Untitled (version 4.0)

(because what title do I give it?)

This is my fourth attempt 
at writing this blog post.
The three other drafts
sit uncompleted.
I haven't even taken a second
look at them since I started writing them.

I stopped for various reasons.
One was too descriptive 
and I felt awkward and shameful
for potentially exposing 
so much of myself to the world.
The second time my sentences
were disjointed and didn't flow.
The words weren't coming to me naturally 
and it felt all wrong.

The third time was about a month ago.
I set out to really publish it that time.
My intentions were pure.
Share enough to be authentic and real,
but not enough to completely expose me,
or my husband.
Yet once again I couldn't finish.
The emotions took me by storm
and I ended up sitting with my fingers
poised on the keyboard,
tears freely flowing.
I couldn't write.
I couldn't think.
I just felt so sad.

To be honest,
I really want to write this post.
I almost gave up.
I want to write it.
The words aren't coming easily.
I want to write it.
I really do.

I want to tell the world
just how horrific that day was.
Part of me wants to be descriptive,
gruesome even, to share the details
of what happened with you.
To break the stigma,
to be open and vulnerable.
It seems that women are 
heroic for opening up themselves
so fully when they share this kind of raw emotion.

But I just can't.
I'm not a hero, I guess.

I want to write it.

Instead I will simply say this:
On June 1st of last year,
Spencer and I sat in a tiny room
in the emergency ward of our local hospital.
He sat in a chair next to me holding my hand, 
calling my mom,
staring at the bizarre mural on the wall,
while I was having contractions.
My body was miscarrying our precious baby.

The details of that day will haunt me forever, probably.
I really don't feel like I need to share them here.
I can be really honest, authentic and vulnerable 
when I need to be.
I will share my story with those who need to hear it.
The stories that were shared with me 
did in fact help me when it was my turn.
A few people who were raw and open
about their own miscarriages helped me.
I want to be that for someone too.
But not here.
Not on this blog.
Not on an open forum like this.

It is part of our story.
This baby left a mark
on our family,
immediate and extended,
and he or she is very much apart of me
like my other babies are.
You won't find me shying away
from talking about this little one.
My kids don't either,
and I love that.

Part of me really does want to go into
depth about our searing pain.
What those raw and horrific moments were like.
What I was doing, what I was feeling,
how supportive my husband, my mom, my mother-in-law
and my family was during that time. 
The friends who cried with me,
gave me space, chocolate and hugs.
The story is vast, painful and close to my heart.

The day is coming...
another milestone.
At first I marked it by days.
One day, two days, three...
then each Wednesday that passed marked another week.
And those weeks became months.
And now,
we start to mark the years.
Year 1 without Vanilla Bean.

My heart is breaking.
I don't want another baby.
I want

1 comment:

  1. Oh Michelle, I'm so sorry to hear this. That must've been so painful. And you are right, just share what you are truly able and ready to share. Like Brene Brown says, share from your scars not your open wounds. Maybe this is still an open wound.

    sending you love.


Drop me a line and say hello!