I have had the good fortune of loving two different men in two very different ways. The first man I have loved with all of myself for almost five years, my entire adult life. I planned a life with him. We had hopes and dreams and aspirations. He is the only man I wanted children with, planned on having children with, can truly see myself having children with. He is my better half, and in many ways we balance each other. The second man I loved passionately. With him it was turbulent, and I never knew where I stood. Oh I loved him, though. It was doomed from the start. He is a good man, but we would never have been good together, especially not as parents. We spent eight nights together. Every morning, I woke up unsure if he would be there. Our last night was a good-bye, and the last time we ever spoke.
Twelve weeks later, I had a miscarriage. I had been so excited. I had wanted that baby with all my heart. I was in a place where I was financially stable. I had a good job. I was saving to buy a house. I was in a place where I could have a baby responsibly. It was going to be the hardest thing I would ever do, but I was going to do it. I had made my decision to be a single mother from the moment I found out I was expecting. I had loved my baby’s father, but, in my bones, I knew it was best to do it alone. He never knew about the child we made together. This was not an easy decision, but it was the best decision.
It’s a funny thing. For so long, the idea of being pregnant is bad because: I was too young, I was single, I was in college, the list goes on and on. For the first time, I was 23 and young, but in a position where it was not a bad thing. Being pregnant was scary, yes, but so joyful. I was getting ready to make the announcement. I had just entered my second trimester. I was in the safe zone. I was a mom. Then I miscarried. It was painful. So painful. Emotionally and physically. My hormone levels didn’t drop right away, so I spent awhile still feeling very much pregnant when I knew I was very much not.
I hadn’t really told anyone I was pregnant. Actually, I had told no one. I went through my miscarriage pretty much alone. Up until today, I have only told a handful of people. My pregnancy story is so much more complicated than I’ve written, but I don’t want to get into it.
A little over a year ago, my heart shattered into a million tiny pieces when I lost my baby. It changed me forever. I still have sad days thinking about where I would be right now or how much harder and different my life would be. The thing is, I had never wanted children, I didn’t get pregnant with the right guy, the one I planned a life with, the one I want children with, but I wanted that baby more than I have ever wanted anything in my entire life. A part of me will always wonder what he/she would look like, what they would be doing, what their personality would be. I will always wonder if they would be a goody-goody like me or rebellious like their father. I will always miss what I will never have with that baby: the slammed doors, the I love you’s, the white lies, the good grades, the breaking rules, the snuggles, the adventures we would have taken, hearing them call me mom. My heart is fractured.