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The Raging Screams You Let Out In Your Private Moments: Getting Through the Pain of a Pregnancy Loss

The Darkness of a Miscarriage

I barely got out of bed or off the couch this past weekend. And I certainly didn’t get dressed. Under other circumstances, it may seem like I had a cozy, ideal weekend at home. But when you can’t get yourself together enough to leave the house hell, when you can’t get yourself together enough to have a conversation with your spouse nothing about it feels cozy or ideal. Or good.

I had been doing okay since my 2nd-trimester miscarriage just over three weeks ago. The first week was hell. And it s-l-o-w-l-y began to get better from there. Sure, I’d have my moments. But they were moments. And they’d be done and over with within minutes, or at the worst, within hours.

But something happened this weekend. I woke up Saturday morning, but nothing in me felt right. Sara and I were supposed to go to a sweet little B&B in Vermont for some together time and to just get away for the night. But I got out of bed, went to the bathroom, walked over to the couch, laid down, and didn’t get up. For hours.

Sara tried talking to me, and I couldn’t even speak, except to say, “I’m just so sad.”

So sad that I couldn’t even cry.

I just stared off. Looking at nothing. When I had to move, I did so with heavy sighs, a heavy body, and a heavy heart.

I spent most of the weekend like this. I knew better than to let myself sink into a depression Get it together, Aela. Pull yourself out of this. Christ, take a walk and breathe in the fresh air. Count your blessings. It could be worse. GET IT THE F*CK TOGETHER!

But all I could do was stare off into space.

When Sara wasn’t working, she’d stroke my hair or rub my back, knowing that I love this gesture. And it was what reminded me of why I was still here on this planet. For her. And for us. And for the love of family even though none of that felt much like anything right then.

When my alarm went off this morning, it interrupted a disturbing dream that made little sense, as most dreams do. And I laid in bed until the last possible moment, contemplating numerous times the idea of taking a personal day, but then I got up and dragged myself to work.

There, I sat for hours, drifting in and out of reality and barely getting my work done. But my day changed when I got an email notification of a comment from a Babble reader named Janice who suffered through 12 years, and numerous losses, of trying to get pregnant:

“Those years were long and hard and filled with blood, sweat and tears…..literally. No one knows exactly how you feel even if they have lost twins on the exact same time frame as you did….no one walks your walk, but I applaud you for getting back on that horse and realizing that, as much as it hurts your heart, your dreams are more important than this pain that you feel right now. Those rainbow babies that the two of you will have are worth every drop of blood, every tear, every raging scream that you let out in your private moments. They are waiting for the moment that they get to sit in your arms and look into your eyes and know that you are their Moms. There’s a plan, boy I hated that saying but I know it is true. In time, it will all fall into place and you will be so happy that it did. I wish you nothing but the best and I look forward to reading of your journey as I will be right there with you.”

So many people have thanked me for my words, for my posts, for my “strength” in sharing my story. Now, it seemed, it was someone else’s turn to affect me with her words. Janice’s comment reminded me why I started this journey in the first place. Her words echo what I’ve always believed to be true of life: that none of us gets through this alone. I need others as much as they need me. And the raging screams and the deafening silence belong to all who have experienced loss.

Janice is right. I will get back on that horse as scary as it. And I will try again. Even if I have to stare off at nothingness another weekend down the road. Even if I scream out in the privacy of our home. Even if I have no words to speak. I will try again.

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Read more of Aela’s writing at Two Moms Make A Right.

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