Setting aside my personal pain, the single hardest thing I had to do was tell our children about the miscarriage. I fumbled my words and halted and tried again, and finally managed to break the news.
I channeled that conversation, and many others that followed into a children’s book. Maybe one day it will be published, or perhaps it will stay among family and friends. I hope the former is true because I want to help other parents who struggle to explain a miscarriage.
I write because it is my outlet.
I write because my personal grief path has led me to an unexpected sixth stage: restlessness.
I need to make the world better. I need to help. I need to have a positive impact. I need my baby to matter.
A quick glance at the news tells me I am not alone. Many men and women are speaking up and sharing their stories. Sadly, I know friends and family who have had a miscarriage experience as well. Their support has been essential for my emotional recovery.
Dear reader, if you too, know this crushing reality, please know our tears are joined together. We must share our stories to help one another, for we can’t survive this alone.
I try to hold the future at bay because I know my due date and other challenges loom this winter.
For now I take each day as it comes, some with tears and others with a smile. I take solace in my children’s silliness and laughter, my husband’s embrace, and knowing we are all together for every step forward or backward.
Most importantly, my baby is at peace. I think we all could use a little more of that in our lives. I hope you find yours today.
Guest columnist Marie Kriedman is a freelance writer for this newspaper. She lives in Kettering with her husband and two children. Her email address is email@example.com.