We had another miscarriage two weeks ago. Our beautiful baby was 14 weeks old. I have battled going in and out of numbness the past couple of weeks.
Shock and cruelty are the only words that linger. Evil and suffering do not seem to let up. A constant attack on my family who is desperately committed to creating life.
My body feeling like it cannot bear one more second of grief, and yet my mind knowing I must continue to feel and let this pain matter.
Below is my journal from the day Christy delivered. These are the closest words I have to experience my baby.
Written on Friday, March 24, 2017, at 9:11 AM
I just left her.
This heroine.
This woman’s strength and tenderness, much greater than mine.
Christy my wife, I am in awe of you. Thank you, thank you.
Thank you for fighting so hard for life.
Your body was not meant to carry such death, yet someway, somehow it has.
They just wheeled her back into surgery. To give birth, to confirm death. Again damn it, again, birth linking arms with death.
It should not be this way. It should not be. I try not to ask why; the question taunts me. God help us, is the only prayer that makes sense.
We lost our sweet baby, at 14 weeks. We thought we were out of the woods. We started to foolishly hope. I hate hope, I have to hope.
This has been so painful. A haunting reminder of our first great trauma, losing our son Brave at 42 weeks, we held him close for 12 straight hours. 5 pregnancies, only two beautiful babies we get to hold. Hell and heaven unnaturally bound together.
This child I will not get to hold. I am sorry sweet baby, I want to hold you, kiss you, care for you, I am just so scared too. But the doctors said they will be gentle, they will be kind to your little fragile body.
I love you. I will now father you from afar.
