We are nearing the anniversary of our second unsuccessful cycle. Honestly, life happened so fast and I had so much going on after that cycle that I never took the time to process the loss. If I were to be even more honest, I doubt I have fully comprehended the impact of our first unsuccessful cycle. Throw in our third unsuccessful cycle in February/March of this year, and let's just say my brain did me a huge favor and shut itself down for a bit.
But the thing about grief is you can't ignore it forever. You can try to shove it into a back corner of your brain, stacking other things on top of it, like worrying about others or busying yourself with work. Eventually, things start clearing out and you're left staring at that box.
And this is where I stand now. Staring at that box. I can feel barriers breaking down as I frantically try to fix them by distracting myself. Unfortunately, one can only keep this up for so long before the deterioration starts to outpace what you can do make repairs.
I wrote something similar to this in a past blog post. But, I don't think I was 100% honest with how I felt. It was more of a hopeful approach. More of an approach of pride and wonder. There was sadness, but I tried to keep it upbeat. I focused on the embryos we lost. Not on how I actually felt.
I hand wrote this letter to my embabies we lost. I debated whether or not it would be just mine - even considered not sharing it with my husband. My original intent was to just let it be mine. Especially because I feel like people are telling me to just get over it and move on. That at this point, I should just move on to the next thing. That I should stop crying about it. That I should have processed this by now. That it's in the past and I can't change it, so it's time to quit the sob stories.
I feel like because of these notions that I should just "move on", you need to see a more raw side of what infertility and loss looks like.
So here it is, unfiltered. I know I'm not the only one who has been there. Even couples going through treatment who had a successful cycle can likely relate - because chances are during their process, they, too, felt loss.
To My Embabies in Heaven,
Hi there. I know we have never met, but I am your mommy. And while I never had you in my belly, a part of me was a part of you. Some doctors and people will say you never existed because you wouldn't have survived. I respectfully disagree.
From the moment I knew you existed, you were mine. You had a future. You had a family waiting to meet you.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry if there was something more I should have or could have done differently that would have allowed you to be in this world with us.
Even though you existed for a very short period of time, I still feel "mom guilt". I question what I did wrong. I secretly blame myself for your death.
I think about you every day. I wonder what my life would be like if you were here.
I don't know how I can miss, love, and grieve someone I never saw. Never felt in my belly. Never held in my arms.
But I held you in my heart. And I think that's where I feel the loss of you the most.
I would have given my life for you to live. I would have given up my wordly possessions just to see your face for a minute.
There are moments I wish I were dead because the loss of you is unbearable.
I feel like I have failed you. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I'm here and you're not. You would love your sister and daddy as much as I do.
My sweet angels - I love you. I miss you. I long to meet you. For those brief moments I knew you existed, you were already my world.
I hope one day I get to meet you in heaven. I feel like that is the only time and way I will feel at peace.
There is an empty place in my heart where you once were. Nothing can fill that hole.
I will try to be a person on this earth you can look down on and be proud of. I am already proud of you.
All my love,
Your Mommy
