I just got home from the supermarket. On my way back, I think I had an epiphany. I think I can go to the hospital and meet my niece. I mean, I reserve the right to change my mind, but I think I can do it.
This afternoon I watched a very moving video about a woman my age who got married today. A woman who has only a few months to live, and, in her own words, “chooses life.” I have often thought about people who, in the face of death, suddenly understand how precious life is. In some small way, I have often envied their zest, their zeal, their understanding of what’s important. I’ve almost been envious of their facing their mortality and have found myself thinking, on more than one occasion, wouldn’t it be nice to have this wisdom without the illness? These days I understand that I may have skipped the illness, but I can use my sad experience of miscarriage as an opportunity to gain considerable wisdom. I’ve suspected this all along — after all, this blog is called On Fecund Thought — but now I see it staring me squarely in the face.
I reached a very raw and vulnerable point. The next thought that popped into my head was this: if P-SIL, with her three losses, can get pregnant again, then so can I. Maybe there is hope for me too.
I acknowledged the part of me that wanted the first delivery ward I set foot on to be because I was the one in labour. I wanted the first newborn that I held to be my own. And then I remembered that the first brand new newborn I held was on the first delivery ward I stepped into — that baby was my sister, born when I was almost 14. And then I remembered the love letter I wrote my sister, whom I affectionately call Bubs, this past December on her 21st birthday, an edited version of which I present here:
The relationship I have with Bubs is the closest thing I’ve had to being a parent — and she’ll be the first to grumble that I’m like a third parent… When I found out our mother was pregnant I was actually not happy at all. I was 13 and starting to go through teenage angst: for the duration of my mum’s pregnancy, I vowed that I would put some sort of curse (where from, I had no idea) on her the first time I held her.
I’m glad to say that Bubs and I have often since laughed over this ridiculous curse idea. Because when I met her, all those jealous feelings simply melted away. I stepped into the hospital room where my mother and Bubs were sleeping. My mother, still sedated after the caesarian, outstretched her arm with a hospital bracelet on it and murmured She has my hands. I cautiously approached the crib and gingerly took this tiny bundle in my arms and looked down at this sleeping newborn… my sister.
Like all newborns, she was an odd-looking, scrawny little thing. But she also had a stitch in her scalp from where the surgeon had accidentally cut her. Plus, her skin was peeling, her nose was dotted with whiteheads, and her eyes crusty with conjunctivitis. But she opened them and looked up at me and smiled. She was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen and I knew (as I had secretly hoped I would) that there was no way I could ever curse her. In that moment, she waved her tiny heart at me and I fell in sisterly love.
Like a moment in which my heart stood still, I suddenly understood that the best way I can honour my Bean and his memory is not to disassociate myself from this new baby, but to love her and be the best aunt I can possibly be. Maybe I can be grateful, even, for the opportunity to hold a baby and shower her with love.
In the car on my way home, I began to laugh and cry at the same time. I couldn’t wait to get home and tell DH about my epiphany, that I am on the right path. And you know what? As if to confirm this realisation, every single traffic light on the way home was green.
♥
Instead of marking off 30 weeks on my pregnancy calendar today, I am on CD4 and getting ready to pee on OPKs tomorrow. Instead of bonding with other women in person, in prenatal classes, I am bonding with other women online over our losses — whether pregnancies, fertility, or both. It’s not where I thought I would be, almost a year after coming off the pill.
But you know what? I think the grief that unites us has made for real connections. I know that I will still grieve the loss of my Bean until at least October 5th or until I am pregnant again, but tonight I feel like instead of living in mourning, I can be grateful for the circle of friends I have scattered across the globe, at various stages of growing their families, who take the time to read, comment, cheer me on, and accept me as I am.
This is me, choosing life.
Hey Lauren,
Just catching up on blogs after being away, I started backwards and am reading forwards but I just love this post. It sounds so healing and positive. For me, even though I am pregnant again, and even though this current baby would not have been possible if I hadn’t miscarried the other one I am still grieving that first baby. I am still crying for never getting to know him. But the grief is different. I am hopeful that you will continue to heal and that soon you will have a beautiful baby of your own to hold.
Thanks, Egg. Me too…
thank you for continuing to share your journey with us. This epiphany marks a turning point for you: I see it as testament to the many miles you’ve walked with your grief, honoring your feelings and sitting quietly with them. On the other side of pain is insight.
Well, thank YOU, Blossom, for continuing to read it. Slowly, but surely, I will blossom too. x
What a wonderful realization that you had! I can sort of relate, as it seems all of my friends have gotten pregnant since I had my miscarriage. At first it’s so hard to be happy for them, especially the ones who don’t want a baby right now…. On the other hand, I am an auntie to 11 wonderful kiddos (between my husband and I) and they have been such a wonderful gift and presence in my life. Several of them are like my own children. I hope that you can find the same joy in being an Auntie. xoxo, Tobi
Thanks, Tobi. Yes, I felt like I have a choice in how I respond if I choose not to react. It’s hard, but it’s hard either way, right?
Eleven kiddos? You are quite the auntie!
xx
There will absolutely still be setbacks, but it’s nice when you reach the stage where gratitude is the dominant emotion. So happy to hear you sounding better!!!!
I get by with a little help from my friends <3
I’m so happy for you that you’ve reached this epiphany Lauren. Breath deeply in that good place for as long as you occupy it, (while also, very wisely, reserving the right to change your mind or pass out of it when you’re not able to do more). I have a nephew who was born three weeks after my due date with my son; for a long time I feared that he would always and only ever be a reminder to me of what I have lost. But knowing him and his sweetness has been a pleasure; on the one hand, he can equally serve as a reminder of why I keep going and what I’m aiming for. He’s just such a lovely little person. At the same time, he’s his own little self; he isn’t and cannot ever be *my* baby – somehow remembering that makes other babies so much easier to deal with. Anyway, the babies are awesome, it’s their parents I often have trouble with :/
This is all a meandering way of saying that I understand what you’ve been going through and I’m so proud and happy for you that you’re choosing life! It’ll come Lauren. Remember to be patient and loving with yourself too. Sending hugs.
Haha, Sadie, you hit the nail on the head — “it’s the parents…” :D
I know you know what this feels like, and you clearly have a great relationship with your nephew. This is something I can aspire to. Much love, friend x
Ahhhhhhhh! I’ll bet you feel like a huge weight has been lifted from your shoulders. “Choose life” love it! So true. We have our husbands and our health. So much to be grateful for.
Maybe when you hold your new niece she will be your lucky charm.
Xx
A lucky charm? I hadn’t thought of her like that, but I hope so! Yes, we are lucky in other ways, aren’t we? xo
Aaaaaah. I’m breathing this huge sigh, and I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath. You are truly lovely, and even if the epiphany dulls a bit, you’ve come so far. I’ve always thought you were an old soul, but these hard knockabouts really give the wisdom. Though some may be pushed into darkness for good by the same circumstances–you, my friend, are always seeking the light.
This is just beautiful, Ev. Thank you for sitting with this and sharing.
Love, love, LOVE this! The story about you holding your sister for the first time is one of the sweetest, most tender things I have ever read. It has made me start to rethink my anger over my sister’s pregnancy a little. I’m still hurting and don’t think I want to see her in the hospital when her baby is born, but my heart has opened just a teeny crack–maybe. We’ll see. That’s the first time I’ve been able to say that since hearing her news. Thank you, Lauren. Sending you thoughts of peace and happiness.
I’m so pleased, Annie. We can chat about this more over email, but sometimes I find I can actually embrace difficult feelings and, when I do, good things can happen. If I can help you open your heart just a little, I will. Much love to you xo
Fantastic. Fabulous. Love the epiphany!
Thank you!!