What You Can't Understand Until You've Lived It

This morning in a group I am part of the question was asked, "How long do you wait after finding out you're pregnant before buying anything." Having been through that hell and back, how do you put into words the need for something to hold on to when that need doesn't come until so far later? If I had made any baby purchases with our first pregnancies, all of the stuff I might have purchased would have been boxed away when the pregnancies were cut short. There's no way I could have gotten rid of it but there's also no way I could have seen it. I may have been angry with myself for buying it all. Then again, I may not have been. It wasn't until long after the last due date that the longing kicked in. What I would have done for something to hold on to! With each pregnancy, I made it far enough along for an ultrasound but clinic policies don't do ultrasounds until hCG levels hit certain numbers. My pregnancies never progressed like they were supposed to, even from the very beginning. Numbers didn't double because my hormones didn't increase like they should have. I never even had an ultrasound picture. I had nothing. What so many people don't understand is that a miscarriage is a legitimate loss. You may not have met your little person and you may not have ever seen that little person but the hopes, dreams and love is there from the minute that first test comes back positive (in cases where the pregnancy is wanted and welcomed). The pain of loss is not something that goes away with time. With time, you learn to live with it and you learn to find the silver lining and positive aspects of having been pregnant but the knowledge that your baby existed, even if for just a few weeks, and the knowledge that your baby died and the hurt of the baby that passed on will never go away. It was around the 2nd anniversary of the first baby's due date (what could have been the 1st birthday) that I started wanting something tangible, something to show each baby was here but I had no idea that's what was making it hurt so bad. Luke was deployed and I was going through it alone that time. I'd be a liar if I told you I didn't wallow in self-pity for any length of time while the hurt burned a new hole in my heart where the old one had started to heal. A good friend and her mom, noticing the sudden change in mood, bought me teddy bears and a Willow Tree figurine. That was when I realized how badly I wanted something to prove my babies were mine and were real because, after time passes, you realize everyone else forgets but you; you don't forget and you never will. But how badly still I wish I had just bought a book or a soothie blanket or a teddy bear when I was pregnant. The bears are not my babies' bears, they're my babies replacement. They're a huge comfort and I still snuggle those bears when I feel lonely (yes, even with K, I long for them terribly) but they're my bears. It's not the same. It's so completely not the same that I'm beginning to see the bears as K's bears; the explanation, the tangible toys, she can hold to help her understand that she is not the first though she is the oldest.

But, you see, it's too hard to explain that until you've come as far as I have. You cannot explain the loss to someone who has never felt it and you can't explain the desire to someone who is still angry and hurt. Don't wait until 12 weeks or a heartbeat to buy your baby something! Just a book is enough. K has a book, Oh Baby, Go Baby! by Dr. Seuss, that I bought as soon as I found out I was pregnant. I wrote a letter to her on the inside cover explaining how much I love her, my dreams for her future and how happy I was to know she was there no matter what the outcome. By the time K was in our lives, I knew I would want her book one day and I knew if I would get the chance to hold her happy, wiggling self, I would have a beautiful love note from Mommy to baby that she could hold forever. Don't throw away the teddy bear or onesie or book you bought just because baby didn't make it. One day, that item may be the one thing you have left when you long for something to hold tight. My replacement bears grounded me. They were my anchor at night when I felt like the hurt caused by the date on the calendar would tear me to pieces by the time the sun rose. One day, they will be the toys K squeezes when she is old enough to know. They'll be her anchor when she longs for the older siblings she'll have to wait to meet.