When words fail

A blogger friend sent love for our loss today. She had just miscarried too, she said. I felt a spanner in my gut tighten, my stomach lurching slightly. Fresh from another early loss, I knew her pain acutely. The gaping hole in my belly, and in my heart. I felt her hug from afar, a hug that knows exactly how empty life suddenly felt. Again.

I started typing a response, but then I stopped.

I didn’t know what to say. What words can sooth the death of a dream? A dream wrapped up in more dreams, and tied with a ridiculously expensive ribbon? How do you kiss an open wound on someone’s heart to make it all better? Especially when it happens over and over again. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right. But it is what it is and we can do absolutely nothing about it.

I don’t even know how to comfort myself.

A week ago, the Man, mid-pack, stopped and asked: are you really ok? I wasn’t sure what to say. I was numb. Was I so used to losing my babies that it felt like it was inevitable?

I went for a run yesterday, and had to go past a children’s playground. A young daddy stood by the swings with a DSLR, capturing his toddler, the sunlight playing with her curly blonde hair. My leg involuntarily cramped, leaving me stuck there, forced to stare at a future we couldn’t figure out a route to. We were stuck on the infertility roundabout, going around in circles.

After this many cycles – failed, part-failed, etc – what I do know is that the heart does steel itself again, and hope returns. But first there is the long, dark, tunnel. And then hurt, anger and emptiness, and finally the slow closing of wounds. Eventually, you can look at the sunshine and blue skies and not feel a chill.

To my friend – and the many others who find themselves in this same rut – I don’t have all the right words. But I what I’ll give you is this snapshot of beauty, in hope that we begin to see it in life again.


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