I made it. I made it through the one year anniversary of the loss of our baby. Anniversary. That word doesn’t seem quite fitting since it is typically associated with happiness and life. No, that word doesn’t even come close to describing what the past week was for me. Call it an anniversary, call it a death-versary, call it whatever you want. I just call it hell. It was hell for me. Every. Single. Day. Was like watching an old movie reel play over and over again in my head.
Monday the 13th, the day before Valentine’s Day. The day before the last day I was pregnant. So I spent Monday dreading Tuesday. Dreading the wave of grief I knew was coming. Praying I could ride it out again, and that this one didn’t drown me.
Tuesday the 14th, was Valentine’s Day for the rest of the world. For me, it was the last day I got to feel the excitement of a new baby on the way. The last day I got to glow and tell people I was pregnant. So I spent Tuesday remembering what it was like to be that happy again. Remembering what it was like before I knew this pain. Praying that maybe one day, Valentine’s Day would be something I could enjoy again.
Wednesday the 15th. The day I woke up and my gut told me something was wrong. The day I went to work and tried to ignore that feeling. The day I gave in and scheduled an emergency visit with the doctor, all while trying to convince myself I was wrong. The day I walked into that office expecting, and walked out with a different reality. The day the world stopped for hours while we took in the fact that our baby had died, and tried to process those emotions.
Thursday the 16th. The day I woke up, and prayed it was a dream. The day my eyes opened even when I didn’t want them to. The day I got dressed like a robot and had Russell drive me to the doctor for her to confirm that our imaginary world where we had a baby in a few months had just been shattered. The day I refused the D&C until they showed me one last time that my baby didn’t have a heart beat. The day I got undressed and laid on that table praying that God would show them they made a mistake. The day it was confirmed that my baby was gone.
Friday the 17th. The day they told me would start my healing process. The day it felt like they took my heart out right along with the remainder of our baby. The day that I welcomed the anesthesia because it was the only peace I had encountered for days. The day I felt suffocating sadness and also showered with love at the same time. The day some of the most important people in my life and in Russell’s showed up for us both. The day I actually accepted that my baby was gone.
Like a movie, each day played over and over in my mind all week. I would wake up, see the date, and the scenes from a year ago would just start playing. Some scenes would play fast, almost like a blur where I could barely make out what was happening. But some scenes played in slow motion. Allowing me to relive every agonizing detail again. I just kept praying for strength to make it through the week. I knew if I could make it through Friday, I could force myself into the weekend and away from that nightmare. It’s Sunday night, and I made it. I rode the wave, and I didn’t drown. I had some hard days and I had some even harder days. I shed several hidden tears, as well as several open ones. But I made it back to shore. So now I have an entire year, to prepare for the next one. Here’s to hoping the waves get smaller and smaller with every year that passes. 🤞