There are no words that can encapsulate the rage that flared in my heart immediately following Molly’s birth and death. I woke up every morning like a warrior, vowing to fight inexorably when I went out in the world. I couldn’t recall why I was fighting so I would reach for my husband, hand on my belly–for that fleeting blissful second I believed things were still copacetic and that moment was sacred because so soon after the memories came crashing down.
That was the worst part of my grief. As I healed physically, my emotions churned and the surface boiled. The only solace I could find was in that split second of ignorance as I exited my nightmares and struggled for consciousness. Sleep erases pain but upon awakening it returns with vengeance, and I would see a red hand pass over my eyes. I started staying up through the nights because slumber ceased to offer respite. Insomnia hit like cancer, permeating my soul.
Today I am restless and uneasy. I am still waiting for my rainbow baby, but it is very likely it will never come. The thought of facing life childless is terrifying and unfathomable. This is my reality. Two years since losing Molly and nothing but negative home pregnancy tests, and two more losses both at nine weeks. I am still angry and have become bitter and hard. A woman like me–I can never be soft again.