I believe that each and every one of us serves a purpose in this world. Whether it is to lead a country, lead a family and anything in between- we all have a purpose.
Life has brought us together from all types of obstacles and possibilities. It chose the family we were put into, the jobs we came across, the people we marry and the many more people we meet in this world.
While some things were meant to be in this world, some weren’t. I think part of this journey of life is to realize our true potential and strive for what we think we aren’t capable of.
Having children WAS and IS still one of the goals that I have for myself. Completing my Bachelors and Masters in Education before the age of 24 and beginning my career at the age of 21 seemed like my biggest accomplishments. Oh, how naive I was.
Nonetheless, when I found out I was pregnant (two beautiful years after marriage), it was as if I was close to accomplishing another milestone: motherhood. It was what I imagined and raved about since I was young. Learning about and working with children as my career was my pride. Along this pathway I fantasized about all the opportunities that I would provide for my future child. While I was pregnant, I felt every little transformation in my body. I cherished the good and the bad. My body was making room to create another human being. How lucky I was to be experiencing this incredible miracle of life
11:50pm: “stay with me, please.”
I whispered to my 17 week old fetus as I caressed my lower abdomen to assure myself of my baby’s heartbeat. Little did I know, it would be my last hello.
2:35am: I was laying in the ER hospital bed as I felt my undeveloped baby slide out of me. The agony within that moment would be everlasting.
I was in shock. Numb with confusion, despair, frustration, anger and pain. Why me? What did I ever to do anyone to deserve this? All these questions kept crawling into my mind. This was self-blame.
There I was, empty. My body, that was supposed to be preparing for another human, did the opposite and flushed out every single part of that beautiful life. I couldn’t feel. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t move. Sympathetic nurses who took care of me stopped by to offer their condolences. Not only did they offer their support to a now childless mother, but they offered to share their story- their miscarriage story. Each and every nurse spoke of the number of children they could have had, but did not. As I was in shock, I couldn’t fathom any of it. It was partly unbelievable. I just assumed everyone wanted to tell me this perfect lie to make my pain comfortable. Perhaps I was the guinea pig that needed to be sugarcoated with some type of lie. But they weren’t lying. They were merely sharing their grief to soothe my pain.
As the days went on, my numbness wore off and my tears became my companion. The sight of my failed body brought anger. During this time of devastation, I was supported by a tremendous amount of love from my family and friends, which I will forever be grateful for.
Simultaneously, many women confessed their sorrows to me just as the nurses from the day of the incident. From my aunts to cousins to random strangers who described their miscarriage, late miscarriage, stillbirth, stillborn, infancy loss- everyone had a story to tell. Each person felt the need to express their concerns behind these so called “closed doors”. They were ashamed of losing a baby, embarrassed with their body and masked their sorrow. As much as I was grieving the loss of my baby, I grew even more frustrated with the growing number of women expressing their loss to me.
Why am I hearing about all of this right now?
Why aren’t we talking about this in normal everyday conversations?
Why are we discouraged from sharing our pain?
Shouldn’t we be able to openly discuss the loss of a baby?
Within the circle of these questions lies “The Secret Club”. An outrageous number of women and men who suffer traumatic physical, mental, and emotional loss and are unable to cope with it openly due to the stigmas and cultural taboos placed upon them. Regardless of how you lose your baby, if you saw them or not, or even if you heard a heartbeat or not, everyone should have the freedom to cope openly without feeling neglected.
Regardless of it all, I strive to become a better person daily.
I am terrified.
I am nervous.
I am exhausted.
But I will heal.