Entry 012

I’m an auntie. I suppose since the baby is due in June, most would say I’m going to be an auntie. But by that logic, I wouldn’t be a mother—because my children were never born, at least not in the typical sense. So, I am an auntie. And I’m angry. 

I’m angry that miscarriage robbed me from feeling nothing but happiness as my sister carries her first child.

I’m angry that my heart can’t handle me showing up for her more. There are days I want to send her cute outfits and see if she has any name ideas, and others where even the thought of looking at the sites I scrolled when I was pregnant makes me cry.

I’m angry at my mind for the dark places it takes me to. My longing to experience her experiences for myself is deep. Getting to see my baby alive and growing as she is seems so out of reach. Feeling my baby move and kick in my belly like she will is a distant dream.

I’m angry my miscarriages made my sister probably keep her pregnancy a secret from me longer than she would have otherwise. I can’t imagine how she felt showing me that onesie two and a half weeks after I learned my fourth baby died.

I’m angry I don’t have a child on this earth to be the best big cousin to that baby.

I’m angry that we aren’t pregnant together. She’s only 5 weeks behind where I should be and I’m angry I can’t tell her what she can expect in the coming weeks as I experience it myself.

I’m angry at the thought of my parents instinctively calling this baby their first grandchild. I understand why—because it’ll be the first they can see—but it tears me apart.

I’m angry that I fill with jealousy when I see her growing bump. I can’t help but stare at it. Or try way too hard not to stare at it. Because it’s a biological reminder of how far along I’ve never been and how I want that sight so badly to be me.

I’m angry that my losses have made people act differently around me. How nobody talks about her baby when I’m within earshot and how I don’t get the updates other people probably do.

I’m angry at the very real possibility that my sister might feel even the slightest bit of guilt about having her baby survive.

I’m angry with whatever force you think is in charge of what happens in this world for filling my arms with her baby before my own.

I’m angry her baby is due three days after my second should be having their first birthday and that until he or she is born, I’ll be praying they don’t come on my son’s day.

I’m angry that the overwhelming grief of my losses will overshadow my ability to express my happiness on the day my niece or nephew comes into this world—a happiness that does exist beneath the sadness.

What I’m not angry about is what you probably think I am—that my sister is pregnant. She made me an auntie. How could I be angry about that? I’m not angry that she is having a baby, just that mine isn’t here and because of all the things that come along with that. I’m overjoyed for her and her husband. And I’m angry for me and mine.

Emily Lindquist