Entry 013

I received the first submission from the Share Your Story page of my site last week. The crazy thing is that I’ve known this woman my entire life, but I had no idea of what we have in common.

This loss mama’s name is Delinda. She gave me a glimpse of her journey to motherhood and permission to share it with you. These are Dee’s words of loss.

To think that I knew you when you were born to now be reaching out to you in your blog about loss is a wonder. I received your Mom’s Christmas card and decided today was the day to check out your blog that she mentioned. I felt compelled to share with you a bit of my story. 

To be honest, I have never shared or written any of these words down. Just recently, a group of friends was together talking about miscarriages. The question was asked, “who here has had a miscarriage?”. I didn’t know how to respond because my loss was unconventional. My loss was different than everyone else’s, so therefor it must not be “real”. 

It’s been thirteen years since I lost my baby. My “words of loss” are different. The pain of feeling behind in life as you stated in one of your blogs was very real. The fact I couldn’t provide my husband the title of “Dad” pained my heart and was real. The feeling of grief and loss in a time that was supposed to be joyous was real. And all in a manner that unless you go through it, there is no way to really describe it. Although it has been 13 years, all of it is as if it was yesterday, as vivid as when the sun shines through a stained glass window and the spectrum of colors bounce off of the reflections. 

We couldn’t conceive naturally. We didn’t experience our loss the same. Ours was clinical, cold, statistical through the process of IVF with ICSIS. The countless injections, the max dosage of extra hormones to get as many follicles as we could so that they can take the sperm and insert it into the egg, so then it becomes a zygote, giving it a better “chance” and then give it a grade to make you feel better about your chances of implanting. The week(s) that go by until you bleed and bleed more than a normal period and lose your baby and hope. 

Then to try everything you can, countless acupuncture appointments, healthy eating, exercise etc…just to go through the same process again. And mind you not an inexpensive way to go about conceiving with all of your savings drained, your PTO used for appointments, your relationships strained, your mental health and physical health exhausted at the very thought of “trying” again. 

But you keep trying.

Until that one time you break and you call your husband as you are coming out of a blood test appointment and instead of your numbers increasing, you hear they are decreasing. After EVERYTHING YOU HAVE DONE, you burst into tears and the only words you can get out are, “I’m sorry”. Then sob uncontrollably until you are able to say, “I can’t do this anymore, I am done”. Writing it down now is as clear as watching it as if it were a movie being played out in front of me.

Shattered and broken, you just can’t have a baby. Your body won’t let you and you question everything. It hurts. All of your dreams completely gone, never to experience a pregnancy, share your birth story, just being a mother. And you contemplate, “why me?” Or even “why not me?”.

It’s been thirteen years since we lost our baby. April 2010 would have been the due date. And although it’s been that long ago, not a day goes by that I am not reminded that I wasn’t able to birth my child. Instead, I have learned to live with the grief. 

But yet I still consider myself blessed. Blessed to now have a beautiful daughter whom we received at birth through adoption in May 2014. Four years after that final, “I can’t do this anymore, I’m done” phone call. And to be honest, a journey of adoption that holds a completely different story of loss and grief. Including my husband being diagnosed with Thyroid cancer, me losing a job and losing hope that we would never be chosen by a birth mom. To finally that one little email on February 14, 2014, “baby girl due in May, we saw your profile and wondered if you might be interested in being our baby’s parents”. And what a journey it has been. 

Amid the pain, heartache, loss and grief, I am right where I should be, a woman who has her own journey of infertility but not defined by it.

As I read through Dee’s story, I sat at my kitchen table nodding my head, having to pause every now and then because parts of her story so closely resemble mine—countless appointments, new medications and feeling almost like a science experiment, finding out your levels aren’t doubling as they should through those blood tests that people with normal pregnancies don’t have to do, and wondering if it’ll ever come to a happy ending.

Dee described her loss as unconventional. But a loss is a loss—regardless of how far along you are or how you became pregnant.

Dee, your baby was real. Your experiences were traumatic—from infertility to miscarriage to adoption. The pain and struggles you and your husband faced were unfair. And I am so, so sorry. The fact that you feel blessed despite it all is incredible. The strength you hung onto until that sweet baby girl came into the world and into your family in May 2014 is inspiring. Thank you for sharing it with us. I hope writing your story down made your heart feel lighter.

There is a feeling of shame when you lose a pregnancy. A feeling that nobody will understand how you feel and a feeling that people will blame you for the loss of your baby. Because of this, most people don’t share their experiences. They live with the grief quietly gnawing at their heart while smiling on the outside. They politely respond to questions like, “When are you going to have a baby?” and, “Do you have any kids?” while their heart is in a million pieces. They perhaps even feel guilty for not sharing the existence of the baby they carried. The feelings of losing your child are heavy—and it’s a weight nobody should have to carry alone.

Here, your story matters. Just like Dee’s does.

Emily Lindquist