WHO I AM
My name is Twee and I'm a mamma in mourning. I have a son who completes my world. My wish for him is to become a kind, thoughtful and independent gentleman. I hope he leads by example and lives with intention. I'm a private person who wears her heart on her sleeve. I'm full of hugs and emotions, and am guided by process and analysis. I love being alone as much as I cherish quality time with people. I believe in balance and moderation, and am always open to both sides of the story. This pregnancy has been the most polarizing experience I've ever had. I wanted to keep this sacred part close to me, tucked away safely in my heart. At the same time, I wanted the whole world to know. I'm weary about sharing my life on The Internet, yet I often have the urge to put it all out there. I've decided to do it, finally, because there's a purpose. My name is Twee, and I want to be here for you.
My story
The pee test was a family activity. My son was hanging out in the bathroom with me, as toddlers often do. He was really interested in my science project, and I let him dip the test strip. We counted to 10 a few times, in a few languages. Then he ran out to the bed and said "Papa, look what I made!" My husband got the pee stick directly in his face, just in case he couldn't see the line clearly. The pregnancy test was positive.
We were thrilled and immediately shared the news. Knowing that most people wait until after the first trimester, I justified it by saying that if anything did happen, I would want the support of those around me. Yup, I acknowledged the possibility of a miscarriage. Said it out loud, even. Did I jinx it? Was it my fault? (A question that sporadically pops up despite my attempt at logical and objective reasoning. In a dark place, I even made a list called "Ways I killed my baby".)
I spent a lot of time worrying about making the right medical decision. (i.e. The one that would allow me to have more babies.). Once I accepted that I had very little control over that part, I was suddenly faced with the more emotional task of...everything else. I grew desperate to find ways to remember. I took pictures of my barely there belly. I framed our one healthy ultrasound. Even requested a copy of the unhealthy one. It all made me realize: I wasn't ready.
As I struggled with all the thoughts floating in my head, I turned to my most trusted form of therapy: letter writing. Letters have always provided such comfort. In this case, it helped me find acceptance. The day after I wrote my letter, my body let go of our physical attachment. I started bleeding three weeks after I learned of my miscarriage. My body knew that my heart was ready. It hadn't failed me, after all. I consider myself lucky to have been able to prepare for it.
I understand why people keep it to themselves. It was hard to reverse the happy news, and face the disappointment and sadness in everyone's eyes. It was especially hard to explain to my 2.5 year old son that the baby in my tummy had stopped growing; that we have to say goodbye and wait for another baby. (He says he wants two.) At times, it was difficult to face the myriad of opinions and comments. It made things hard, but it never made me regret my decision. I could not imagine having to go through this alone, in silence.
Some of the most comforting moments have come from those who have been through the experience. It's not to take away from everyone who was amazing and supportive in their own way. It's just to note that sometimes, it's nice to be understood without having to exchange too many words. I hope to provide that same comfort, moving forward. It is the good that I will carry from this situation.
We were thrilled and immediately shared the news. Knowing that most people wait until after the first trimester, I justified it by saying that if anything did happen, I would want the support of those around me. Yup, I acknowledged the possibility of a miscarriage. Said it out loud, even. Did I jinx it? Was it my fault? (A question that sporadically pops up despite my attempt at logical and objective reasoning. In a dark place, I even made a list called "Ways I killed my baby".)
I spent a lot of time worrying about making the right medical decision. (i.e. The one that would allow me to have more babies.). Once I accepted that I had very little control over that part, I was suddenly faced with the more emotional task of...everything else. I grew desperate to find ways to remember. I took pictures of my barely there belly. I framed our one healthy ultrasound. Even requested a copy of the unhealthy one. It all made me realize: I wasn't ready.
As I struggled with all the thoughts floating in my head, I turned to my most trusted form of therapy: letter writing. Letters have always provided such comfort. In this case, it helped me find acceptance. The day after I wrote my letter, my body let go of our physical attachment. I started bleeding three weeks after I learned of my miscarriage. My body knew that my heart was ready. It hadn't failed me, after all. I consider myself lucky to have been able to prepare for it.
I understand why people keep it to themselves. It was hard to reverse the happy news, and face the disappointment and sadness in everyone's eyes. It was especially hard to explain to my 2.5 year old son that the baby in my tummy had stopped growing; that we have to say goodbye and wait for another baby. (He says he wants two.) At times, it was difficult to face the myriad of opinions and comments. It made things hard, but it never made me regret my decision. I could not imagine having to go through this alone, in silence.
Some of the most comforting moments have come from those who have been through the experience. It's not to take away from everyone who was amazing and supportive in their own way. It's just to note that sometimes, it's nice to be understood without having to exchange too many words. I hope to provide that same comfort, moving forward. It is the good that I will carry from this situation.
the message
This space is a combination of things. In a selfish way, I want everyone to know my baby without ever having met her. I wish to share the joy of her, instead of her being remembered as a miscarriage. But beyond that, and more importantly, I want parents to know that they are not alone. I want them to grieve, and know that it's ok not to be ok. But also, that it's ok to be ok. It's ok to let yourself heal, because it doesn't mean you'll forget.
We all have different ways of coping. If a good "everdearest" can be your tool, this space is for you. For your heart. For your baby love.
We all have different ways of coping. If a good "everdearest" can be your tool, this space is for you. For your heart. For your baby love.
WHO IS AURORA?
It was too early to tell the gender, but I feel like she would have been a girl. We named her Aurora. (Not necessarily after the main character of my favourite Disney Movie.) An aurora in nature is also referred to as polar lights. It seems fitting. And I love the idea of her being a beautiful light show in the sky. If you ever have the chance to see one, I hope you think of her. My true hope is that we all think of her, so that she won't be forgotten. I know that she'll be in my heart forever. I thank you, specifically, for taking the time to meet her today.
