About your miscarriage.
I’m so sorry you’re joining this sisterhood. You asked what mine were like? How did I know?
I just knew. Before the ER visit. Before the ultrasound. As I told myself everything was fine. I already knew.
I knew it when I went to the restroom and found blood. I knew it when I hurriedly looked for sanitary napkins, the ones stored away because I shouldn’t have needed them.
I am so sorry you’re to join this sisterhood. How I wish I could hug you now. I wish there were someone, where you are, that could hug you tight and lay there silently as you cry.
No one with cheery notes or words. No one with statistics or false optimism. Some one to sit there quietly, and hold your hand as you mourn.
And please, do mourn. Do not attempt to move on rapidly, to make others comfortable. Do not tell your husband it is okay to act as if there isn’t life seeping from you now. As if you are being dramatic.
Cry. Spit. Sit. Stare. Mourn.
I hope for you, no one tells you this was God’s plan. To give you a baby and take it away. I hope no one tells you that God won’t give you more than you can bear. I hope they sit silently and pass you a nice glass of ginger ale to sooth your parched throat.
I hope they run to Wal-Mart and pick up extra strength Tylenol for your cramps and contractions. I hope someone, from the sisterhood runs to buy you pads and quietly leaves them on your counter, without lots of small chitchat.
I am so sorry you’re joining this sisterhood, Sister.
I will not say, “This, too, Shall pass.” For it shall not. But it will get lighter, and most days you will forget. And you will definitely stop aching so hard. But, Sister, you will remember, you will always remember.
And one day you will grudgingly welcome another sister into this family. And you will sit with her silently. And make her warm tea. And bring her crayons and doodle paper. And you will not make senseless chitchat.
I love you sister. And I am so sorry.