There’s an image I have of a woman, a woman who’s been repeatedly struck by baby loss but each time she gets up, rearranges her armour and gets back on her horse. Or in the case of the real world puts on a full face of make-up (including non-waterproof mascara) and gets back in the rat race.
That woman is not me.
To be honest I struggle with the way we sometimes refer to women who’ve suffered baby loss as warriors. It implies that we’re strong, brave and resilient. Life throws us a few shitballs but we pick ourselves up again and get on with it. There’s something special about us that makes us equipped to deal with this shit.
But I’m not special.
And I’m not brave. I’m scared. Scared I’ll never get to have a living child, scared that each time this happens, we’re a bit closer to having that conversation.
Resilient? Every time we go through a loss, a bit of me gets worn away. I feel like a piece of wood that keeps on getting whittled until there’s nothing left. Previously I thought I was good at bouncing back but now I’m too tired to bounce.
I’m not strong. After we found out our fourth baby didn’t have a heartbeat, I didn’t discover an inner strength or nerves of steel. Instead I collapsed into the ground outside the hospital and wailed until there were no tears left. I wailed like a woman who had lost her child because that is who I am, a normal woman.
I am not a warrior and I’m so tired of heartache. I don’t want to fight this fight or whatever it is and I wasn’t chosen for this because I’m brave or strong. I’m just a normal woman longing to be a mum who gets to cuddle her baby.
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