I used to stumble upon baby loss blogs. Read, shed a tear, poke my nose into their lives and pain, and then click the tiny red X and thank the sweet baby Jesus that wasn’t my mess of a life to deal with.
I felt safe. If I didn’t go back, read them intentionally, or leave a comment – it was like it didn’t happen. It didn’t. It happened to others – way far away, but not to me. Not to the people I knew.
Besides, who wrote about that? Who went on and on and on about something that morbid and awful instead of just picking up the pieces and moving on? What were they trying to accomplish with it all?
Then in a span of about 3 months, 3 of my friends lost their babies. All from multiple pregnancies.
I watched each of them cope in a unique way. I tried to offer my comfort and support but felt so inadequate doing so. I had no idea how it felt and I was lost and reached out but wasn’t sure what else to do. I loved them and I began to see when you write, you write about it all. But I struggled if that was ok to do.
Then it happened to me. The unthinkable. After all, I did it all “right”. I blogged on my pregnancy, took pictures, was excited, talked about it even before I was pregnant. I was prepared and then blown away by twins and then all those emotions and sorting it all out – all on here. All publicly.
All getting ready for the day I’d introduce them both to you all and we’d share those memories of them growing up – just like with Bella. You’d get to do this with me.
Then they died.
And I was left with this gaping hole of pain so deep I had absolutely no idea what to do with it. None. I felt like someone had torn my heart out and punched me over and over, beat me till I was left begging for mercy because it hurt so bad.
So I wrote. I wrote the day they died, because I simply had to. I kept writing to ease my pain, because when I was done it was like a ton of bricks was lifted off my chest and the tears came but they didn’t hurt as bad after it. I wrote to keep my sons in my memory and in yours just a little longer. To make you understand that although I’m the baby loss blogger now – I’m still here. Still me. Please don’t leave, please don’t do what I did and click out because the pain is too much and you can’t fathom it happening to you.
Then I kept writing about it. I still am. And I know, I know there are people out there who think I’ve done this all wrong. That what I’ve done is a terrible thing to post this mess all on here and expect comments and tweets and emails. That “nice” girls don’t exploit their dead babies and birth stories. They keep that to themselves. Especially if their story gains attention in any way. That’s all wrong. Death and sorrow should be kept to oneself.
But I didn’t know what else to do. I’ve never been good at keeping things to myself. I found a community of women on here that I would have never found anywhere else. Who write and grieve and pray and love my babies and pour their hearts out over me. I found other women who have written their children’s stories and short lives. Who grieve online. Instead of painful, it’s a comfort.
I might not do “perfect” on here, I may take my pain and try to turn it into something people read and connect with, I might blog on things that make people who have never been through such a loss uncomfortable. But I’ve seen amazing things come out of this – not because of me, but because of those of you who stayed. Who, whether you know this pain or not, chose to come alongside me for this.
I was so terrified that you’d all go away and leave me here with my pain. I wouldn’t have blamed you. But you stayed.
And I kept writing because that’s who I am.
I kept writing because those are MY kids. And I’m really sorry that they didn’t get to be cute babies with lots of rolls and that the moments I share on here aren’t of them in a new outfit or about their first steps. They’re dead so we’ll never get those. I just got what I got. 19 weeks and 4 days. But they are still mine. They are still a part, a big part, of my life. I won’t stop talking or writing about them – ever.
I’m their mother and those moments of my pregnancy and in the hospital are the only moments and memories I’ll ever have. And I would have shared every moment of their birth and lives on here if they had lived. My joy, my pride, my happiness in them.
So they didn’t live – but they are still mine. And I choose to share the different, painful, fleeting moments. My anger, grief, and fear. As do so many others out there I now stumble upon and thank God they do.
This is where God has put my path and called me to be. He lays on my heart the ability to write, to share, to lay out my pain and sorrow on here. If He were to say, “Enough, too far” I would stop. But my heart yearns to write, to connect with you all. To change the way someone feels about a woman who loses a baby. To show that it’s ok to talk about your children if they didn’t live. It’s ok to grieve in public. It’s ok to push the limits on social niceties.
It’s ok for life to fall apart and want to share about it.
I’ve struggled with this for 2 1/2 years with blogging publicly. Feeling like I was always too dramatic or over the top about things. Or that I needed to blog on less touchy topics. Losing the boys made me understand that this is my life – and I write it. The good, the bad, the ugly. And if it makes someone uncomfortable or shocks them, they can leave. I did. And I’m so sorry now, because I get it.
I may not be a “nice” girl. But I’m a child of God. And those are my babies. And I write about my life.
All of it.