It’s funny how life works out. I’ve spent the better part of thirty years telling people I don’t want kids. Those closest to me knew I wasn’t being honest with myself. If I’m telling truths, I knew I was lying to myself the entire time. I finally found the missing puzzle piece. I’m full gay, and the idea of having a baby or two with a woman doesn’t make me nauseous or feel like the world is collapsing in on me. On the contrary, I really would like that someday with the right partner. Wow, no nausea.
Today is the seventh anniversary of what should have been my due date had my body decided to keep my baby instead of yeeting my baby. (I’m really proud I know that slang term, and yes, I giggle every time I read that, so you can too.) I’ve written about the grief and the opposing feelings of grief and relief going along with my miscarriage. There’s a new feeling starting to creep into my soul on the topic. Anxiety. Which I’m probably going to talk about at some point, but that’s not really where I want this piece to go. Nothing but time to let those feelings marinate.
Life is funny. In a deeply dark and very rude way.
Shockingly, my baby was not an immaculate conception. Though, I was on birth control at the time. I got pregnant with a man, Rob*, who I was very much in love with at the time and still love to this day. That being said, he was an absolute ass hat when he put me up the duff. He would be happy to tell you exactly the same but probably less nicely.** He and I had met four summers before while I was vacationing in San Diego. We kept stayed in contact via Facebook and text. I visited a few times. We went in and out of touch. The games life plays. After I graduated college and he’d gotten out of the military, we both ended up in the teensiest bumfucknowhere town an hour south of Chicago. Long story short, we got drunk separately and ended up at one of two bars in town on Fourth of July 2014. Longer story short, he dropped me off at my home the next morning, and I basically never saw him again. What a dick!
Three months later, oopsies, I was in the family way. And very much alone. Past the point of being able to take care of my problem. I was a mom. Motherhood was not in my plan. Especially not in my 23 years old, just graduated from college, had a big-girl job in the city, finally ready to live my life, single plans. What the fuck, birth control? Call me Myrtle. I was fertile. But, I embraced this new life plan. Fully. I was on board with what was on board me because the baby was conceived out of love and being grown with love. I started dreaming and planning and preparing. Then I miscarried. Grief. So much grief. I drowned in grief for months. There’s still grief. Also relief because again… 23, new college grad, corporate job, single. Did I mention I was 23? I was relieved. Sad but relieved. I also went through it alone. At the time, there was no possibility in my mind of including or even telling Rob.
Here’s where life gets funny. A few months ago, Rob reached out with an apology letter. A real, hand-written, sent in the mail letter. I was bowled over. The thing about our story is that we were very much in love without having ever been together. He may know me better than just about anyone. Still to this day. He knows my heart in a way very few people do. We fell in love at a distance, but we were only ever best friends. If life were a Hallmark movie, this would be our moment to create the family we almost had seven years ago. But I’m gay! And he holds far too much guilt over what he did to me.
Suffice to say, his letter rekindled the friendship we once had. Instead of me in Iowa and him in San Diego talking constantly, I’m in Texas, and he’s in Illinois. We talk frequently, almost daily. It’s going to take some time for us to go back to what we once were. What was so amazing about the aftermath of the letter is the conversation we were finally able to have about my baby. Our baby. Which is a really fucking weird thing to say after almost eight years of referring to the baby that never was as mine. That baby can now belong to us both. We can share that grief in a way we couldn’t eight years ago because he did find out about my miscarriage in a really fucked up way. This story is long and great fodder for the writer in me. So buy the book at your local bookstore… someday.
I just had to stop and message him to tell him I’m writing this because holy shit after nine years (our timeline is weird), I am finally able to text him freely again. I have one of my closest friends back. That was the thing. Tied up in all the grief over losing my… our baby, I was also grieving over the loss of my best friend and a man I loved deeply. Losing him was physically painful. I wrote so many letters. I kept copies, and to this day, I can’t read them because of the pain I can still feel in my chest. My baby was ripped from my body, but I felt like my heart was too. I lost two people. I grieved over someone I would never get to know, and someone I knew all too well.
Knowing someone as deeply as we knew each other, I knew exactly why Rob left me. I knew exactly what he was thinking. I knew in my core that one day he would reach out. I knew that even though he treated me like shit, his heart, as misguided as it was, was doing it for what he thought to be all the right reasons. The years faded the pain of both losses. I stopped glancing around corners in the grocery store. I stopped listening for his name when I saw mutual friends. I stopped pretending to be happy when I passed him at the gas station. When I moved across the country, I left the last connection we had. I stopped hoping he would reach out, which turned into a faint possibility that had no actual impact on my life. When I talked about him, it was always with warmth and love because I could never let the bad ending (we’ll call it a hiatus now) tarnish the great years we had together and every wonderful thing he did for me. Rob, the best friend, was always separated from Rob, the baby daddy, in my mind.
Then he did reach out. Exactly one month after the seventh anniversary of my miscarriage. And my best friend walked back into my life.
Miscarrying was one of the most emotionally taxing things I’ve been through. It has long and lasting repercussions; some of which I’m just starting to grasp. As I look to my potential future as a mother, I know my relationship with miscarriage is not over. I know I am going to have to confront my feelings and anxieties if and when I get pregnant. I know when I do get pregnant, it’s going to be a choice with a partner who I will love beyond measure and trust to hold my hand through every step of the way. I never faulted him for leaving me because he didn’t know how that night would end, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt for years.
But today will always be the day I honor the baby I’ve never held. For the first time, I’m getting to share today with the man who helped me make that baby. In a way, today is easier because I have him back. I know how hard it was for him to send me the letter in November… I have always known his heart. He put words to his vulnerabilities, and I took a chance. I am grateful for the baby I wanted to raise. I’m grateful for the man who gave me those thirteen weeks. I am grateful that I get to call him a friend again.
*He specifically asked to be named, so Rob is his real name.
**He was the very first to read this before it went public.
bisous un обьятий,
RaeAnna
