I didn't even realize it until this evening and then I got overwhelmingly sad. Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment, maybe I just like being sad.
Whatever.
I lost a baby.
I had that baby taken out of me on July 13, 2012, and to this day I'm still not sure if it's acceptable to call it a baby.
I was nine weeks along when I had my D&C, but I was six and a half weeks when I found out there was no heartbeat. There are no words to describe what kind of pain accompanies that news.
I had a choice when I got pregnant and I chose life. I chose my baby.
And then it was taken from me.
I chose to have my entire life changed, flipped upside down. I chose to change my dreams, goals, time frames for this person, only to have it taken from me.
I remember that day. July 13. I cried as soon as I woke up. I cried while I showered. I tried putting my clothes on, but I couldn't. I sat down, naked, on my bed and cried.
I cried all the way to the hospital.
I cried when I woke up from surgery.
I asked the nurse where my baby was. I wanted to see the little clump of cells that was taken out of me. But I couldn't because they were so small. What was supposed to turn in to a human being was thrown away in a bio-hazard bin, the same way used needles or band-aids are.
Every time I felt a gush of blood rush out of me, I cried. My body heaved with sobs, so much that my eyes didn't even have tears anymore. I hurt. That was it, I just HURT. Each and every time I felt myself bleed, my heart felt like it was in one of those vices that squeezes cans until they're all the way flat. IT HURT.
When I got up to leave the hospital, I looked behind me at the bed. It was covered in bright red blood. I wasn't surprised though. The doctor told me that I would bleed, maybe even before the surgery. That if I saw red blood, I needed to go to the emergency room.
I saw a lot of red blood that day and the following weeks.
I don't remember a lot about the months afterwards.
I got married.
Josh was there every minute. He was there through each and every tear and every scream. He listened to my heaving cries and the moans that came from deep within my stomach. He knew it hurt because it was his loss too.
As I type this, my healthy baby boy is behind me playing with what sounds like a plastic bottle. He will smile when I call his name and he will laugh when I ask if he wants some milk. I am so thankful for that child. I thank God every day for him, and every day I beg God to let him live. I beg God to please let my son grow and thrive and be safe.
I love both of my babies.
I love the one who I hold every day and every night. I love the one who drives me absolutely crazy and then makes me laugh hysterically. I love the one who begs for baths at every opportunity and gives me sloppy kisses when he's not quite ready to take a nap.
I love the one who I only see in my dreams. I love the one who, despite never knowing, I wholeheartedly believe would have been a girl. I love the one who was "just a clump of cells." I love the one who never had a heartbeat, or only had one for a short period of time. I love the one who "would have been sick if it were born." I love the one who "might have had something wrong with it." I love that baby. It was a baby to me. It was my baby.
On February 13, 2013, Harper Tobin was supposed to enter this world. Instead, I had a dream about the baby I was supposed to be delivering.
I was in my bed with my husband in our apartment. Everything was exactly the same as in real life, even the clothes I'd left on the floor from the previous night. But I kept hearing this sound like air squishing out of something, it sounded like my slippers. I cracked open my eyes and watched this little girl with long brown hair stomping along the foot of my bed. She had my neon pink push-up bra draped over her pajamas and my bunny Stompeez were on her feet. I didn't know it then, but she had the same eyes Connor has now, mine. She walked over to me and was eye level with me lying down. For whatever reason, I guess she was a toddler's age, even though she was only supposed to be born that day.
"Do you have to go to the bathroom?" I asked her in a half-awake tone.
She nodded her head, those eyes staring into mine, her long hair by her shoulders.
"OK, just give me a minute," I said and closed my eyes.
Then I woke up.
Everything was exactly the same as in the dream, except there was no baby in my house. There was no baby in my womb. But I had peace.
I had peace because I knew that my little girl was not sick, but beautiful. She was sassy. Most importantly, she was OK. She is OK. I live with the faith that I will see her again. I live with the faith that I will go to Heaven and she will meet me at the gates, take my hand and I will get to love her for eternity.
I love my son. I love every day with him.
I love my daughter. There is not a day that goes by that she doesn't enter my mind.
A quote I saw tonight is so true:
"A miscarriage is a natural and common event. All told, probably more women have lost a child from this world than haven't. Most don't mention it, and they go on from day to day as if it hadn't happened, so people imagine a woman in this situation never really knew or loved what she had.
But ask her sometime, 'how old would your child be now?'
and she'll know." -Barbara Kingsolver
Harper Tobin would be a year and a half old. She would be celebrating her second birthday on February 13, 2015. I will never know if she would have wanted a crown cake or a car one. I know that because of her, my husband and I have a bond that is amazingly strong. I know that because of her, I love Connor more than I ever thought possible and I am so THANKFUL for him.
Harper changed my life.
On November 15, 2014 I will be celebrating my son's first birthday with a Mickey Mouse cake and primary color plates, surrounded by family and friends. We will sing to him and he will open presents. If you ask me, Harper will be with us that day celebrating her brother's first year on the earth that she never got to see.
Please don't even tell a woman that her child wasn't a baby. Don't tell her when she's scared to death of pregnancy that it probably won't happen this time. Don't tell her to get over it.
That embryo was a baby to her. She's scared because she doesn't want to go through that unimaginable pain ever again, just comfort her. She will NEVER get over the loss of a pregnancy or child, period.
For those of you who have experienced this horror, you are not alone. It's OK to hurt and it's OK to mourn. There's no time limit to grief.
Your babies will always be with you.
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