Forevermore- Julie Billingsley
Just Journaling 3- Cindy Schneider
Journaling reads:
The strongest memory I have of that time in my life was being curled up in the bed in the guest room, in a little ball, clinging my arms to my stomach, tears streaming silently down my face. I was in the guest room because my bed from my room was at the apartment, so it was the only bed for me to use. I remember laying there, fading in and out of sleep, with crying mixed in. I remember thinking that I hoped no one came back to talk to me, because really, all I wanted to do was be alone with my baby. But my baby wasn't there anymore. It was just me. Alone. I thought about how unfair it was, how badly I wanted this child. I thought about the fact that I had been so stressed in the weeks before this, stressed about Joe's deployment, stressed about paying the bills with no money, stressed about everything. I thought about the fights Joe and I had been having, about how I was struggling to find the money to eat, and he had just bought new music equipment. Looking back, it's those things that started tearing our marriage apart before the miscarriage. I don't blame the miscarriage for my divorce... I blame the fact that we didn't know each other well. But that's neither here nor there, the point is that I was aching. I had this hole ripped in my heart. That baby was the most important thing in my life. I had read every book I could. I had checked on my baby's growth each day. And now, I found out, that my baby wasn't growing at all. She was gone. Just... gone. All I had ever wanted was to be a mother, and I didn't even have that now. I still remember that hollow feeling, standing in the shower, letting the water hit my back. I couldn't even stand up, the ache was so bad. I sat down on the floor of the shower, curled into a ball, and cried. I cried so hard that the tears blended in with the water, streaming over me. I sobbed and shook. I didn't take the time to clean myself up. I didn't have the strength. In the days following the miscarriage, I didn't have the strength to do anything. I adopted Echo, and I took him to the guest room, curled up next to him, and cried. He gave me a kiss, and laid down, and slept by my side, protecting me, as though he had been doing that his entire life. Gradually, I was able to pull myself out of bed. I was able to smile every once in awhile, or laugh about something, but it wasn't without hurt. I would think "My baby would be 6 months old today. I wonder what she would look like. I wonder if she would be crawling." I would think "This would be her first birthday. I wonder if she would enjoy her gifts, or if she would love the cake the most." Any time I'd think of her, I'd feel that twinge, that hurt, that hollowness. I still feel it to this day. There's still a baby-shaped hole right there in my heart, wondering what she would be like, if Zach would look like her, how they would get along. As I write about it, I just get that hollow feeling back, that feeling I had as I laid there, crying into the pillow, wanting to scream, wanting to curl up and dissolve into the darkness. I feel better now, as long as I'm not thinking about it. Zach is the light of my life, and a joy. But he isn't a replacement baby. Sometimes it feels like that's how God planned it, having Zach born on my first baby's due date, but really, he isn't a replacement. He's a gift, certainly, the best thing that has ever happened to me. He fills in these holes in my heart that I never knew were there. I swell with love for him each and every day. I don't want him to replace my first child. I want that hole to be there, because it's part of where I've been. It hurts, it still stings, it still makes me feel so hollow sometimes, but honestly, it's a part of my story. As much as I wish that it could have been different, as much as I blame myself for the stress and the frustration, I also remind myself that things are so beautiful now, that I have my lovely Zach, and that someday, I'll meet this child again. I just wish the hollowness wouldn't hurt so badly still.
