I'm glad you didn't know me then.
I'm relieved that you don't remember that glazed-over look in my eyes when I was high on Percocet after my D&E and totally speechless, except for a few angry tweets. You never heard the disappointment in my voice and the hopelessness that came with each brand new day filled to the brim with surviving instead of thriving. I'm glad you never heard my sobs as I folded knitted blankets and tucked away tiny shoes into memory boxes that are still hidden somewhere in the back of my guest room closet. Those were dark days.
I eventually started venturing back out into the world out of obligation. Life went on. And then I met you, and with you came a sense of relief. You knew me as something other than the girl that had three miscarriages. I got to be another person entirely.
But I'm glad you know me now. I'm glad you are witnessing my laughter and my corny jokes and my more-than-occasional optimism. The other day when you referred to me as "perky" I couldn't believe you were talking about me of all people. I'm thrilled to share my pipe dreams with you. I love going out for a beer with you. I'm excited to skate next to you twice a week.
You should know that the babies I lost are a huge part of that, though. And you should know that I am who I am because of them. I don't talk about it often, but I will if you ask me. There is a stigma, a deafening silence surrounding miscarriage. I felt so alone, so embarrassed, when my doctor couldn't find my babies' heartbeats with his doppler. When I started talking about it, friends and strangers alike reached out to me and told me their stories of loss-- of hope. I realized then that there are so, so many of you.
Today is the day to talk openly about your losses, if you're ready.
Never again should a woman feel alone if she ever has to hear that deafening silence where a heartbeat should have been.