Untitled (version 4.0)

Untitled

(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

THAT

baby.