continued Fortunately, I’m still somebody’s mommy. Andrew — he would have been, should have been your big brother — has been my salvation. He’s such a sweet boy, and he distracts me from the hollowness of my womb. He reminds me to have hope.
But I don’t expect a 3-year-old to be responsible for my mental well-being; it’s not fair, and it’s not practical, either. Your daddy and I have been relying on each other, and I feel very lucky to have him — but then, I always have.
Outside of my family — what should have been your family — though well-meaning, some of the words of “comfort” I’ve been offered have done anything but. What could possibly make someone think I want to hear it was “God’s plan” that my baby died? I know there could be other babies, but how can that make losing you better? As if you were disposable because you hadn’t yet grown arms and legs.
I’m also amazed at the people I thought were good friends who’ve said nothing. If I had given birth to a child, and he or she died, would they ignore that, too? How hard is it to drop a line to say “I’m sorry for your loss”?
I might sound bitter. I guess I am. I have no one I can blame for losing you, and I have all of this anger. I have to direct it somewhere.
But I’m also touched. There are people who have reached out to share their own stories of loss —something like 20 to 30 percent of all pregnancies end in miscarriage — and others who simply offered kind words and thoughts. Those have meant the world to me and your dad, just to know that we’re not alone, that we’ll get through this.
I know better days are ahead. But that doesn’t make these days any easier. I miss you. I’m bereft. I was pregnant, and now I’m not. There was a life inside me, and now there isn’t. We were going to have a baby, and now we aren’t.
There’s nothing in this world that can ever make up for that.