Today would have been my due date.

I was supposed to be meeting the love of my life right about now. I was so ready for it. This was supposed to be the day I had been waiting for my whole life, and once again, it was ripped away from me quite early on. Once again, I had to endure the heartbreak that comes from losing another pregnancy, my third over the past eight years. And this time, I got as far as receiving a due date.

October 20th was supposed to be greatest day of my life.

 

Since February 24th, I have dreaded this day. I didn’t really get an answer as to whether or not I had actually miscarried until Mid-March, but I knew. The doctors told me to rest and to try not to worry, that everything could be okay. But their faces told me another story; I knew that nothing was okay.

The copious amounts of pain and suffering my body went through on that day, and several days following, told it to me once again: No, Noelle. Not this time either.

So eight months later, here I am with an aching heart, some hospital paperwork, and a photo that was supposed to be the start of a beautiful photo project.

 

It’s really hard to not become angry and bitter after something like this. You see pregnant women everywhere, or mothers with small children, happy and laughing while playing outside or shopping at the store. This is obviously a common thing to see, but after something like this, it seems to be following you. Everywhere you go, there is a haunting reminder of what you were supposed to have.

Friends are posting their pregnancy announcements on social media, and you watch their bellies grow and receive their shower invitations in your mailbox. And they don’t know that you feel like this is a giant slap in the face. It’s not meant to be. You are supposed to be supportive of your friends and their happiness. And you are, you really are. But it’s hard not to let the jealousy eat you alive. And when that first photo comes out of them holding their brand new bundle of joy on Facebook, you want to smile and send your well wishes and congratulations; instead, you will sob, scream in agony, and want to break porcelain dishes with a cast-iron skillet.

You will ask yourself, why not me? When will it be my turn?

 

After my first two miscarriages, I had given up hope that I would ever be a mother. Because I was not aware that I was pregnant when these losses happened, I never really received answers from doctors as to why this happened. I just assumed that my body couldn’t handle it. But this third time, I had twelve days of knowing I was pregnant. And these twelve days were the happiest days of my life.

The extreme mood swings. The nauseated feeling in my stomach after taking my prenatal vitamin. The excessive amount of fatigue. And my sore, swollen breasts.

Everything was beautiful about those twelve days, and once it was gone, I was left completely devastated.

 

I have been drowning for eight long, excruciating months now. This year has brought a tremendous amount of heart ache to my life, and the lives of many that I love. Aside from my pregnancy, I’ve lost an uncle, an aunt, my best friend’s mother, and my grandfather. And the man who would have been the father of my child, the man that I loved whole-heartedly and adored with every ounce of my being, ended our relationship through a text message four months ago, and I haven’t heard from him since. Some days I feel as though this tragic life will only ever be just that: tragic.

And while losing family and loved ones is hard, and feeling the sadness and anger caused by your lover leaving you in such an inconsiderate way may take a while to get over, there is nothing harder than losing your child. Your elders passing away is part of the life cycle, and relationships come and go.

 

I wanted to know you. I wanted to feel your little legs kick around inside me. I wanted to watch you transform into a wonderfully unique individual with hopes and dreams. I wanted to hold you to my chest and kiss your fussiness away while wiping the tears from your eyes. I wanted to hear you shout “Mama!” as you flung your arms around my neck after a long day at work. I wanted to teach you how to garden and how to ride a bike. I wanted to read you bedtime stories and check for monsters in the closet before we shut off the lights. I wanted to teach you to use your manners and how to be respectful of others. I wanted to take you on adventures and show you the beauty that this sometimes terrifying world has to offer. I wanted to give you my love. I couldn’t wait to be your mommy.

 

Grieving the loss of someone that I never had a chance to meet, but loved more than anything in life, is the strongest pain I have ever felt in my 27 years on Earth.

 

Everyday is a struggle. The struggle of getting out from underneath the covers in the morning. The struggle of finding your way in society, when all you want is a hole to climb into. The struggle of putting on your happy face for 10 hours of each work day. The struggle of having people ask you, ‘are you okay?’, or saying, ‘something about you seems off lately’. The struggle of having to force the words ‘I’m fine’, without shedding a single tear.

But each day I have to remind myself to be gentle with my body. I am learning that I mustn’t blame myself for this. I am slowly accepting what is and what isn’t, and opening my mind once again to what could be, and allowing myself the time I need to heal. I now know that it is okay for me to open up and tell my story, as there are many more women out there that have experienced this sort of pain. I am learning to forgive those who didn’t have the right words to say when finding out about my lost pregnancy, the ones who have never felt a wound sting so intensely as when they said words like, ‘well, it’s probably for the best, right?’, or, ‘everything happens for a reason’. I will not be ashamed to express the love I had for my lost children. I will not pretend that everything is alright when I’m hurting inside. I will not allow myself to give up on my dream of being a mother someday.

 

October 20th. The day I have been dreading for so many months now.

I made it. It has not been an easy day, by any means. But I’m very fortunate to have a great group of people in my life. Without them, I would still be drowning.

 

This photo was taken the day before my miscarriage, as the first in what would have been a series of 10, for a maternity photo project.

 

 

You’ll always be my favorite “what if”.