Me too
Maybe its the sun finally peaking out from behind the grey clouds, melting the snow from what has felt like the longest Alberta winter ever. Maybe it was the phone call with the bereavement counselor. Maybe its that I'm feeding myself healthy meals and sleeping in my own bed and for the first time in months my body has stabilized itself and my blood sugar levels no longer read state of emergency.
Either way I feel hopeful today. Like I can see out from behind the dark veil of grief that has been obscuring my vision for the last few months, and I will take whatever moments of reprieve I can get.
I want to tell a story. It's one I've wanted to tell for a few days now but every time I sit down to begin writing I can't find the words.
It's the me too's that sometimes life weight from our souls
I want to talk about representation. And support. I want to talk about the loud me too's that penetrate even the darkest clouds of grief and make one feel less alone.
I grew up right in the middle of a pro-life movement. Rallies and statistics and anti-abortion pins with tiny little feet on them. I saw a lot of imagery screaming life.
But nothing to prepare me for what would happen when that life was gone.
No one talked about the guilt and shame that would keep me up at night. No one talked about how it would feel like I lost a part of myself. No one talked about how the people you thought you knew would alienate themselves from you because they just don't know what to say. No one told me how lonely it is.
Shortly after finding out I was pregnant, I began scrolling the internet for voices of other women who had lost children. Because we knew our baby wouldn't stay. We didn't know how quickly the situation would escalade into life threatening territory, or the circumstances that would unfold to lead us to how we would say goodbye, but I sat there in those days immediately following the positive pregnancy test, one hand on my belly and the other scrolling through blog posts and forums, trying to gather strength from women who had gone before me, trying to prepare myself for the inevitable, the unthinkable.
When my own community didn't know how to support me for making the unthinkable choice, I found comfort and solidarity in the words of other parents who had made similar decisions.
I got in contact with other women whose pregnancies had been ended for medical reasons, who had to make decisions that weren't really decisions at all and sign papers and second guessed those decisions a million and one times before breakfast.
I joined facebook groups and websites for women who had experienced the loss of a child through miscarriage, stillbirth and termination for medical reasons.
I looked to the media and watched TV shows and interviews about others sharing their stories that were all too similar to mine.
And I found solidarity. I found the me too I was looking for. I found someone to tell me I wasn't alone.
I was talking with the bereavement counselor from the hospital where I delivered Paris and she told me there is little support for women who have experienced a miscarriage or stillbirth. There is less support still for women who have had to end a pregnancy for medical reasons, such as to save the life of the mother or because of a fatal abnormality in the child.
And yet I was surprised by the number of women, friends of mine, who emailed me after I got home from the hospital saying "I haven't told people this before but me too."
I've always been one to push those hot button topics and stir up a little dust. And I realize that talking about miscarriage, stillbirth and medical termination is one of those issues no one talks about. It brings up a great deal of guilt and shame, even for those who did "everything right."
But I also know the pain, shame and loneliness of thinking you are the only one. The only one who suffered a miscarriage. The only one who signed the papers for the surgery to save your life knowing it would end your child's. The only one to feel the way you feel right now.
And those me too's, they need to be louder. There needs to be an overwhelming amount of support for women who are facing any kind of child loss instead of the cycle of shame, silence and isolation that I have found to be in existence.
I was lucky that the hospital where I delivered Paris had an abundance of resources for me to get connected to women in similar situations, ways to reach out and let me know they supported my decision and let me know I wasn't alone. But not every woman is that lucky and my experience of being supported in my grief should be the norm and not the exception.
I want my voice to be one that forever talks about the things no one else talks about. I want to stir the waters a little bit. I want to defy isolation and shame. I want to keep telling my truth, because I know that my journey to becoming free will help so many other people find their voice and become free too.
I'm going to keep talking about it. All of it. The good days and the bad. The impossible decisions, the guilt and shame, the grief and the joy.
Because you are not alone. I see you. I support you. Me too.
Either way I feel hopeful today. Like I can see out from behind the dark veil of grief that has been obscuring my vision for the last few months, and I will take whatever moments of reprieve I can get.
I want to tell a story. It's one I've wanted to tell for a few days now but every time I sit down to begin writing I can't find the words.
It's the me too's that sometimes life weight from our souls
I want to talk about representation. And support. I want to talk about the loud me too's that penetrate even the darkest clouds of grief and make one feel less alone.
I grew up right in the middle of a pro-life movement. Rallies and statistics and anti-abortion pins with tiny little feet on them. I saw a lot of imagery screaming life.
But nothing to prepare me for what would happen when that life was gone.
No one talked about the guilt and shame that would keep me up at night. No one talked about how it would feel like I lost a part of myself. No one talked about how the people you thought you knew would alienate themselves from you because they just don't know what to say. No one told me how lonely it is.
Shortly after finding out I was pregnant, I began scrolling the internet for voices of other women who had lost children. Because we knew our baby wouldn't stay. We didn't know how quickly the situation would escalade into life threatening territory, or the circumstances that would unfold to lead us to how we would say goodbye, but I sat there in those days immediately following the positive pregnancy test, one hand on my belly and the other scrolling through blog posts and forums, trying to gather strength from women who had gone before me, trying to prepare myself for the inevitable, the unthinkable.
When my own community didn't know how to support me for making the unthinkable choice, I found comfort and solidarity in the words of other parents who had made similar decisions.
I got in contact with other women whose pregnancies had been ended for medical reasons, who had to make decisions that weren't really decisions at all and sign papers and second guessed those decisions a million and one times before breakfast.
I joined facebook groups and websites for women who had experienced the loss of a child through miscarriage, stillbirth and termination for medical reasons.
I looked to the media and watched TV shows and interviews about others sharing their stories that were all too similar to mine.
And I found solidarity. I found the me too I was looking for. I found someone to tell me I wasn't alone.
I was talking with the bereavement counselor from the hospital where I delivered Paris and she told me there is little support for women who have experienced a miscarriage or stillbirth. There is less support still for women who have had to end a pregnancy for medical reasons, such as to save the life of the mother or because of a fatal abnormality in the child.
And yet I was surprised by the number of women, friends of mine, who emailed me after I got home from the hospital saying "I haven't told people this before but me too."
I've always been one to push those hot button topics and stir up a little dust. And I realize that talking about miscarriage, stillbirth and medical termination is one of those issues no one talks about. It brings up a great deal of guilt and shame, even for those who did "everything right."
But I also know the pain, shame and loneliness of thinking you are the only one. The only one who suffered a miscarriage. The only one who signed the papers for the surgery to save your life knowing it would end your child's. The only one to feel the way you feel right now.
And those me too's, they need to be louder. There needs to be an overwhelming amount of support for women who are facing any kind of child loss instead of the cycle of shame, silence and isolation that I have found to be in existence.
I was lucky that the hospital where I delivered Paris had an abundance of resources for me to get connected to women in similar situations, ways to reach out and let me know they supported my decision and let me know I wasn't alone. But not every woman is that lucky and my experience of being supported in my grief should be the norm and not the exception.
I want my voice to be one that forever talks about the things no one else talks about. I want to stir the waters a little bit. I want to defy isolation and shame. I want to keep telling my truth, because I know that my journey to becoming free will help so many other people find their voice and become free too.
I'm going to keep talking about it. All of it. The good days and the bad. The impossible decisions, the guilt and shame, the grief and the joy.
Because you are not alone. I see you. I support you. Me too.
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