I signed up for a group called SPALS. It stands for Subsequent Pregnancy After Loss. I am desperate for a SPALS baby or rainbow as they are reffered to in the BLM community.
I try and analyze my own feelings, and feelings that may crop up if and when I do become pregnant again.
I received a message from a SPALS parent this morning, and she wrote:
What I want to do most horribly is go to that hospital and hold the hand of another mother who is in my shoes while she goes through the worst day of her life. I do not wish that upon any mother, I just want to be there for one who has to go through it.
I now know what can go so terribly and horribly wrong. That it feels like a piece of you has shattered into a million pieces and that you spend the next days, months and years collecting every last shard. The rest of your life is spent trying to put those pieces together again.
I too would like to go to the hospital, and hold a new mom’s hand and rub her back, and cry with her, and let her know…I truly know how you feel.
I wish there was a dead baby hand book, because there are so many things looking back I wish I would have done differently.
Now I stare at babies and pregnant bellies, and I wonder (and pine) if theirs will be a positive outcome. How morose has my thought process become. I want to scream at them “Pregnancy and birth is not all sunshine and roses you know! Want to see my dead babies urn? It’s really spiffy!”
I don’t know where I am going with this post. I just know that her email (that was such a small exerpt from it) touched me, and made me think.
Six months on Sunday.
Oh sweet boy, you are so missed. Damn it.