I never came into this space — my sacred space — to share that I had gotten pregnant again. That I had lost a baby again. That for a very short while, I carried a baby girl, whose formation was disrupted by both Trisomy 18 and Turner’s Syndrome.
I didn’t know what to say. Or how to say it.
Is there a new way to say that I had another miscarriage? To say that another one of my babies died? To say that a fourth piece of my heart has yet again disappeared beyond my reach in this world? Or that I died a death that, though so familiar, had grown foreign in the joy of having — finally, a living child — miraculous Charlie in my arms?
Last November, I broke in a new way that was further fractured by the guilt at thinking (for the first time) the timing of this new baby “wasn’t right.” Shame on me for not having remembered this lesson: the timing is only “wrong” if my baby actually makes it out of my body alive and survives. Shame on me for forgetting that, ultimately, each baby (living or not) is an absolutely perfect blessing. I am especially reminded of this today, on the fifth anniversary of learning my first child had died in my womb.
Pixel Clementine, your timing was absolutely perfect, baby girl. And I’m so sorry momma didn’t realize that sooner.
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