12 months since our seventh and last miscarriage.
12 months of hoping. 12 months of dreaming.
12 months of disappointment and heartache.
12 months of recording dates and using fertility tests. 12 months of planning. 12 months without spontaneity.
12 months of unspoken words and withheld emotions.
12 months of frustration, jealousy and guilt.
12 months of hiding away, anxiety growing, mental health deteriorating.
12 months of wondering why people say the things they do.
12 months of being shocked and upset at the responses, or lack of, of those around us.
12 months of hearing people tell us how lucky we are to be able to get pregnant the last seven times in the first place.
12 months of fake smiling and nodding in agreement.
But suddenly it’s hit me.
Like a physical blow to my stomach. They were right.
I didn’t feel lucky to have been pregnant and then miscarried seven times. I didn’t feel lucky to miscarry every six months for three years. I didn’t feel lucky to have 6 operations to complete a miscarriage that my body wasn’t able to complete alone. I didn’t feel lucky to have miscarried in public.
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To have continued pregnancy symptoms without the pregnancy. I didn’t feel lucky to have scan after scan after scan with nothing but silence in the room. I didn’t feel lucky to watch my husband break down in my arms.
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To see the hurt on his face and the sadness in his eyes.
But 12 months later and
They were right.
Because 12 months of nothingness is deeper and darker than the 6 years of miscarriages.
It hangs lower and weighs heavier.
At least beforehand there was hope. A tiny glimmer of hope.
Now I fear there is no hope.
12 months of nothingness.