The warm air of summer dusk breezes across the small of my back and sends a wisp of hair into my face right as the waitress comes to get our drink orders.
I brush the hair behind my ear as Joe tells her water for me and a glass of wine for him.
As we watch the bustle of people wander by the sliding barn doors open to the street just beside our table, we can’t help but giggle to ourselves with pure joy. Our little secret is nearly too exciting to contain.
Being here, surrounded by strangers, is a relief. We can talk about it aloud without worrying who will overhear.
We excitedly exchange all of the ideas we have been self chronicling, too dangerous to speak of with our family and friends around.
With a heap of Italian food in front of us, we bask in the thickness of our adoration for each other in this exciting time. I feel like I’ve been walking around wrapped in a hug for the past six weeks. It’s an overwhelming amount of joy, terrifying, and sensationally filling all at once.
As I look across the table at Joe, I wonder if my glow is as bright as his.
And suddenly everything changes.
Just like that.
In an instant.
I can feel myself falling. My stomach in my throat. Dizzying confusion and fear. Searing anger flushes my cheeks. The clenching pain is abrupt and aggressive and pulsating. It tears at my heart.
I know exactly what is happening, because I’ve been here before.
Tears flood my eyes as I try to contain my panic.
Joe puts cash on the table next to our unfinished food and takes his button down off. He helps me stand and wraps his shirt quickly around my waist before anyone notices.
We rush out as discreetly as possible. I feel so weak with devastation, the summer heat almost pushes me over as Joe opens the front door. As I step out onto the crowded sidewalk, desperately wishing the car wasn’t parked so far away, I am convinced everyone is staring at me. I’m positive they know. I see disappointment in their eyes.
The feeling of failure floods my mind, body, and soul. The tears finally become too heavy for my lower eyelids. Mascara streams down my cheeks as blatantly arrogant as the blood running down my legs.
This was one of many miscarriages I experienced. Luckily, it was the only one I had in public.
It was devastating.
I was about 10 weeks pregnant and we were sure this one was going to last.
Growing up, I was always under the impression I would have no problem getting pregnant and pumping as many babies as my little heart desired out. In my defense, I have never had a problem getting pregnant. It’s more so staying pregnant I seem to be fairly inept at.
Life has a cruel way of pointing and laughing at you sometimes.
Rheumatoid Arthritis and the drugs doctors prescribe, irresponsibly in my opinion, have stolen a great deal away from me over the years. Unborn children being the most scarring of them all.
But, today, I have a five and half year old, stunningly gorgeous, brilliant, humorous, jovial, sassy, red haired little girl. And it would be impossible to love her and appreciate the gift of her to the full extent my heart understands without the loss my husband and I experienced over and over before and after we were blessed with the true miracle that is her.
I’ll always have a place in my heart for each of my babies, but I choose to believe everything really does happen for a reason. I choose to focus on what I do have. And I choose to speak out in hopes even just one person feels less alone in such a loss.
Stay hopeful. Miracles do happen.