I sometimes find it hard to believe that I hold rank with only 2% of the world’s population of females who have had 3 or more losses.
(I think I’m recalling that statistic accurately but numbers are my nemesis so feel free to shame me with a correction.)
Today I sold our rather expensive crib. Because having more children is in my heart and soul but not on the agenda. So it goes.
The woman who bought it disclosed that at 25 weeks she is still really scared. She lost her last baby at 24 weeks. And two more before that.
We bonded over recurrent loss. I haven’t stopped thinking about her and sending pleas of mercy to the universe on her behalf. I find myself biting back the occasional tears. Over an almost stranger.
Tonight I’m getting foils. My hairdresser asked me if I only want the two boys. No. I really wanted three. We looked into it. It is not in the cards.
She told me her mom had multiple miscarriages too and was depressed for years. Her younger sibling is more than 10 years her junior. Miracles do happen. But they come at a price. A long bout with post partum depression rocked her mother’s world after that rainbow baby was born and she couldn’t really enjoy him for quite a while. My heart aches.
Then she tells me about her mom’s younger cousin who had twins 6-ish months ago. And died during delivery. Dad has no family and is at a complete loss (no pun intended). Tears filled my eyes.
We are not such a rare breed. Every time I meet or hear about one of my loss or infertility cohorts my chest and stomach hurt a little. Sometimes a lot.
Sometimes I want to cry just listening. And knowing. The grief. The longing. The senselessness. The sleepless “what could I have done differently?” and “why me?” nights.
I so wish none of us were members of this club.