Sweet friend. Today, you will wake up knowing you have to do the impossible. Today is yet another procedure for you. The one you don’t want. The one that says goodbye to the baby you didn’t get to meet. And it’s not the first time you’ve walked this. You will lift your head as you walk to the car and breathe hard trying to hold back the flood of tears. As you drive, you will stare out the window, willing them to stop as they slip down your cheeks.
When you arrive at the hospital, you will stop before you get out of the car, waiting in the passenger seat as your knowing husband stands at the back of the car waiting for you. You know you have to but you wait just a few minutes longer to see if there is a way to not go in, to not have to walk this again, to not check in and tell them why you are there.
But you will check in, pushing that chin high again, using all of your strength to tell them under your breath what your name and birthdate are and why you are there, still looking for a way out, repeated glances at the door, because maybe this time they’re wrong. That last ultrasound could have confirmed it wrongly, and that awful ultrasound tech who said things she shouldn’t have in ways that hurt, she definitely could have been wrong, so maybe “we should just go home.” Every ounce of your strength goes into keeping you in that chair and not running.
You will get to pre-op and they will make you wait cruelly alone for your husband. Getting the lines all hooked up takes too long and the panic of being alone, again, as this sets in, again, and starts to feel too much. As you shake and shiver and the put the heated gown on, you have almost no energy left for tears, yet they won’t stop. And once he finally arrives and you look in his eyes, he sees the fear on your face as you realize there is no going back now and that means this is really real and it has happened again.
The beautiful moment of relief when they give you the happy juice that makes it all blur away even before they can give you the general anesthesia, that moment where the pain fades for just an hour, but still it fades.
And when you wake up, when you are ready to stand again, we will stand with you. We have watched you, with a strength you wish you didn’t need, think of others in the midst of your deep pain. In the days between getting this news and walking what you are today, you have thought of others, gathering items for new moms in need, sharing your story to bring awareness, and telling of your pain to find a way to do better for mothers walking what you are.
And the day you finally hold your sweet baby, the tears we’ve all held for you will turn to a joy and celebration none of us can imagine. For you, sweet friend, have the heart of a mother. It’s what makes this so hard on you, why it hurts so much, but also what makes your heart so stunningly beautiful. And on the eve of Thanksgiving, as only pie and family should be on your mind, as you walk this road, we will hold you up, stand waiting for you and have you constantly on our minds this morning. You are strong and you are so loved.