I have had two miscarriages in the past seven months. In less than the time it takes to grow and produce a “little human” I have lost two. There is something very scary in that fact. I feel like such a failure; what is wrong with my body? This is what a female body is supposed to do. It’s done it twice before, so what is the problem?
After my first miscarriage I read statistics that said that a woman who’d had one miscarriage was more likely to have another. I remember waving the statistic away. After all, we only planned on having one more child, so surely we wouldn’t have another miscarriage. If only it really worked that way.
Life so rarely works out the way we want. I have been blessed with two beautiful, wonderful girls. There are not enough words in any language to describe all they mean to me. Perhaps my husband and I are just being greedy to want another child. Sometimes I feel ashamed of the fact that I want another child, that I mourn the fact that at present I seem unable to have another one. It feels rather like a rich man waving a steak dinner in front of a starving man.
Still, we are human. I want what I want. Our second pregnancy was a shock—our first daughter was only ten months old—and I developed antepartum depression, which is a more severe counterpart of postpartum depression. I did not relish my pregnancy, or get to enjoy the baby days of my youngest daughter. After all, her sister was little more than baby herself and did not understand this crying invader. I had my hands full.
No one is to blame. I probably could have found ways to make things easier on myself, ways to enjoy her baby days more. Nonetheless, I long for one more baby to hold; I long to do bottle feedings, and swaddling, just one more time. One last first birthday party. Maybe I want too much.