When I was first setting up this blog, I had some pretty big dreams floating around in my head and in my heart.
Or rather, they were little dreams.
Wee dreams.
Sweet, talcum powder scented dreams.
I was looking forward to chronicling and sharing this amazing journey that we were on together, my husband, our little dream-to-be, and I. I imagined being able to save this, and tuck it away for some distant sentimental day in the future, when our family would read it and smile. Maybe even laugh at my extreme cheesiness.
I was looking forward to being tired but happy. To laughing at my body and it's quirks. I was looking forward to choosing paint colors and furniture for what had originally been planned as the office, but now would have another purpose. To sharing these thoughts with close friends and family. I was looking forward to that day when I could introduce our little blessing to the world.
I was looking forward... and we got close.
We were so close to that invisible 'safe' line. The mythical twelve weeks... we were so close we could almost taste it. We had even felt safe enough to start telling people outside of our family. We were ready to invite others to celebrate with us.
Two weeks ago my dream turned into a nightmare. As quickly as our little angel came into our lives, she was gone. No, we don't know for certain that she was a she, but in my heart I knew.
The doctors talked about the percentages, about how this happens to so many families. They talked about the lack of a reason, and the absence of blame. They talked about acceptance and procedures and recovery.
People who mean well talk about how it's likely for the best, that there had to be a reason she stopped developing before she was even two months along. People who care talk about how this happens all the time and remind us that we aren't the first to grieve this loss.
But what do I do with these dreams? I can't pack them away like the sweet little stuffed elephant I found. I can't put them in storage like the stroller and car seat. I can't even bury them in the ground somewhere and mark the place because these dreams have no substance. They are like wisps of cloud that are blown across the sky.
There really is nothing to do with them. So, I must (not so) bravely look forward. I must look forward to the day when I can trust my body. I must look forward to when I can wake up in the morning and not feel this ache so deeply. I must look forward to a day without tears.
I must look forward.
