I’ve lost another baby.
That’s the third I’ve lost, the third in a row, and my fourth pregnancy. Lost before we knew boy or girl or had much time to dream about who might be joining the family.
There’s not much to say at this point, though this third loss magically opens a door to all kinds of testing and lab work and interventions should we choose it.
But I’ll never have the answer I really need: why my babies came to me only to leave again so quickly.
And I don’t know how to regain the other thing I need: hope. Hope that Rowenna might be a sister, hope that a beautiful plus sign on a pregnancy test might end with a sweet baby in my arms. Hope that when I share our news I won’t later be tearfully sharing a loss.
It seems like such a simple thing to wish for, doesn’t it? A child. Something that seems to come so easily to so many people.
It feels like wishing for water but finding only a well run dry. Wishing for food but finding none.
Such a simple wish, such a basic, instinctual thing to want: a child.
And when it’s given to you but taken away again in the blink of an eye there is nothing left but a hole in your heart, a hole that can’t be fixed, and an endless list of questions that can never be answered. Nothing can replace a baby that is lost. That unique being, that single instance of chromosomes and cells and life will never be replicated.
Not much to say, and not much to do but move forward. Slowly. One foot after the next. Wondering, always wondering.