We lost them.
You didn’t know it was a them, but it was.
It was a them. Two little yolk sacs sitting in one gestational sac. Identical thems.
And, they are gone now.
A journey to pregnancy that started in 2009. It ends with … nothing.
Well, five hours of soul-crushingingly painful contractions and then, nothing.
The cruelest part of miscarriage is the fact that there is still labor to go through. You contract, you push, but at the end, there is no baby, no light. There is a lot of red, a lot of empty, and nothing with which to fill it.
Then, there are the questions. All the questions that come with having brought something into the world for which you were soul source of life. What did I do wrong? What could I have done? Did I miss some sign that could have set this right? Have I let everyone down?
And, finally, there comes the untelling.
The tears of the grandparents, the helplessness of friends. Further contractions to a heart that is just barely beating anyway. I struggled in the telling, fighting the urge to say, “I’m sorry.” I was the one lucky enough to be commissioned to support these two precious lives, these lives I’ve waited on for so, so long, and I failed them. Miserably.
This is how it feels.
There is the unbelievable pain of the actual miscarriage. In and of itself, the pain is so mindblowing that I feel like a different person for the living through it. But, then, there is this. This moving on that allows me to have a greater understanding that there must be many of us walking through the world. Shells. The breathing walking dead. Operating, moving, heartbeating empty souls that somehow must continue to go to work, to clean the house, to lift fork to mouth as if there is some great point to these things, when perhaps it is all one big crapshoot anyway.
The going on, that’s what I’m talking about. It’s what I must do. I have no idea why, though. I don’t see the point, and I don’t even care. I just know that it is what’s expected.