Well, it has taken a lot of thinking, a lot of wondering whether this was appropriate to write about. I'm not sure it is or isn't. However it happened, and this is my opportunity to attempt acceptance. I am a very lucky person, I have a great spouse, a great kid, and a pretty cool job. Yet I am devastated. Because tomorrow will be an anniversary for me. As will every Monday, at least for now. In February I got the best news in the world. I was pregnant with my second child. At first, all i could do was panic. I didn't have room for another child in my pitifully tiny home. I didn't have money to afford all the expenses that a new child brings. This wasn't planned, this wasn't on the agenda, and I had no idea what to do. So I did what I always do and went on my regular routine. I did tell people about it, after a month or so. I couldn't keep it to myself. Along the way somewhere, I became excited and happy. I began planning. I began the process of purchasing a bigger home. I budgeted my finances. I began to save for the newest addition to my family. I began to plan my new life. I began to dream and hope and be happy. Even when I was giving my breakfast back to the toilet I was daydreaming about a new baby to love and hold. A new sibling for my little girl. Bringing a special new life into the world to love the way I love my daughter. I thought about the smell of baby powder, the softness of new baby hair. I thought about names, and clothes, and things we could all do as a family. I walked through baby departments and examined possible cribs, high chairs, and little baby socks. I thought about my new life, with a brand new extension to my family. Of course, I was still physically miserable. All the hormonal changes attacked my body like a plague of locusts, ripping from it any ounce of health. My acne flared up, my hair went crazy. I was not the ideal person to pose for the beauty of motherhood. I had to run, often, to make it to the bathroom before giving back my breakfast, lunch, or dinner. I had pain, weakness, and severe headaches. I had to stop all the medications I had been on for the health of my baby. I missed my Mt. Dew something fierce. I didn't do everything perfect. I didn't do everything right. And lord forgive me, I complained. I complained about my aches and pains, and I complained about the stress. I did not show the kind of excitement I should have. I did not thank the lord every day for my blessing. I carried on as I do, and went to my thirteen week check up with the doctor. I waited in the room, chatting with another expectant mother about our kids, our excitement, our weird body changes. I was happy. I went in and they took out a machine to check for my baby's heartbeat. They couldn't find it. I wasn't worried, it had happened before. They would do an ultrasound and find it then. Sure enough, they took me to the ultrasound room. They laid me down and started. Then they called the doctor in. "Is there a problem?" I asked. As the doctor told me that my baby's heart had stopped beating, that my baby had died around 12 weeks, I laid there and allowed the tears to well in my eyes. I let them fall and did not stop them. My baby was dead. And all I could do was hate myself. My doctor began speaking, saying it wasn't my fault it was nothing I did... I wanted to run away. I asked for a moment and I called the people I needed to. My husband cried "No!" He wailed in the phone. Not only was my baby dead, but I had devastated the person I loved. I was a monster. I cried as the doctor explained to me the necessary procedure I would undergo. I cried through booking the appointment. I have cried since then, at least once a day. I prayed it was a dream, I prayed it was a nightmare. I prayed that they were wrong and there would be an answer. But nothing changed. Nothing will. Two weeks ago Monday, the doctor performed what she called a D&C. Evidentally they do that to remove the "tissue" as she called it. They put me under, and I woke up with an empty uterus and an empty heart. It hurts. Their are no words to describe how I feel, truly. I feel guilty, for not doing better, for not being more grateful for what I had, for not being the kind of person who gets to keep their baby. I feel like I'm being ungrateful for the child that I do have. I feel guilt mounted on guilt. I constantly rack my brains for all the things I could have done differently, all the things I should have not said, all the things I should have, for all the different ways in which I could have been BETTER. For all the ways I should be BETTER. I feel guilt for being a failure. I feel guilty for still wanting a baby. I feel guilty for feeling the hurt, the pain, the loss, and even the guilt. I feel guilty for not being stronger. It eats at me, this guilt. And I feel loss. Oh I feel it. I may have never seen my baby, or held my baby in my arms, but it doesn't change the fact that I hurt. It doesn't change the hurt I see in my husband's eyes. It doesn't change the aching in my heart, the massive gnawing in the bottom of my gut. The stinging in my eyes from holding back the tears, day in and out. I am afraid. Afraid that this is just the beginning. Afraid to ever try again. Afraid I will have to live this nightmare again. I have heard the billions of platitudes of "it's all for the best,""it wasn't meant to be,""things happen for a reason." The last one I believe. Things happen for a reason. The reason was that I wasn't good enough. I wasn't grateful enough. I can only hope for a second chance. Hope that I can prove that I will do whatever it takes to be a better mother, a better person.