Slipping Away

I was thinking, I have been thinking, of my first miscarriage. Someone on Facebook commented that her daughter was about to turn 2, and I realized I had my first miscarriage 2 years ago yesterday. I looked back at my blog, not sure when the day was. You would think that those days would be entrenched in my mind, I would know the calendar moment, but I don’t. I guess I thought if I could just ignore it, if I could just move on, move past, suck it up and shove it down, I would be ok.

I remember the moments – each of four times as long and painful and sad. I have this image of myself in a corner, head bowed low, arms around my knees. When I read my blog, I am surprised at just how resilient I was. I didn’t whinge – not really. A handful of posts. The last 2 in November were sad, but mostly, it seemed I just carried on. Even in November, I stumbled a bit then carried on.

I tried to make the best of it. I tried to downplay, minimize. Not be a bother. We had already alienated so many friends. We had been cut out and off for being too much of a bother, too much trouble, too high maintenance. I choked down nasty responses when people told me these things happen for a reason, what’s meant to be is meant to be. I learned people say dumb things, if they say anything at all, and no one really says what I most wanted to hear –I’m sorry. So, I didn’t think about it and I tried very hard not to talk about it. I carried on. It’s what we do, after all. Chin up, eyes forward, march.

Last fall, we went to the Walk to Remember, and Mr. Spit commented as we walked along, with all the names of babies written out, about a family that had Baby Smith 1, Baby Smith 2, Baby Smith 3. Mr. Spit was confounded, how a couple could manage that much sadness, and I pointed out that we have them beat. Baby Spit 4, and Gabriel.I felt a bit guilty that I hadn’t really thought of it that way. I felt guilty that I hadn’t thought to ask the organizers to write down all of our babies.

And I guess, 2 years and 4 miscarriages later, I’m wondering why. There’s no medal. No one’s holding me up as a paragon of virtue and strength. I won’t get an award, a minted coin or even a commemorative stamp – there’s no reward for chin up, eyes forward, march. The people who were useless would still have been useless if I told them how bad it was. Others might have been able to be of assistance.

2 years later, if I had it to do all over again, I would be honest. With you, with our friends, with myself. It was hard. It is still very hard.


Oh baby, we would have loved you so. We wish you could have stayed.

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22 Responses to Slipping Away

  1. It’s amazing how strong and resilient we can be when we need to be. I personally think it’s our minds’ way of coping with such losses. But if there’s anything that I’ve learned (or rather continuing to learn) about myself is that I shouldn’t be too hard on myself. And neither should you. Give yourself the time to grieve; whether it’s a loss from last week or from two years ago …


  2. Two Hands says:

    I’m sorry, from the depths of my heart, I’m so sorry, my dear friend.
    Sending you my love.

  3. a says:

    I sometimes think I would be more open and honest, and then I think “What’s the point?” It wouldn’t change anything. I guess that’s what too many miscarriages do to me – it makes me more cynical.

    I wish all your babies could have stayed too. No one should have to live through anything so hard.

  4. My dear mrs.spit. I am so so sorry. I am sorry that your friends think you’re a bother and i’m sorry you’ve had to be so resilient. I hope you know that you don’t have to keep you chin up with us.

  5. Heidi says:

    I have Blue and four other miscarraiges. I often fell guilty at how little I talk about the other four.

    I think we feel we need to be strong for the ones who will come along after us, and be reading us for strength.

    I would give you a medal, and a trophy.

    You feel free to whinge to us all you need. It is what we are here for.

    love you

  6. HereWeGoAJen says:

    I’m sorry.

    I wish that baby could have stayed too. We all would have loved it so.

  7. Jayme says:

    I’m so sorry, Mrs. Spit.

  8. debby says:

    I’m so very sorry Mrs. Spit. For both of you. For all three of you. It just is sad from any angle.

    I wish that I could give you something besides words.

  9. Seraphim says:

    I wish they had stayed too. Sending you all my love xxx

  10. loribeth says:

    One of my friends from support group has had three losses — a miscarriage, a premature birth at 24 weeks & neonatal death, & another miscarriage. She rarely mentions the two miscarriages. I think she focuses on the 24-weeker because she saw & held her before she died in her arms. I imagine it’s the same with you & Gabriel. It’s hard enough to deal with one loss, let alone multiple losses at any stage. I think you’re right, you minimize the other losses as a coping mechanism.

    I wish they had all stayed too. (((hugs)))

  11. Stacey says:

    It’s amazing how strong we are when we have to be sometimes, and yes, other times we try to minimize the pain because we know others might not understand or might say something insensitive. Funny how we think we don’t want to “bother” others when we are hurting so badly and need support.

    It is certainly true, though, that the heart never does forget those sweet babies that were with us for just a short time. You had hopes, dreams, and love for each and every one. So sorry for you as you remember that first loss. Sending hugs and warm thoughts your way.

  12. Brown Owl says:

    Ah, my dear hearts, I am so sorry. Some days are harder than others.

    I do understand.
    I truly do know.
    It is 30 years and I still think of Sarah with longing in my heart.


  13. Gloria says:

    ((hugs)) I am sorry.

  14. Jamie says:

    I am so sorry. We do wish you had stayed, Baby Spit. There is a lot of love here for you.

    I know that blogging is supposed to be a release, but I have a difficult time blogging about the most difficult stuff. Not sure why.

  15. Sigrun says:

    I do so admire your strength. Knowing you in person only increases my admiration for you and Mr. Spit. I’m so sorry you had to endure such sorrow! Love, Sigrun

  16. linds says:

    This post really resonated with me. Miscarriage is hard and as much as we feel we have moved on and let go, part of the loss still haunts us as we wonder what might have been… Thinking of you with fondness.

  17. It is hard, heartbreaking, and I am so sorry for all your losses.

  18. Kristin says:

    I’m so sorry some of your friends treated your pain and loss as something of a bother rather than being true friends and loving and supporting you through it. Much love coming your way.

  19. mrs spock says:

    So very sorry for them all.

  20. Reese says:

    I wished they had all made it. Earlier doesn’t mean easier. After Ronan, I told myself that if I miscarried instead of having another stillbirth, it would be LOADS easier. When I had a couple of scares, I KNEW that I was fooling myself. If I lost the baby then, I would have been devastated. It’s a blow. Because when you find out, you want them so much.

    Sending you love….

  21. Sue says:

    Indeed, no medal. I get very loud and angry when we put mothers, mothers of many, on pedestals for “all they do” or “all they go through,” and yet they get rewarded every day with their living children. We are just left with memories and what “might have been.”

    There has been much loss around me lately, loss of adults. Some timely, some not. I understand, intellectually and materially the wish to say something brilliantly comforting. Perhaps I have blocked out the knowledge of the simple comfort of “I’m sorry.” I try to remember. I try to be present and be quiet.

    And maybe I’m failing at that, even now.

    I wish you comfort. And I’m so very sorry for your losses, all of them, and for your pain.

  22. Aunt Becky says:

    I’m just sorry. I’m ALWAYS sorry. I wish I had the right words to say, but I don’t. Instead, I’m just sorry. I wish those babies were here, like they should be.

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