Please Fix Me

Originally posted on July 7, 2006 at 9:57 PM.

Me and my boys Hawaii 2007

Wednesday, July 5, 2006, there we were. It was beautiful, sunny and warm.

Dave took the day off and we were driving East on I-80. I turned on our CD player and instead of listening to Kyle’s Magic Treehouse CD, I randomly switched to something else. Immediately I recognized that it was one of the CDs that has been in the car for at least six months. You see, between NPR and children’s CD books, it is hard to fit in the occasional Mommy-Mixed-CD. And out of the speakers I heard Coldplay’s Chris Martin sing,

“When you try your best but you don’t succeed
When you get what you want but not what you need
When you feel so tired but you can’t sleep
Stuck in reverse

And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can’t replace
When you love someone but it goes to waste
could it be worse?”

I could not stop them. Through heaving sobs, I shook my fist in the air and yelled,

Damn You, Chris Martin! Damn you Coldplay!

Just the night before, I mean, just hours before, Dave and I were talking about how much we enjoy sex when I am pregnant. Dave joked about how much better the love-making would be as my belly grew. We felt close and I was finally letting myself be excited about this little baby. As Dave touched the tiny beginnings of my pregnant belly, we decided that we were probably having a boy . . .

I sat in the passenger seat choking. I could not breathe. Snot covered my face.

“Lights will guide you home
and ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you.”

I thought my head was going to explode. For the past two days I have remained the strong mother and stoic MidWesterner that I am supposed to be.  Then the blindside:  a silly, love song’s profound words completely knock me off center.

Right now it is happening now. I am sniffing away the wet, tear drips that cover my face. I know I cannot hide anymore. (I have been hiding since Wednesday.)

Zeke's Pink Gerber Daisy, Sugarhouse, Utah, July, 2006
Zeke’s Pink Gerber Daisy, Sugarhouse, Utah, July, 2006

Another blindside happened earlier.  I saw something sitting on our back doorstep. It was a bouquet of flowers.  My friend left them after she received Dave’s phone message. She knew that I could not speak, so she left the flowers in a safe place for me to find. When I found them, my tears found me. I needed those flowers. And I needed (still need) the phone calls. I needed the chocolate wheat-free, dairy-free cookies. I needed the tea. I needed those beautiful pink nutmeg-smelling irises. I needed the gentle phone call warning me that they were coming and that I didn’t have to come to the door if I didn’t want to. I needed the card hidden in our secret mailbox. I needed my sister’s email and my other sisters’ caring words. I needed little Zeke’s pink Gerber Daisy. I needed the hugs. I needed my friend Marianne, who was visiting from Minneapolis to grab me and say,

“I know you can’t talk right now, but Beth, I love you.”

I needed my kind doctor to choke up and lower his head as he, Dave, and I viewed my ultrasound. I needed Dave to quietly hold my hand. I am sure I will continue to need while I struggle through this. But honestly, I don’t know how to say,

“I need you.” I usually don’t need.

I was about to take Marianne and her two beautiful children, Makeda and Dima to the airport as I stood at the back of our car fighting with her double stroller. In a flash, all the angry pain I was holding in came crashing out. And then I really began to fight with that stupid, gigantic, awkward, idiotic, four-wheeled, piece of shit (a child’s stroller).

Marianne physically grabbed a hold of me, encouraged me to stop long enough so she could say,

“Beth, I am here to help. I know you want to do it all by yourself, but you can’t. I understand. I do the same thing.”

I needed to hear that. I needed her to stop me.

Easy E, The Gateway, Salt Lake City, Utah, July 2006
Easy E, The Gateway, Salt Lake City, Utah, July 2006

I know you know where this is going. I have to say it anyway. See, Wednesday I was headed for my ultrasound. Before leaving for my appointment, all the calm I had felt this past month was washed away when Eli completely freaked out while I attempted to get him into his car seat.


“What? You can’t be serious? Eli, those Popsicles are precisely measured by a machine. They are ALL the same size. Now stop it and get in the car!”

Of course I was nervous about being late. I needed to drop the boys off at the park first where My mom was waiting to watch them.

[crying] “Mom, I can’t buckle my seat belt.”

“Eli, just do it! Please. We are going to be late.”

Immediately I felt bad for yelling. I felt bad for letting my nerves take over.

“Eli, I am sorry. I love you.”

“Mommy, I love you too.”

I think Eli knew. I think he knew something was wrong.

Now at the appointment things seemed weird. Instead of waiting the usual forty-five minutes, my doctor was on time. He, not a nurse, whisked us back. I stepped away to empty my bladder, undressed from the waist down and hopped on the table. Quickly he inserted the ultra-sound device. It didn’t take seconds, or even a breath. Immediately I knew. So did my doctor. Desperately  he fiddled with the device trying to see if somehow he had done something wrong. He hadn’t. We both saw it: There was no baby, just an empty egg sac. In the last few days my body had absorbed the baby. Sick! And why the hell did I ever have to see an embryo and a heartbeat? Seriously, why?

Instantly I was positive and pragmatic. I sat up on the hospital bed and  assured both Dave and the doctor that everything would be ok. Then I reassured. My doctor lowered his head. I watched him intently.  He was so quiet and still. He was honoring our moment. He knew our journey well. He knew that this wasn’t just a miscarriage. He knew about our years of trying, years of doctors, treatments, x-rays, blood tests, I.U.I, laparoscopies, hysteroscopys, and huge disappointments. Then I stopped reassuring. I breathed in his wise silence.  Kindly, he raised his head and said.

Beth, if you don’t let yourself grieve, you will not heal.

Those simple words broke through and the tears began sneaking out. I tried to hold them back. I urgently tried to force them back in. I needed to be alone. I felt humiliated.

Dave and I spent the next few hours alone while my wonderful mom entertained my boys, Marianne, and her children.

“What will I tell people? Just yesterday I was telling people how safe I thought I was because I had made it to my twelfth week. I can’t . . .”

See, my body still thought there was a little baby growing inside. It did not want to let go either. And there I was dealing with my miscarriage at home.  I do not handle anesthesia very well so my doctor opted to give me pills to start the process. Though the embryo was gone, all of the tissue that supports the embryo’s growth remained. My body did not want to let go.

It was time. We put the kids to bed. Next we went over our back-up plan of what we should do in case there were complications and I needed to be rushed to the hospital. Then Dave helped me with the little pills. I had to insert six of them vaginally. It was supposed to happen fast. We started watching the movie, Must Love Dogs, because that was what was on. As the movie ended, I felt the cramping and we decided we would try to sleep.

As I lay there, I felt just like I did when I went into labor with Kyle. This time, instead of having a big belly, I was small and completely alone — no doctors, no nurses, no excited well-wishers, just stillness. In our dark room, I was tense. My fists were clenched and I felt the contractions. They hurt so much more than I had anticipated. They progressed, as any labor should. The process went on for hours. That is when I realized  there was a problem. Because I was so tense, nothing was happening. I knew that nothing was happening because I was not letting go. Dave was now sleeping. Alone, I talked myself through what needed to happen. I unclenched my hands. I let my body relax and finally let myself feel this sad, sad heartache. I said good-bye to this new little part of me, and then I lay there until I could not handle the pain any longer. I ran to the bathroom. As I sat on the toilet, I felt a huge gush of blood. I felt the passing of a large mass. Then I heard a loud thud as the mass dropped into the already very bloody toilet bowl. I  stood up and turned toward the toilet bowl. I saw enough without turning on the light. I knew if the room was any brighter that I would have to face my reality. I had faced enough. I repeated the process of running to the bathroom for hours until I could not bear the intense contractions any longer. Then I literally passed out.

Today at the doctor’s office I had another ultrasound. He wanted to make sure all pieces were gone, and they were. We talked about my options. We decided that I would continue seeing him and that I would also see a miscarriage specialist. We even made an appointment with the other specialist, who will be squeezing me into his schedule. I was actually feeling hopeful. And then Dave and I went to dinner. As I watched the parents with their babies and thought about what I lost, I realized that this is just not going to be that easy to get over. I am still barely letting myself touch the devastation. I mean, come on, I have not even been able to tell most of my friends and family about this. Dave and my mom have been speaking for me. And if you are finding out now, it is not a slight. I just don’t know how to say it in person. What do you say?

Kyle, Sugarhouse, Utah, July, 2006
Kyle, Sugarhouse, Utah, July, 2006

I feel  all of it. I like shit.I feel lucky and grateful. I feel blessed to be alive. I am also devastated.I know many women cannot have children of their own. I am very aware that I have two beautiful boys.  I am grateful for friends, friends who keep calling me, even when I cannot talk. I am grateful because as alone as I feel, I know I am not. I am grateful for those who have approached me even when I am not approachable. While simultaneously being filled with love, it also sucks. When people actually reach me with their kind words, I am reminded of what I have lost. When I actually feel their love, I cannot escape the pain. And right now, the pain is almost too much.

I want to run away, but really, where would I go?

The boys, Sugarhouse, Utah, July, 2006
The boys, Sugarhouse, Utah, July, 2006
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109 thoughts on “Please Fix Me

  1. I know that nothing can be said to take your pain away. I am sorry, and my prayers & thoughts are with you & Dave.

  2. Beth, I am so, so sorry. I’m thinking of you and sending you love.

    You have no responsiblity to anyone right now. Zero. You owe all of us nothing, you owe your friends nothing, your family nothing. This is about you, and others will be here as you need them, not as they need you.

    I’m so sorry. I wish I could make it better.

  3. Beth, I love you. Take the tiime you need to heal, and please please surround yourself with friends and family. Know that I care about you, doll.

  4. Coming out of lurkdom to say that my heart breaks for you. I wish you, Dave and the boys all the best as you go through this difficult time. I wish there was more that I could do.

  5. Dear Beth,
    I’ve never left a comment before but I am just gutted for you. I agree that you owe us readers nothing. I am so, so sorry this has happened. It’s senseless and awful, and all I can offer is my sincere sympathy to you and your family for your loss, and thoughts for healing from far away. I’ll be thinking of you.

  6. Dearest Beth, I wish you the strength to grieve for your loss and much love from me, a total stranger, someone who cares.

  7. you are not alone Beth, oh God, I am so so so sorry and I wish I could do more. I will keep you in my thoughts and pray for you. we are all here to support you and surround you with our love and care. XOXO

  8. Beth,
    I’ve wanted to e-mail to see how you were doing, but I figured you’d let us know when you were ready. Although I’d hoped for happy news, I am so grateful that you feel comfortable enough to share your sadness with us. All my best to you and your family. Please let us know if there is anything – ANYTHING – we can do.

  9. Oh Beth. What else can I say other than how very sorry I am for your loss. Please know you have my prayers, love and support.

  10. My heart just broke for you, and tears are rolling down my face. I am so so so incredibly sorry.

  11. I can only echo the sentiments of the others. I’m sure the number of people who feel similarly and will try to support you is enormous.

    That colour of that flower is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

  12. Oh Beth. I am so sorry. You have brought tears to my eyes, way out here in Delaware. You are so brave to share your story. Please try to take your doctor’s advice, as hard as those simple words may be, and be good to yourself. We are here for you, if only in thoughts and prayers. Take care.

  13. Beth and Dave, I’m so sorry. I was waiting for the results of your u/s and hoping all sorts of good things for you. Please take care of yourselves, however that is, and know that the internets are thinking of you.

  14. Beth-
    We are all greiving for you and only hope that you will let yourself greive too. Sometime the strongest woman is the one who really lets the tears fall and lets others help her. Just from reading this blog I have learned what a truely strong and wonderful woman you are.
    You have our love.

  15. i dont think there’s anything i can say.
    i wish i could type out a flower and a hug, for your whole family

  16. I wish I could give you a huge hug. I wish we could just sit and bawl together and not have to talk just drink little cool sips of water between crying jags and nose-blowing. Grief is a horrid thing. Sometimes I wish it would bear claw my heart right out of me, if it meant it would stop the waves of sadness. Just remember, the only way out is through. Whatever I can do to help you get through it, I’ll do. I’m so sorry.

  17. Delurking to tell you how very sorry I am for you, Dave, and the boys. Don’t worry about what you may have said…you don’t owe anything to anyone but yourself.

  18. We are all rooting for you–share as much or as little as you want. Either way people all over the world will be thinking about you and wishing you the very best.

  19. My heart goes out to you. I am so sorry for your loss, take care of yourself and let others take care of you too.

  20. I don’t have words. I want to say something that’s comforting to you, but I’m thinking back to my own time so similar to yours. There are no words to make it better. So I’m sorry. I’m sorry you have to go through this. But I am grateful for you that you’re still able to see beauty in the world as demonstrated by the flower in your post. Know there are people out here praying for you to have help through the pain.

  21. Start/The Stopping

    my flames rise to the gulf of you.
    i am the orange parachute in your black and white dream.
    as my brilliance flares, your leaden tent
    begins to form as skin.
    my light is too slow in reaching your constellation.

    depression takes over
    in the two minutes since you have left.
    you move over me like frost.
    if one hundred seconds
    have wrenched blood from my heart so fully,
    how will hours pass?
    this minute prays for childless seconds, the time filled like ashtrays.

    the evidence has mounted:
    a hand held loosely, by you and my wrist.
    you surround me fruit-like, the rind torn away.
    the pulp without shelter flows unconsenting.
    the moon hits and hits
    again. i trim the hangnail moon and close the blinds.

    there is no action kind enough to express heartbreak.
    I am left
    the quietest of blossoms.

    -Stella Padnos

  22. I have tears streaming down my face and all I can think of is that episode from Six Feet Under where Nate is boating and sees the funeral on the beach… the women are grieving and screaming and pounding their fists on the casket and won’t let go. Right now I feel like you are one of those women and I am right along side you yelling, waiving my fist in the air and cursing the heavens.

    I am sorry that I am without words of comfort. I am just.. so, so very sorry.

  23. Beth, I am so sorry. I’ll be keeping you close in my thoughts and prayers. Please rest, grieve and let your family and friends take care of you.

  24. Beth, I am so sad to hear this news. You expression of this exprience is amazing. I admire so much how you can share your feelings with so much depth.

  25. Another delurker here. I am so very sorry. I have just been there recently myself, I know there is nothing that can really be said right now. Just take care of yourself one day at a time and know we are all thinking of you.

  26. Beth:

    I have never left a comment before, but now I have to. I am sitting here with tears streaming down my face…in Novemeber I went in for a routine prenatal check (at 14 weeks) and the dr couldn’t find a heartbeat…an ultrasound discovered that I had probably lost the baby at 7 weeks. It is the worst feeling in the world, and I feel like I am reliving it as I read your story.

    There is nothing that anyone can say or do to make this better. Your doctor is right, you have to let yourself grieve, or you will never really get past this..maybe you aren’t supposed to. A loss is a loss, after all.

    I am heartbroken for you, but don’t give up! You can get through this.


  27. Beth, I’m so sorry. I feel much like you have described but for very different reasons. I too would like to run away, but where would I run? I am sorry for your loss and for the pain you and your family must endure. You and Dave are in my prayers.

  28. Beth, I am so very sorry, so, so sorry for your loss. My heart is heavy for you and you will be in my thoughts.

  29. beth,

    I’ve been away camping and I just found out.

    because of time zones I can’t call right now, but know I’m thinking about you and I miss you and your great family.

  30. So, so sorry to hear this news. I’ve been in your shoes, and all I can say is, feel your pain and anger, cry your tears. Don’t hold it in, and remember that you have every right to grieve for the child your family lost.

    My best to all of you,

  31. So, so sorry for you and your boys. You are very brave, and know your Internet family is thinking of you

  32. I am so sorry for your loss, Beth. I’m sure you have the weight of the world on you right now. Take time and allow yourself all the grief you need, it really is the only thing that will heal you.

    I am so, so sorry.

  33. Beth, I just…don’t know what to say. I’m so, so sorry. I wish I lived nearby so I could just give you a hug. You are in my thoughts… *hug*

  34. I am so so sorry Beth.

    I’ve been trying to think of something helpful to type, but everything sounds trite and meaningless. Take care, that’s all.

  35. Bless you for opening yourself up to everything people want to give you at this time. It helps them as much as it helps you, and it would be understandable if you just wanted to retreat.

    Big heavy sigh. Oh, Beth, I’m so sorry this happened. My words cannot describe what you must feel. (I relate to some extent–I remember my period being 10 days late when I was trying for my first child–I was so sure I had been pregnant, because what left me felt so heavy and significant. I remember sobbing on the front stoop of some anonymous building in Soho. My grief was so strong, I can’t even imagine what you must be going through now.)

    Although you might not be ready to receive it now, I am sending you hope.

    And, of course, love.

  36. Beth,
    Take time to heal yourself. Don’t worry about anything else right now other than doing that. My prayers are with you and your family.

  37. Beth,
    Words cannot express the shock and sadness, or the love and comfort that we are sending your way.

    When I read the first few lines of “Fix You”, I started crying.

    That song does things to me. It helps heal my broken heart, helps me deal with sadness and clenses my soul. I hope it helps you too.

    I’m going to wipe my own snot off my shirt and get changed for our day.

    I wish there was something I could do for you to make you feel whole again. Thank God you have Dave.


  38. Beth & Dave,

    I am so sorry to learn of your tremendous loss. This entry just broke my heart. Beth, your doctor is right, you need to take time to grieve and heal. Don’t hold it in.

    I can’t say that I know what you are going through, but I know when you feel that great a loss, that much pain, you can’t help but feel alone. I wish there was some way of taking that pain, packaging it up and sending it off into oblivion. How can you be expected to carry it? But Beth, you are not alone. Thank goodness you are not. You have your family and friends and they all want to help you, let them.

    Good thoughts and warm wishes are streaming in from all sides. My prayers are with your and your family. Take care of your self and hang in there.

  39. Oh Beth, I’m so sorry to hear about this. What a bloody mess.

    As you started your story, the first thing I thought about was how you and Dave and Sean and I are so alike (or, at least Dave and Sean are very alike in finding our fertility so wonderfully, joyously sexy) and then, in the back of my mind, I could hear the rest of the story before you told it.

    I began miscarrying after a happy lovemaking session 13 weeks into my last pregnancy, the bleeding started and then stopped and a next day U/S showed a fetus stuck at 8 weeks with no heartbeat.

    Ever since, I’ve wanted that pregnancy, any pregnancy, so badly my insides cramp up. But, I don’t think I’ll be able to do it (for other reasons than physical, no less heartbreaking for me, though).

    Your pain echoes through me and I feel my chest tighten up and my eyes start to sting and leak. I wish I could give you my fertility like a cheque sent in a letter, from one distant friend to another, with “X”s and “O”s stamped all over the bottom and doodles of funny faces.

    Instead, I send you my love.

  40. Oh, Beth. I am crying … you are such a powerful writer.

    I am so sorry that this has happened to you. So sorry that it went so far, that you were feeling safe, and that the floor fell out from beneath you.

    I am glad to hear about all the support you are getting … and I don’t know what else to say, except again, I’m so sorry.

  41. My heart broke reading your post. I was checking daily for an update, hoping and praying for good news. I’m so sorry Beth! Sending you and your family much love and support from a stranger in Arizona!

  42. I’m so sorry.

    After I lost my first pregnancy I cried when I heard Fix You too.

    Please make sure you take the time you need to heal.

    There’s a whole bunch of us out here sending good vibes your way.

  43. I’m so sorry. Having just dealt with this in March(I was 11 weeks 5 days, and thought I was safe also), I know that there are no words that can make you feel better. I’m just sorry. I hope that you will find peace in the middle of your storm, and hope to carry you through the tough days, and sunshine at the end of your journey. I’ll be thinking baout you and your family. My heart goes out to you all. It’s so hard! I’m so sorry that this ever has to happen.

  44. When I read this, I couldn’t stop the tears. I am so very sorry. I wish there were something I could do or say to comfort you.

  45. Coming out of lurkdom for this. I am so sorry. I just thought of you last night as I was falling asleep and was thinking good thoughts for you. I am so terribly sorry for your loss.

  46. I’m visiting from Sweetney. I feel your pain x 2 in a row (trying for our second). It sucks ass. And I’m very sorry. I wrote a piece on it called “ONE CHANCE” at mamazine – the only way I knew how to deal with the fools who said nothing or “it was probably messed up anyway” – and to help me with the loss.

  47. I’m so sorry, Beth. I always call it the “empty arms” sadness, and few understand it. You do need to grieve – and you know that…I wish there was something I could say to make it better, but I can’t. I’m a diagnosed “spontaneous aborter” myself, and I know your sorrow, take care of yourself.

  48. My dear, I so feel for you. I normally lurk, but I had to comment. You see, I lost a baby at 20 weeks in June 2005… I have been where you are, and just reading your blog has caused tears to flow down my face…Your doctor is correct, you do need to grieve, but you need to do it in your own time. I actually found myself reaching out to old friends, who didn’t know I was pregnant, just so I could pretend for a little while that I hadn’t just experienced the biggest loss of my life…
    I am pregnant again… due in just a few weeks, and I still worry about possibly losing this baby too… the fear never goes away, but I felt like I had to try again…

  49. Oh, God. Beth. It’s times like these that words do so little to restore the heart.

    Know that my heart is heavy for you, and that I’ll be thinking of you.

  50. I echo the sentiments of everyone else & wanted to tell you how truly sorry I am for your loss.
    Take care.

  51. mother.fuck.

    that’s really all I can say. I don’t know what this is like, and I can’t even begin to imagine, but I’m still sad and hurting for you.

  52. I am so sorry. I have been reading your blog for about a month and a half and was hoping that you would be getting good news in July. My prayers are with you.

  53. Dearest Beth. I just read this and all I can say is I understand. And I’m so very, very sorry for your loss. I hope you’ll feel up for a phone call soon. My prayers are with you and your family. I love you.

  54. Beth, I’m so sorry for your loss. I posted a few days ago wondering how the u/s went, and I’m sorry if that was insensitive. I was so hoping that all went well.

    Take care and know that lots of people are thinking of you.

  55. You are all so very loved! Beth, you don’t owe me anything. I want to listen whenever you want to talk. I wish I could do more, but I’ve never been good at knowing what to say when blinded by tears. I’m really sorry. You are a wonderful, sweet, loving, ultimately human woman. This outcome was not yours – not anyone’s – fault. Be patient with yourself, like you are so often with everyone around you. You have so much going for you. Most of all, a heart of gold. Every time I hear that song, I will think about you and send good vibes your way.

  56. Oh Beth!! I am SOO sorry to hear about this!! Please know that I am thinking about you at this very difficult time!!

  57. Ouch! I feel for you. I went through two miscarriages between my first and second children. It hurts. It sucks. It feels, empty, unfair, unreal. And yet what you are grieving for is in many ways an abstract concept, not a real person so its a strage place to be in. Take good care of yourself and know that there are many many of us that are with you in spirit as you deal with this. We feel your pain.

  58. I’m so sorry to read of your loss. I am hearing the words of a favorite song of mine in my head as I read your post:
    I wish you well,
    I wish you hope,
    Oh I wish you all I can.
    I wish you peace,
    I wish you love,
    Oh until we meet again.

    You now have an angel to watch over you…and meet again. Small comfort..but I hope you and your boys hold on to each other and grieve.

  59. I’m so sorry. I’ve been lurking here for a while, and I’d hoped for better news for you. I’m sorry.

  60. Oh, you have been through so much. I have never posted here or on any blog before, but I needed to say this. You have suffered a very real, unfair loss. Take your boys, your husband and hold them. Love them. Kiss them. They will hold you back. May peace and comfort find you. God bless!

  61. dammit. I am so, so sorry for your loss Beth.

    Hold your dear little ones tight. Grieving for you in Nebraska.

  62. I am crying as I write this. In my own desperate attempt to find good news about my pregnancy, I found your site, and have been checking for updates almost daily. I can’t tell you how sorry I am to hear of your loss. I truly know what you are experiencing. I’m in my 9th week of pregnancy and went in today for a 2nd ultrasound. The fetus is only measuring 6w2d and the heartbeat is VERY slow, not even measurable. I’ve been told to prepare for the inevitable, but to also come back next week for a follow up u/s. I just want closure and to begin to heal. I too have been trying for a long time, 4 years, 4 IVF attempts and this is it, I’m done trying after this. I am very grateful to have a wonderful 8 year old son. I’m sure your boys are a source of strength for you during this terrible time. I laughed at your earlier blogs about being from Minnetonka, I’ve lived my entire life in MN, and have lived in Minnetonka (not on the lake either) as well. I’m currently living in Carver, MN. Take care as best as you can. You’re words and experiences have really hit close to home.

  63. i know that you don’t feel strong right now, but i promise you that you are strong enough to get through this.

    you inspire me.

  64. Sorry for such a late comment — I hadn’t read in a few weeks and was saddened to see mention of a miscarriage, scrolled down….and I’m so sorry for your loss.

  65. I am sorry. I didnt know and just found out today. I dont know what else to say. You do have to grieve but I know its not easy too. I am 2 years out from my fathers suicide and I havent let go yet. I havent let myself grieve. I dont know how. Thats the scary part. I am sorry.

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