A million little pieces.

Dear Baby,

What I find most irritating about having a miscarriage is that it's not one big heartbreak and you move on. Instead, lucky me and anyone else who has ever had one, it's a million small, separate heartbreaks that show up every day. I have no idea if they show up for the rest of your life, or if there is some kind of expiration date, which is another heartbreak in and of itself. Will I ever be over this? Survey says? Probably not.

For example: I got pregnant the day before O died. Literally. And when he left us, I remember thinking, "Oh god, I hope he didn't leave because he thought he had to make room for a new life." I'm serious, kid, this is the crazy shit that goes through your head when faced with tragedy. I distinctly remember having that thought. And then, when I started to hope/suspect that I was pregnant, I felt guilty for having that thought. And a just a little bit silly, too. I also remember thinking that if I was pregnant, at least we could salvage something great out of something terrible.

And I told your Dad that we could now use O's name on a baby. I think I even said it that way: "Well, now we can use that name if we have a son." It sounds horrific to my ears to hear it that way, but I have to tell you, this was on the drive home from the vet who couldn't revive him, so there was a not-inconsiderable amount of insane grief at that point. I love O's name, but it seemed ridiculous to have both a cat and a human named the same name in a single house. Especially when one of them got into trouble. And O was always in some kind of trouble. It was one of his more endearing qualities.

We'll likely still give you O's name in some fashion, even if you are a girl. If you are embarrassed about it, you don't have to tell anyone we had a cat named the same before you were born. But as your future-mother, I feel it is my parental duty to tell you: never be ashamed of love. We loved O and we love you and giving you his name is the highest compliment we can pay you both.

Another thing about heartbreak is it catches you unawares. Like while shopping in a kids boutique with your future-cousins and seeing racks full of onesies. I had to make a hasty exit to a different part of the store so no one would wonder why I was suddenly holding back tears (unsuccessfully). Or when your future-gramma (I'm trying out different grandmother names, bear with me) came to visit in March. It occurred to me that that would have been the end of the first trimester and I could have told her all about you.

That tinkling, shattered-glass sound? It's the pieces of my heart littering my chest cavity.

My doctor told me I did nothing wrong. That there was no way to prevent it or stop it. I was peripherally aware of this, Baby, but I didn't realize until I became a member of the club: 25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage. You don't realize how heartbreaking that statistic is until you are part of it. Your Dad tells me that I shouldn't feel responsible since it's such a common occurence. I'm here to tell you, being a part of the statistic does not make it easier to live with.

I do feel responsible. Like my body mutinied on me. Should I have skipped that glass of wine? I fell in the snow during a huge snowstorm; did that cause it? I'm overweight, not in great shape and over 30. It must be my fault in some way. Did my overwhelming grief over O make my body a hostile environment? Is that even possible? I know for a fact, having witnessed it first-hand, that my entire life seemed like a hostile environment at that point, so it seems reasonable to me that everything was poisoned as a result. It still feels that way, in fact. I struggle every. single. day. with trying to be positive, and focus on happy things just in case that was the deciding factor in keeping or losing a pregnancy.

I realize that this is unproductive, Baby. It's just all I have right now.

I love you forever.
Mama