“I miscarried this morning. I don’t want to talk about it, I just wanted to let you know there will be no baby in December.”
That is the text I woke up to this morning. She sent it to me at 5:45 AM after walking to the bathroom and profusely bleeding all over the tiled floor.
My friend was only a month pregnant, but they had already picked out names. After years of not being able to decide on a boys name, they had agreed to one just last week. We laughed over the name on the phone; it was the exact name Mark and I had picked out for our imaginary boy. I hoped she would have a girl.
My friend was nervous about having a miscarriage. She is high-risk for them, though she has never actually had one before, and a person in her family had a miscarriage only a month ago. I told her, over and over, not to worry. You are a different woman than your family member, there is no use in being scared of something that probably won’t happen. Just enjoy this!
“There will be no baby in December.”
The doctor confirmed it this morning at 8:30 AM.
I walked to the bathroom at work, sat in a stall, and cried for my friend. I cried this morning. I could cry for her right now.
I can’t imagine the grief she feels from losing what was a promise of motherhood, of a long 36 weeks, little kicks and day dreaming about a new, little personality. And I cry because I know how scared she is going to be next time she gets pregnant. And I cry because these things stay with women forever and change them. The enormous pain that is growing inside her, the pain that replaced that Christmas baby we were so looking forward to.
She hadn’t shared the news of her pregnancy with anyone yet, because of her fears of miscarrying. But she told me, and now I carry the burden of being one of the few who even knew that little life existed. Mourning the loss of something we didn’t even have yet. My poor, poor friend.
I sent her flowers. I didn’t know if I should – would she hate these flowers? Would they just be a floral-scented reminder of her never-to-be-born baby? A reminder of everything that she lost this morning, wrapped in a bow? I don’t know, but I think it’s nice to acknowledge that she did lose something, even if no one else knows it. Especially since no one else knows it.
I just wrote “I love you, and am here for you always.” She can throw them out if she wants; I doubt they’ll stay on her kitchen table to be gawked at.
“I’m here for you always”, the card pointing at her as she cooks dinner for two. As she has a glass of wine. As she looks at her empty tummy.
I don’t think she’ll want those flowers.