, Kristin and I found out that we are going to be parents. When she showed me the test, I was overwhelmed with joy, excitement, and pride. After making a life for ourselves, we have created life together. I cannot put into words how it feels to know that our son or daughter is growing inside the body of my beautiful wife. Soon, I will be able to see a picture our child in her belly. She is the most special woman in my life, and I could not be happier to be starting a family with her.
This is the first entry in my baby journal. I vividly remember being called into our bathroom by a shocked Kristin, seeing a plus sign on the pregnancy test, and being unable to do anything other than crack the biggest smile of my life. I knew instinctively right then and there that my life was never going to be the same again, and that I was going to do everything in my power to ensure that my wife and child were happy and provided for.
As new parents, our lives became about our baby. We researched which foods to avoid, which supplements to take, and argued about baby names while we waited for our first chance to see our baby on the ultrasound. After a seemingly endless two weeks, the day finally came. As Kristin lay on the doctor’s table with her hand in mine, we saw our baby for the first time. Just as I thought my capacity for joy and love were saturated, they grew ten fold. Far beyond a mark on a stick, I was now looking at an actual picture of the life we created growing inside her.
Five days later, I was working a 17-hour overnight shift. It wasn’t the sort of work I would normally take, but I had a family to support so I bit the bullet. In the wee hours of the morning I felt pretty good, having gotten most of the shift behind me without any trouble. Then it started. Kristin told me she was having problems. We were both scared. Her obstetrician offered little comfort. After an eternity, I convinced her to call an ambulance while I made my way to the hospital. It was raining hard and a few streets were flooding, but my only thought was getting there as fast as I could. I didn’t want to believe that we were going to lose our baby. I hoped that they would find nothing wrong and send us home.
When I finally arrived and found Kristin’s room, it was already too late. Overcome by shock, all I could do was hold her. After a few moments, it started to sink in: our baby was gone. We would never get to see or hold our baby.
I joined Kristin in a complete emotional breakdown. We cried and prayed together, trying to come to terms with what had happened. Our world was destroyed. There was nothing we could do to change that. All we could do was mourn our loss.
I wonder where the term “expecting parents” came from. In my experience, there is no such thing as an expecting parent. From the very moment I found out that Kristin was pregnant, I became a dad. Not an expecting dad; just a dad. Even though I never got to see our baby, or hold or kiss or snuggle with our baby, he or she was a real human child with a heartbeat, and I am his or her father.
Going through a miscarriage is losing a child. That may seem obvious, but many people seem not to understand it. I doubt anyone would try to console a parent who lost a 10-year-old by saying that they will have other children, or that everything happens for a reason. Why then do some find it acceptable to offer such words to victims of miscarriage? Yes, I take comfort in the knowledge that we are likely to have other children—and I hope that what we’ve been through will only make the experience sweeter—but that does not in any way, shape or form make up for the child that we lost. Nothing ever will.
After losing a child, there is really nothing comforting that can be said. I found comfort in genuine interest from loved ones. Being reminded that I have family who love and care about me was the only thing that made me feel better.
Because of this experience, I now know a father’s love. I also know the love a man has for the mother of his children. There is a incredible level of intimacy that comes from creating life together.
Our baby lives on. Not only in our hearts and memories, but in the very essence of our beings and our relationship. Our baby is part of us, forever.
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