Not Every Woman
Not Every Woman
About how not every woman goes home with a baby, and how there is still life after loss. This is my story.
Before you continue reading this post, I have to warn you that it way trigger feeling. If you have a hard time reading about loss, you might want to reconsider continuing. If not, this is my story, or at least part of it.
As a young girl, I never thought procreation could be such a challenging endeavor. No one told me anything. Our mothers never said anything. Society never said anything. I always thought all girls get married and have babies. No one told me that some girls get married later in life and that some girls perhaps can never birth their own babies. Or that some women never find a partner. Sometimes I feel cheated like someone kept the truth from me. When I'm sitting at a coffee shop, and I overhear a group of young unmarried women talking about having babies, all I can think about is that at least one of these women will struggle with infertility or experience a miscarriage. I know how it sounds, but it's the truth. The problem is no one wants to talk about it. I get it. In my case, I had a miscarriage and then went on to experience neonatal death. When I miscarried, my doctor told me that we are not as good at procreation as we think and that we open ourselves to pain the moment we choose to have children. As much as it hurt, I appreciated his candidness.
There's a lot of talk these days around infertility and women's struggle to conceive. There are hundreds of stories on women's path to motherhood through fertility treatments. Which I fully understand are a beacon of hope for those on that same path. These inspirational stories must be told. However, no one, or at least very few people, talks about the women who go back home empty-handed, who don't get to have a happy ending. The ones that perhaps will never go on to have a baby. Probably because no one wants to hear these stories, right?
Every loss is heartbreaking, but when you are a woman in your forties and lose your first and perhaps only child, the story is entirely different from that of a younger woman with a fertile future ahead.
Like every mother-to-be, I went to the hospital full of blissful expectations of my baby, almost even a promise, only to discover that not every woman goes home with a happy newborn. I don't know how to explain how painful it is or how empty it makes you feel. How hopeless it all is. Every loss is heartbreaking, but when you are a woman in your forties and lose your first and perhaps only child, the story is entirely different from that of a younger woman with a fertile future ahead. The feeling of hopelessness is stronger. All you can think is, now what?
We've all seen those photos on Instagram. They are everywhere. Pictures of women holding their babies for the first time right after birth, their faces all flushed, smiley and tired. I don't have that. I instead had to embrace my lifeless newborn child. I had to put him away in what seemed like a shoe-size casket. The little outfit I had bought to bring him home was the one he wore to his burial. I had to return home to an empty nursery filled with things I had carefully selected for our soon-to-be baby. Everything I went through is but a vague memory. I write about this not because I want to re-live the pain but because I desire to acknowledge his short-lived existence. I never want to forget him.
I'm not telling you this to make you sad or even scared. I’m telling you this because It's my story and because telling it is part of the healing process. You should tell yours, too, even if it makes others uncomfortable. There’s someone out there that needs to know your story. Your story matters. Losing Walter changed my life forever. Eventually, I will write about how my life was transformed. Little by little, I will. Someday, I will also tell you the story of the day our son was born.
There are still dreams to pursue and purposes to be fulfilled. There is still hope if you allow the pain of the loss to transform you.
If you’ve gone through a loss or will ever go through one, I want to say I love you. I see you and feel you and want to know your story. But mainly, I want to say that there is still life after loss. There are still beautiful things to look forward to. There are still dreams to pursue and purposes to be fulfilled. There is still hope if you allow the pain of the loss to transform you. There is still beauty for your ashes. What was meant to destroy you, God will use it to lift you. You don't need to be consumed by your loss. Your story can have a meaningful ending if you open your heart to the unknown and the possibilities and never lose faith. If no one else wants to know your story, know I do.
Thank you for being here and for reading my story.
Because I want this post to have an uplifting ending, I put together a playlist with songs that I usually listen to when I go on my morning walks. They tend to put me in a happy mood. Play it shuffle and enjoy!
This brings me to the following…
A while ago I listened to this Mel Robbins podcast episode that talks about the science and benefits of walking. It’s an eye opener. I became a walker a while ago and I love it. It puts me in a good mood, improves my creativity, and overall makes me feel great. I highly recommend it. If you’re not a walker, start walking today.
That’s it for today guys. I hope I didn’t scare you. Who knows what next Sunday will bring. I can’t really say because I don’t plan ahead, so stay tuned. I love you.
xoxo
MC
I admired you. I will not be a mother, at least not a biological one and it is difficult sometimes to imagine that I will never be pregnant. Thanks for sharing your story with us, Thank you for helping us understand your process. I love you.