When I wrote this post on my miscarriage, I hoped that it would be the only one I would ever write on the topic of miscarriages.
I hoped that it was a one time thing that would eventually just become a small part of me that I reflected on when things were better. I hoped it wouldn’t define me. And even more so, I hoped it would never, ever happen again.
I kept telling myself that I just had to get through that week. Then I just had to get through the end of the bleeding. Then I just had to get through that next week. Then I just had to get through getting the Rhogram shot. Those weeks have been crossed off, the bleeding has stopped, and I’m still sore from the shot.
But I’ve realized that even if this doesn’t happen again, and even if it doesn’t define me, and even thought my odds of it happening again have not increased – it’s a part of me. And not just a teeny, tiny part of me that I can push aside and pretend doesn’t exist. It’s a defining part of me. And I can’t change that.
I’ve grieved. I’ve dealt with my anger. I’ve cried all of my tears. I’ve put an end to the blame games and I’ve attended the last of my pity parties. I’ve gone through all the steps, I’ve done all the right things and I am as okay as I am ever going to be with the loss of a child I never got to hold.
But I’ve changed.
There’s a version of myself that is forever gone. It’s unattainable now and for me, well – that’s heartbreaking. Almost as heartbreaking as the miscarriage itself.
The person I was before the miscarriage is not even close to the person I am now. It’s hard to pinpoint every single little thing that’s changed, but I don’t feel the same that I did before I watched that dream disappear. Less doubt and more hope, probably. More innocence and peace, maybe. Less scared and more optimistic, definitely.
Now?
Now I feel like I don’t know who I am. I’m still me in a lot of ways, but I still haven’t quite put all of the pieces together to figure out who that really is now. It’s like they’re ever so slowly coming back together to form a different version of the person I was. What scares me the most is that I still have no idea if that version is better or worse. It may be filled with more knowledge and understanding of pregnancy, but at the same time – it’s also filled with a more jaded look on the world.
Do these things balance each other out?
Am I neither better nor worse and instead – just different?
Maybe that is the answer. Maybe I’m just a different version of myself and that’s all there is to it. I guess in the end, the answer truly isn’t that important.
In the end, all that matters is that I don’t let this ruin me. And although it’s changed me, even more than I know at this point – I will not let this break me. I will find acceptance in who I’ve become and I will be stronger because of this.