Miscarriages are hard. They’re death. My son died. When you go to talk to someone who has had a miscarriage, remember that. And before you speak, ask yourself if you would say that to someone who just lost their child. When in doubt, just say you’re sorry. Actually, don’t risk it. Just say you’re sorry.
I was told by the nurse that people would try to comfort me with poorly chosen words. Even in grief, I would need to be patient with others and they’re lack of knowing what to do.
Grief is interesting. I haven’t been able to just let go and feel everything I feel. I’ve been thinking about my kids and husband. I need to be there for them too. And I don’t quite know how to do it.
I’ve been told to take some time alone. I’ve been told to call a friend to come over in an hour to make sure I’m okay, and spend that hour crying has hard has I need. I’ve been told to drive to the mountains and scream.
Instead, I’m going to Disneyland.
I can’t seem to just scream. I’ve never been able to. I can cry, but I need to scream. So I’m going to ride the Tower of Terror and scream. And if there are tears with the screams, then I guess I’m just that scared.
And it will be nice to go somewhere no one knows me or my story for three days. I can scream without people talking to me. Except to tell me to have a “Disney-rific Day” and “Welcome home.”
This could end up being a horrible idea. I may start crying on the Tower of Terror and not stop. Plus I’m fighting feelings of abandoning my family and the knowledge life will never be the same no matter how much I scream.
I will never meet my little boy. I will never hold him, kiss him, or nuzzle his neck. And for the rest of my life, he will be in the back of my mind.
I’m a mother of four now. And even Mickey Mouse can’t make it all better.