Remembering My Daughters

This past Saturday was the second anniversary of my first daughter’s stillbirth.  And the day before Thanksgiving was when my second daughter, who passed away in August, was due.  I wanted to take a moment, on this blog, to remember both of them.

I don’t have a lot of memories of my daughters.  I don’t know what their cries or laughter sound like.  I don’t even know what color their eyes were.  But I do have a few memories that I would like to share in honor of them.

My second daughter loved to dance.  Anytime I was in the car, listening to the radio on full blast (like I always do when I’m alone), I could feel my daughter kick and jump.  She especially liked the beats of Meghan Trainor for some reason.  My first daughter was also energetic, but she was smaller so I didn’t feel her kicks as strongly.  However, I definitely felt her move around a few times.

Both of my daughters were shy when it came time for the ultrasounds.  They both would put their hands in front of their faces whenever it was time for their close-ups.  It was both frustrating and freaking adorable.

Both of my daughters are very much loved by me and my family.  Their short lives on this earth have inspired me to live my own life to help others who experience loss, too.  And I know that they have brought my family closer, reminding each of us what is most important.

I may not know much about my daughters.  But I know that they are safe and loved where they are.  I take comfort in that and I have hope that one day we will be reunited again.

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Another Step in the Journey of a Miscarriage

I haven’t really talked lately about what has been going on in my journey to become a parent.  Waiting on God’s timing can be a very frustrating experience, as I’m sure all of you know.  That biological clock is no joke.

Losing my daughter is always in the back of my head.  I wonder in the quiet moments of my day what she would look like, what our life would be like, if she had been born alive, full term.  Some days are worse than others.  When my emotions are running high, it’s difficult to see past my pain.  But most of the time, life runs pretty smoothly.  Pretty awesomely, actually.

See, I have these incredible moments in my life that keep my head above the waves.  Sunrises that stretch across the sky in beautiful pink and yellow hues.  Laughter with my husband that makes my sides and cheeks hurt.  Conversations with friends that remind me I’m not alone.  Quiet moments with God that fill me with an unexplainable peace.

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These moments help me get through the more painful ones.  The negative pregnancy tests.  When people ask if we have children.  When the conversation ends awkwardly after our reply that we don’t.  Moments of quiet grief, wondering if we will ever have a yes to that question.

But those are simply moments.  Overall, I’m doing okay.   I still wake up with hope and joy.  My days are still filled with new adventures and experiences.  My life is still filled with love and purpose.

And one day, I will shout from the rooftops that our family is growing.  One day I will hold my child in my arms.  One day, I will experience all the frustrations and pain and joy and excitement of watching my own child grow up.

And I will use my present experiences to extend compassion to those who are waiting for their one day.  Remind them that no day is worthless.  That hope is worth holding on to.  And that God is walking with them through their journey, just as He has continued walking with me.