September is always hard. It sneaks up on me, and I don't see it coming until it's already eaten half my body. It's busy and hectic, catching up on work from time off for family vacations, switching out wardrobes for the fall--life in general with two small children keeps me occupied.
And then September 24th rolls across my calendar and my heart skips a beat.
I can never understand why at the time. Something wriggles in my subconscious and comes to life. It plants a seed in the pit of my stomach and grows until it strangles my heart. I always remember then.
I have two children, but I've known of five that should be here. There is something more brutal about the first loss. They all hurt, but the first unraveled my heart the most.
13 months of trying, one round of Clomid, and one devastatingly empty ultrasound. Ectopic. Not viable. Emergency.
I remember my ultrasound tech the most. She had red hair and a kind face. She wasn't allowed to tell me what she was seeing on the screen. Some kind of protocol prohibited her from making medical interpretations. She knew, though. She reached through the chasm of grief that had boiled up and out of my crux and crushed me against her in a hug that left marks on my bones. There is a language to hugging. That hug expressed agony and heartbreak. It conveyed solidarity, too. That woman held me together at the moment I was most ready to shatter.
It's become less taboo to discuss miscarriages and loss. now. But not enough. It's as if I am only allowed to grieve the loss at the moment its happening--maybe in the few months after. How dare I be upset by the shadow of the children who live in the back of my mind and the center of my heart? How can I grieve them when I have two healthy daughters?
It's simple. There is enough room in my heart for every child I carried. Aching over the losses does not diminish my love for the living. My heart expands; it contorts.
September is hard. September requires a lot grace.
