We’ve all heard the statistic: 1 in 4 pregnancies end in miscarriage.
The ultrasound machine that once pulsed with the echoes of life is still. There’s no heartbeat. No baby. This good-bye was too soon and the empty womb is matched only by the hollowness you feel within. 1 in 4.
A few months after my first miscarriage, I entered into a new statistic: “1 in 50.” This is otherwise known as the approximate 2% of women who experience two miscarriages in a row.
I held the delicate, silver necklace up against the light and watched the baby birds sway on a branch; my heart burst with thankfulness for this unexpected reminder of my two boys. I hadn’t seen this pendant in over a year and yet, in that time, it had grown to mean all the more to me.
It had been an incredibly thoughtful gesture. A friend had pressed the necklace into my hand shortly after my son’s funeral: a visual reminder of a heart that would always carry two boys. But in the chaos of the following months, the necklace was somehow designated to a drawer full of tangled earrings and old bobby pins. As I stumbled once again across this gift, I questioned the strong, blinding grief that had caused me to gloss over such a beautiful gesture. Quietly, I began to wonder about all the other acts of love that had gone unacknowledged over the course of this past year.
That’s why this post is dedicated to you. The brave ones. The ones who loved us, each in their own way and their own time.
In an inadequate attempt to display the depth of my gratitude, this entry is for all those who have walked alongside us with patience, comforting arms, giving hearts, and listening ears.
Because I need to say thanks.