My womb was once full of life, now it houses death. I am not barren. I am not with child. But I am reproducing for heaven. I get to be excited and then devastated. My body gets to change, I get to endure 12 weeks of flu like nausea without the vomiting, I get to gain weight, and then I get to go through body wrenching pain and a grotesque process as my insides crush to deliver the dead body.
I am not barren. To the rest of the world I am 4 times blessed, more than enough, with the most amazing husband in the world.
People keep telling me how to grieve. How to feel. How to live.
But I feel like an outcast, neither here nor there. I'm not barren, but my womb only produces death. Now my living children seem like a gift from a life that has passed as my body has turned over to death.
A friend is making me a beautiful cross stitch that I'm going to frame with a large matting. This way there will be plenty of room for me to write in the names and birth dates of all the babies that die in my body if I have any more babies.
Tonight I congratulated a woman shopping near me in Target who had struck up conversation with me on her pregnancy. She is due right when I was with Anastasia. I ended up telling her when she asked about how many children I have that I was due with her but my baby died. She gasped and said, "oh my, so this was your fifth pregnancy?" I actually cringed when I had to say, "No, my seventh." Seven times. I have seven children.