I’ve debated writing about this; the words still sting. I’ve been reminded by many a woman, some who have been through all three sides of the “fertility triad”, that obviously this woman has some work to do regarding her anger. Hopefully she works through it before they bring their daughter home from China. A child doesn’t need to feel as if she is a consolation prize, at best.

Anyway, I got this lovely message two days ago:

Funny how you knew that you were one of the people who hurt me. I’ve always thought of you as a kind and thoughful person. Your reaction to your miscarriage was a bit much. You weren’t trying to conceive. You didn’t even know you were pregnant. In my opinion, your reaction was a huge slap in the face to other woomen who’ve been through so much more than you.

One of my friends asked if she wanted a cookie for the “Pain Olympics.” To be fair, this woman had an ectopic pregnancy, lost a tube and then had her husband go through liver failure and a transplant which effected his fertility. They’ve been through the wringer and back again. But never once have I ever said that my pain is worse than hers. I’ve never once said my pain is worse, equal to or less than any other woman, mother or family.

My pain is mine. Anyone who has ever been pregnant, planned or not, knows of the immediate joy that spreads through your heart at the simple knowledge of knowing you are carrying a human being. (Just like any parent who has ever adopted a child knows that joy the moment they lay eyes upon their child.) In my personal experience, I’ve had that moment three times. First, with Munchkin, I had fear followed immediately behind by, “Oh my, a child. In my womb. Will she look like me? How can I all ready love this child?” As I had never birthed a child, I didn’t understand the feeling that was overwhelming throughout the pregnancy and sticks with me to this day. I loved her from the moment I saw those two surprising lines on the stick.

With BigBrother, we were trying, racing against time and my kidney, but the positive reading was still a surprise. My first thought? “I love this child so much I could burst and I understand that feeling, having given birth to the coolest Munchkin on the planet.” I understood the unconditional love that enters your heart the moment that you understand and accept your pregnancy. (This moment comes later for some families. As you note before, my moment came immediately after the initial fear.) With BigBrother, I understood the motherly love that was all ready flowing from head to toe. I loved this child as much as I loved the Munchkin… and the thought of finally being able to parent my child and show that love was unbelievable.

And then, with Rose, in the very same instant, I had two polar feelings. The “I’m Pregnant! A Baby! OMG!” feeling followed immediately behind, if not coincided with, “She’s gone. She’s all ready gone.” My loss is my own. I will not claim it to be the worst emotional moment known to mankind. I will also not demean my child in heaven and say that she meant absolutely nothing to me. I mourn for the things that she will never be. Even with Munchkin, though I do not get to parent her, I see what she does, what she will become. I see her laugh. I see her cry. I will never see Rose do any of those things. She won’t skin her knees and come crying to me to kiss them “all better.” She won’t ask me to read her a bedtime story. She won’t fall in love and have her heart broken.

No, we were not trying. No, we did not know of our loss until it was all ready gone. Does this make my pain less? Of course not. Pain is relative to every unique situation. Some of my pain is compounded into my issues with Munchkin’s placement; I am aware of that. I acknowledge it. Fully. While we weren’t trying, both TheHusbandMan and I take parenting very seriously and love every single moment that we have with our Son. We both love every single moment that we have with Munchkin. We loved every single moment of my pregnancies. (Maybe minus morning sickness…) And we would have loved this child, unconditionally, every single moment of her life.

And since she is all ready gone, we will love her every moment of our lives.

I am sorry if my mourning is a slap in the face to others who have been through more. I will not deny them their pain. I will not minimize their pain. It is real. And it hurts. But don’t tell me I don’t have a right to grieve. My heart aches with love for the child that I will never see, never hold, never kiss. My heart aches for all the other women across this world who have felt this pain, for the women who will someday feel this pain. No one should.

Not even someone callous enough to tell another human being that their grieving is improper. I’d take that pain from her in an instant if I could; no one, ever, should feel this pain.

I’ve debated writing about this; the words still sting. I’ve been reminded by many a woman, some who have been through all three sides of the “fertility triad”, that obviously this woman has some work to do regarding her anger. Hopefully she works through it before they bring their daughter home from China. A child doesn’t need to feel as if she is a consolation prize, at best.

Anyway, I got this lovely message two days ago:

Funny how you knew that you were one of the people who hurt me. I’ve always thought of you as a kind and thoughful person. Your reaction to your miscarriage was a bit much. You weren’t trying to conceive. You didn’t even know you were pregnant. In my opinion, your reaction was a huge slap in the face to other woomen who’ve been through so much more than you.

One of my friends asked if she wanted a cookie for the “Pain Olympics.” To be fair, this woman had an ectopic pregnancy, lost a tube and then had her husband go through liver failure and a transplant which effected his fertility. They’ve been through the wringer and back again. But never once have I ever said that my pain is worse than hers. I’ve never once said my pain is worse, equal to or less than any other woman, mother or family.

My pain is mine. Anyone who has ever been pregnant, planned or not, knows of the immediate joy that spreads through your heart at the simple knowledge of knowing you are carrying a human being. (Just like any parent who has ever adopted a child knows that joy the moment they lay eyes upon their child.) In my personal experience, I’ve had that moment three times. First, with Munchkin, I had fear followed immediately behind by, “Oh my, a child. In my womb. Will she look like me? How can I all ready love this child?” As I had never birthed a child, I didn’t understand the feeling that was overwhelming throughout the pregnancy and sticks with me to this day. I loved her from the moment I saw those two surprising lines on the stick.

With BigBrother, we were trying, racing against time and my kidney, but the positive reading was still a surprise. My first thought? “I love this child so much I could burst and I understand that feeling, having given birth to the coolest Munchkin on the planet.” I understood the unconditional love that enters your heart the moment that you understand and accept your pregnancy. (This moment comes later for some families. As you note before, my moment came immediately after the initial fear.) With BigBrother, I understood the motherly love that was all ready flowing from head to toe. I loved this child as much as I loved the Munchkin… and the thought of finally being able to parent my child and show that love was unbelievable.

And then, with Rose, in the very same instant, I had two polar feelings. The “I’m Pregnant! A Baby! OMG!” feeling followed immediately behind, if not coincided with, “She’s gone. She’s all ready gone.” My loss is my own. I will not claim it to be the worst emotional moment known to mankind. I will also not demean my child in heaven and say that she meant absolutely nothing to me. I mourn for the things that she will never be. Even with Munchkin, though I do not get to parent her, I see what she does, what she will become. I see her laugh. I see her cry. I will never see Rose do any of those things. She won’t skin her knees and come crying to me to kiss them “all better.” She won’t ask me to read her a bedtime story. She won’t fall in love and have her heart broken.

No, we were not trying. No, we did not know of our loss until it was all ready gone. Does this make my pain less? Of course not. Pain is relative to every unique situation. Some of my pain is compounded into my issues with Munchkin’s placement; I am aware of that. I acknowledge it. Fully. While we weren’t trying, both J and I take parenting very seriously and love every single moment that we have with our Son. We both love every single moment that we have with Munchkin. We loved every single moment of my pregnancies. (Maybe minus morning sickness…) And we would have loved this child, unconditionally, every single moment of her life.

And since she is all ready gone, we will love her every moment of our lives.

I am sorry if my mourning is a slap in the face to others who have been through more. I will not deny them their pain. I will not minimize their pain. It is real. And it hurts. But don’t tell me I don’t have a right to grieve. My heart aches with love for the child that I will never see, never hold, never kiss. My heart aches for all the other women across this world who have felt this pain, for the women who will someday feel this pain. No one should.

Not even someone callous enough to tell another human being that their grieving is improper. I’d take that pain from her in an instant if I could; no one, ever, should feel this pain.