A Wanting Heart
I will never give birth to a living child. This is a fact. This is my reality.
And I hate that I will never give birth to a living child.
As many women do, I naively always assumed one day I would.
This of course, was before we experienced multiple consecutive miscarriages and Recurrent Pregnancy Loss.
I don’t allow myself time to dwell in this fact, because I know from a medical perspective that my body is almost never going to sustain a healthy pregnancy, and my heart cannot survive yet another failed attempt. With the support of modern science we’ve taken the steps to prevent another pregnancy, but that my heart still longs for a different ending.
I want to give birth to a living child. I want to have a birth story. I want to be able to be at mommy and baby activities and participate in the conversations with other mother’s. I want to remember my child’s first moment’s in life. Heck, I just want my husband I to be there for my child’s first moments in life. I want my husband to cut the umbilical cord. I want to lie in a hospital bed for 20+ hours trying to push, enduring all the pain and the immense exhaustion. I want to get to yell at the seemingly mean doctors and unhelpful nurses, even though they are probably being super helpful and nice, but I want to be that crazy hormonal women who gets to yell if I want to. I want the stretch marks. I’d even take a C-section without complaint. I want the saggy breasts from months of breast feeding.
I want to know what it’s like to have my body do the one and only thing it’s truly meant to do from a biological perspective. I want to experience all of it.
I want for so many things, and yet I am destined to never experience them.
So, while I acknowledge these emotions I will also set them aside. I cannot rewrite this script, and so I cannot live my life focusing on what I cannot have.
I will not dwell here, as I know better than to live in the past when there is a bright future awaiting me.
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