Grieving...

When I called my dad (Scott) to tell him we had a miscarriage, he shared a valuable thought. He said, "Afton - the good thing is that your body recognized that baby wasn't a healthy baby. That child might have been severly handicapped, or not even make it to full-term. Your body realized it was sick baby early on, and that means your body is taking care of you and did what was right for the baby." Dad's just want to fix things. And then he got off the phone with me and cried great big alligator tears for his baby. Not my baby, his baby. Me.

When I called my mom (Marsha) to tell her the baby didn't make it, I was on the way home from the ultrasound. Mom's just want what's best for their kids. And they want to say something comforting that will somehow make the situation better. She told me I am young. She told me I can get pregnant again. She said the grief will get better and we'll get through this. And she told me she'd go to the D & C with me the next day along with Aaron. I was grateful.

When I talked with my mom (Debbie) she just said, "I'm so sorry honey." "I'm not going to say it will all be okay or that you're young or anything like that... because that's not what you want to hear. It just hurts. And its okay to hurt." Debbie had several miscarriages before Hayley, and after Chase. She had three beautiful children, inherited me through marriage, and yet she knows no words change the fact that I just lost a baby.

A baby I wasn't really wanting. Or planning for. And truthfully, until 2 weeks before the ultrasound, was freaking out about having every day. I was feeling unready, unwilling, ungrateful. And then...

And then... I got really excited to have a baby. Aaron got really excited to have a baby. Over Christmas we got our first gifts - a onesie in yellow with big ducks on it, a charm for my bracelet shaped like a baby carriage, a bib from Marc that says "Pardon my nipple breath". That was our favorite Christmas gift, by a long shot!

I started to think about nursery colors, about childcare, about being more than just Aaron and Afton. About being a family.

And in one moment, staring at the monitor with an empty uterus on the screen, it was like permission to be excited was taken back from us. I cannot seem to get that picture out of my head. I said I didn't understand. I was obviously pregnant - hormonal, gaining weight, my boobs were huge and sore, and the pee stick was positive. The doctor checked me out at 6 weeks and verified my pregnancy. And now the uterus was empty? It didn't make sense.

When Kelly - the ultrasound tech - told us the baby only made it to 7 weeks, but my body just continued to carry it - I felt like I must have done something wrong. Did I drink during week 7? Nope. Did I exercise too hard? Did I not get enough exercise? Did I fall? Was I stressed out that week about breaking the news to my bosses? What could I have done to cause this?

Nothing. I didn't do anything - they told me. The reality is that around twenty percent of women experience a miscarriage at least once in their life. And it doesn't matter how many bad things happen in our lives - we never think it will happen to us. I am a freak'n cancer survivor - you'd think I'd be on the lookout for the possibility of the bad. But I am not like that. I am a hopeful person and I don't believe in living in the "what-ifs" of life. I just didn't see this coming. I never once thought we'd have a miscarriage. I even skipped the chapter in week-by-week pregnancy book I was reading. How ironic.

When we got home we just stared at the walls for hours. We just held each other. We cried. We took deep breaths. We made a few calls - only the necessary ones. We took more deep breaths.

What I can say about this experience is this: I have learned that in some situations sadness is the only response. There are times where trying to be strong is just not an option. This time, I couldn't muster up strong. Aaron was amazing - so attentive to me and my needs - and inwardly I knew he was grieving too. We are - still. I suppose grief is more of a journey than destination. Each day definitely gets easier, but you are no less aware you're grieving.

The sadness may lessen. The tears, outside of the occasional hormone flare-up, cease. But the reality is still the same: once we had a baby. Now we don't.