Grieving for that which is lost.

Sunday was a great day: some dear friends who had been struggling to have a baby for many years were delivered of a healthy baby boy. We are thrilled for them and so pleased they have succeeded.

Sunday was a day my husband and I wept for our infertility. We grieved, reminded that we had lost something that was never ours in the first place. While we were on our long NHS fertility journey, hoping and waiting and hoping some more that we were moving forward to a solution, albeit at snail’s pace, each breath became increasingly saturated with sorrow.

Hope was melancholy. It hung around us, clogging up the bookshelves with children’s books kept from our own childhoods, blocking pavements with protectively hooded prams, filing our ears as a small, flap-footed child ran, penguin-like, down the train platform squealing ‘daddydaddydaddydaddydaddy and it made us smile because it was ok, we had hope. One day, that would be us, our journey was not over yet.

When we finally agreed the medical approach had come to an end, the sorrow lifted. We agreed to sell the bassinet, the complete travel cot set and the other baby stuff we had put in the attic after the last miscarriage. We agreed that a life without children has its positives. We agreed to move on.

On Sunday, we sat holding each other’s hands, soft, apologetic tears pooling at the bases of chin and throat, realising this grief, this flattened, grey hope for something we once thought was so inevitable, so guaranteed, had not gone away.

So we weep and think kindly of our friends who have a lifetime of giving ahead, of memories and photographs yet to be made that will chart the tale of a life as it grows from that small, swaddled bundle they cradle on their breast to the adult he will become.

And we weep for losing something we never had.

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2 Responses to Grieving for that which is lost.

  1. theforgottenones says:

    I love how you said When we finally agreed the medical approach had come to an end, the sorrow lifted. When my husband finally agreed and said “we’re done” I was so devastated and SO relieved, I actually felt a little guilty because a little piece of me was actually excited for the first time in years. Thank you for this.

    • sludgebelly says:

      Thanks for the comment. Ah, yes, that guilt over the relief is its own journey. The challenging part is that it’s difficult to share as it seems so callous and selfish; can’t dwell on the past/nothing ventured etc!

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