(I've been playing around with this post in my head for awhile, I just didn't have time to write it. So busy. Okay, so no one has ever said this to me really... but it's like, paranoid, I can hear them saying it in their minds, behind my back, beyond my grasp. I wonder if I'm the only one that feels that way, afraid of others not understanding what you're going through with a loss, and assuming you are mentally unstable and morbidly attracted to your own suffering. But really, it's just that they can not understand... it's that thought that drove this post I think.)
I sometimes believe that some people have this belief that I fetishize my miscarriage; as if I focus on it with a dark intensity. I assure you I do not. I simply can not let go, no matter how much I try. We can more easily disarm hate and longing, than love and pride.
It's not just that he was my first pregnancy. It's not just that he may be the only pregnancy, the only baby, I ever create. It's not just that it hurt, the sharp decline from bliss to loneliness. It's not just that I waited so long for him to come.
It's just that I love him.
I can hear you now, "How can you love someone you never met?"
Well, that's where you are wrong. See, we've met, him and I. I've seen him hundreds of times when I've closed my eyes. I've spoken to him in the womb. I'd awaited him for years. I've daydreamed about his curled lips and soft downy cheeks, my arms have ached for his warm embrace. No, it's not that I haven't met him; it's that you haven't met him yet. Your disbelief in my acute pain arises simply from your inability to see what I see. But it's right there, if you look hard enough with your sallow heart.
I can hear you again, "But, how can you love someone who never came to be?"
Ah, but he did come to be. It's just that his stay was cut short. He was here, just as real as you or me, it's just that you couldn't see him yet. He took my egg, my husband's seed, and sprouted. He grew roots into my womb, he took heed in his mission. It's just, he chose not to break forth; instead of becoming a towering sycamore, he resigned to forever being a stalk of grass. He left traces of his existence all around me, if only you would look hard enough to see them. His roots have wound their way down my steely veins, they are still firmly bound in my heart.
I am proud to have been a carrier of something so precious, even if we were always chasing each other down, always one step behind or one step ahead. I treasure the few moments I had with him. I do not stick to these memories out of dark resolution, but rather out of that stillness of love and pride. The quiet place where you miss, but smile at the same time. I will not give that up.
I do not fetishize; I love, I laugh, and some days I mourn. My child is not simply his death, no matter how much you think he is. You try to take this love, affection, away from me by calling it by other names. But it is cruel to turn the beauty of life into a dark and twisted thing. Besides, I can see beyond you; I can see what you can not see with your blind blissful eyes. I am whole, complete, as was he. And so are we.