miscarriage

Posting about my miscarriage on Facebook was the most cathartic thing I could have done for myself. It allowed me to validate my feelings.

People don’t like when you talk about your dead baby. They don’t know what to say. They just don’t want to think about death and loss.

Welcoming any baby is probably the single most emotional experience of the human condition. But welcoming a Rainbow Baby?

How was I supposed to tell my son, who was already preoccupied and frightened by the idea of death, that his new little brother or sister was gone, that I'd had a miscarriage? I didn't know. So I lied.

Miscarriage steals your ability to prepare for the future, to trust your body, your mind, and your support system.

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It wasn’t the name I would have picked — not originally, at least — but as days turned into weeks, it grew on me.

I had a lot of well-meaning friends and family searching for the right words to say after my back-to-back miscarriages. So many offered solace by guessing at where my lost babies resided in the ether: taken away to Heaven, perhaps forever, perhaps waiting for a better moment— an unknown, destined time these small souls were meant to break into the world. I accepted these comments silently, because they did nothing to comfort me.