What the Heart Doesn't Show

This week marks three months since we found out that we lost our three babies. I realize that they were only medically considered "embryos," but our hearts didn't, and still can't, distinguish the difference. To us, they were our children. It was one thing to be actively trying to conceive and realize when my period came that it didn't happen that month. I've been there and know exactly what that feels like. But, it's completely different to know we've created life, seen the pictures and the ultrasound photos, and then be told they didn't survive. It's a loss. A death times three. I'm lucky enough to have some amazing friends that have been through what I'm going through to offer us support-not that I'd wish this on anyone, but it's a relief knowing I'm not alone.

One friend described it this way-you get more sympathy from a broken arm-everyone can see it's broken, asks what happened, wishes you a speedy recovery. They check up on you, ask when the cast will be removed because then you'll be well. With a broken arm, you know that in 6-8 weeks, you'll have the cast removed and your arm will be mended-as good as new, but this brokenness is deep, nothing a cast can fix and nothing with a set recovery time. People that do know what we've gone through offer sympathy and words of encouragement at first, but then I think they are afraid to ask-afraid to upset us, which I can understand. I haven't been the easiest person to be around lately. I'm horrible at hiding emotions and even worse at faking a smile. I find it's easier to stay home because anywhere else the slightest most random sight or comment can set off a wave of tears. Often I end up mad at myself because I feel like I should be better or "over" this by now. But, that would mean I was making light of this situation and that's definitely not the case. I just want to have my joy back...I know I'll eventually get there, but it's something that I can't rush. I've put away the pictures and ultrasound photos, after reading the book Heaven is for Real, I decided our three children, needed names, although I've yet to speak them aloud to anyone, and Jeremy is helping me remodel the spare bedroom that was to be a nursery. The emptiness and hope for that room is just too much for me to handle. So with a little paint and some new curtains and furniture, we'll have a Razorback/craft room soon. Hopefully one day it'll be something more, but for my sanity, I needed it to have a new purpose.

Speaking of hopes, I have an entire list of them: I hope that sometime soon I can be around children without crying or feeling an immense sense of loss. I hope I can come to see my husband playing with our neice and nephews without breaking down. I see him in them, especially those Emmett dimples, and wonder what our children look like. I also see the joy that being around children brings to him and I feel guilty that I can't give him that joy with children of our own. I hope I can again hold babies and feel the joy that I used to enjoy. I hope I can go to baby showers again and feel something other than longing and self-pity. I hope I can see pregnant bellies without thinking that was supposed to be me, but for now, I'll settle for the hope that each day my heart heals just a little more than the day before.