For the weekend we were a family of four.
It wasn’t for long, of course, and it was our secret. Your existence most alive in our heads.
But not entirely.
The second faint line – it was there. The doctor saw it. I saw it (you), too. You were there, little more than a shadow. But you existed. You were a flicker.
And those few days were nice, weren’t they? The planning. The imagining. The (guarded) celebrating. We always knew it was too early to really relax with you. We knew the faint line signaling your existence might just as easily be gone tomorrow. But oh, the hopes that come forward anyway. How can they not?
The last weekend of summer was the first and only weekend we had with you. Your brother joyfully oblivious.
I felt you both. A mother of two! My kids; one holding my hand, both holding my heart and you, a great unknown still.
And then just like that you were gone.
The last weekend of summer was the first and only weekend we had with you. We spent it at Story Land. I love that. At the beginning, in our earliest days, we’re all partly the story our parents tell themselves, aren’t we?
In another day and age we wouldn’t have even known you’d existed. There would have been no early test. There would have been no tears.
But I’m glad we knew.
The last weekend of summer – our only weekend together – was perfect.
For support after a miscarriage you can check out this resource.
Oh, Liz, I know your pain and I grieve with you. My second pregnancy was confirmed on a Sunday morning 19 years ago and ended as I cried at my desk at work in a phone call to my doctor the following Tuesday. The time was short, but the joy was real. The hope was real. The plans were real. I went on to conceive Joshua a few months later. Prayers of comfort and healing to you, my friend…
*Hugs*
Oh Liz, I have been down this road many times, and I hurt for you… But I am so grateful for your perspective. I had not thought of my own secret children for a long time, and I am needed to cry for them again. Thank you for this precious gift of tears. They can be so healing.
Rock on, Sister. Please keep thrilling us with your thoughts, for they are valued and refreshing.
I’m glad this was helpful to you Lauren. I wrote it mostly to try to process it for myself, but when I finished it I realized it might help some other people as well.
Oh. This. I know all too well. Hugs.
Liz…. this is just an extraordinarily beautiful and heart wrenching piece. You have such courage to have shared this experience so poignantly. Like so many, I have experienced this too…. long long ago… and even for those who have not… your story is one of joy as well as pain. thank you.
Thanks Mrs. Atwood. I appreciate it.
I’m so sorry Liz. I’m glad you knew too.
I’m so sorry. ?
So bittersweet, the knowing. ((Hugs))
I’m sad, for all concerned. What a beautiful acknowledgment/tribute. Love you lots. Your buddy. P.S. I’m here for you, always.
Thank you for your post. I lost my little girl, Rose, at 14 weeks this Labor Day weekend. It is so important for us to share our stories of loss. It helps others feel like they are not alone in their grief.