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Grieving the Loss of an Unborn Angel — Rebirth & Recovery.

 

{Photo via Vintage Everyday}

{Photo via Vintage Everyday}

By Sophie Perrault.
I have three stories I need to tell, about those who could have been.

In June 2007, I had just moved to a city I was longing to be in with my husband of six years. We were flying to France to announce the good news to my parents when it happened.

Our first died in Paris, Gare Austerlitz. I say died because that’s what it was to me. To the child I should have had, I say: You were taken from me way too soon.

I had started a journal for you, even managed to get your dad to write in it. I had your name picked out. You were perfect.

Everyone told me that it was due to stress: that I had done too much and that I shouldn’t let it affect me. But I grieved, please know that.

The second died six months after the first.

I went through it alone this time. My husband was in NYC, and didn’t feel it necessary to come back.

Friends and family members said: “It happens,” “Don’t worry,” “There must have been a reason,” “Try again in three months.”

Again, I grieved. I grieved so much that it hurt my insides.

My third died six months after the previous one, and I was alone again. Dad was in Brazil this time. I knew the signs now, and I knew the story would end as it did.

Again, everyone had kind words, but I could feel their unease; they didn’t really know what to say.

So I grieved. I grieved so much that I swore to myself that I wouldn’t put myself through this again.

I tell these stories for all of you women who have grieved, who are grieving, and who will always grieve the loss of their unborn angels. I tell them so you’ll know you aren’t alone.

I tell these stories for all those who care for us and can’t seem to find the right words to take our pain away. The truth is, you can’t say anything that will make it all better, so just be there.

Send messages, prepare a meal, reach out with a hug, or just be there in silence with an open ear. Your presence, even if indirect, is what matters most.

I could end this here, on a sad note, but I choose not to.

I am 37 years old, divorced from the man who would have been a father to my children. But I am not alone.

Yes, life includes death, loss and mourning, etc., but it also gives us chances at rebirth and recovery.

I’m on Chapter 37 of my life, but my story’s far from over. My losses are a part of me, and they always will be, but they don’t define me.

I am more than that.

I am healing and unfolding.

I don’t know what my future holds, but I’m ready — and most of all — willing for anything.

 

*****

SophiePerraultSophie Perrault, an emerging writer and freelance translator, is fascinated by all things word-related. You can often find her here. She grew up in West Africa and The Netherlands, and traveled all over the world. She lives for moments of intimacy with other wandering old souls.

 

 

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