traveling-Bard

In May of this year, Eirian was due to be born. It is hard to wrap my brain and heart around the fact that my eldest should be a month old and in my arms right now. But she isn’t. Her heart stopped beating for unknown reasons and I never got meet her. Aaron never got to meet her. We anticipated Eirian’s birth with so much joy…. which turned into a terrible pain. Becoming pregnant with Samara only a few months after our loss of Eirian was a bit surreal. We held onto the promise of a child with both hands, being so incredibly intentional, despite the concerns I held quiet because the signs of pregnancy that I was seeing were also signs of a miscarriage. But Samara was wanted and unreservedly loved as soon as we had a positive home test. The loss of Samara was a different level of gutting… compounding still raw grief with another layer of loss and fresh grief. I am pregnant. I haven’t been given a due date yet, but I am just about eight weeks along. I am scared, worried.

I don’t know that I will ever be able to look at pregnancy the same way again. I remember when I looked forward to getting pregnant, having a family. It isn’t that I don’t want any of those things anymore, but now… now I am afraid. I am afraid. Afraid that my body will betray me for a third, fourth, fifth time. That I will never be able to carry a healthy baby to term. That my body can’t, won’t do what it was designed to do: bring life into the world. I feel myself being silenced, struggling with illogical shame and unfounded guilt. It was one thing to talk about the first miscarriage, to make the decision to let Eirian be known to the world. But this second miscarriage, only four months after the first, has been so much harder to talk about. I can feel my lips being sealed shut. I can feel the willingness to talk about it slipping away, as well as the willingness to be open about any future pregnancy. This is why so many people don’t talk about their pregnancies in the first

Chimes tinkle outside of my patio door. Every time the wind makes them chime, tears come to my eyes. Tears of grief. Tears of longing. Tears of love. Tears of memory. I have been attempting to write something for, to, about Eirian Avia since October. I have started and stopped, started again and failed. Each time I sit down to write about Eirian, tears flow freely, obscuring my vision. I just want to curl up in a ball and wail.  But it is important that I write. That I tell the world about Eirian before the year is done. That I start talking about this important person, because the conversation will be continuing for the rest of my life. Eirian Avia is my and Aaron’s baby. The little one that we will never have the pleasure of holding on this earth. We will never watch Eirian roll over, take those uncertain first steps, or hear the sweet voice utter her first words. We will not get to experience Eirian as a toddler, a curious youngster, an adventurous teenager, or a confident adult.