As much as I am ashamed to admit, one of the ways I found comfort after my miscarriage was that me and my partner shared something. The weight of this loss, children, a family. Something to bind us together in a time where everything felt like it was falling apart. Perhaps that is why I felt so short changed when he suddenly left one day. Zephyr and Hollis, my twins, were the first thing that came to mind when he said he was leaving. Although I never have or will hold them in my arms, they are my babies- our babies. If he was walking out on me, he was walking out on them too.
I had long been preparing myself for Mothers Day to come around, I had envisioned it in my head. My partner would do something special, write me a card, perhaps give me something symbolic. He was always busy so there was rarely time to acknowledge grief, on that day we would make the time. We would talk about Zephyr and Hollis and everything that could have been and about how one day they will have a little brother or sister. He left suddenly 24 days before Mothers Day. I spent that day in silence, trying not to think about how this was my first non-cat related Mothers day. I suppose I expected a card through the door, or a text of support. But nothing. That only made it harder.
As break ups go, it was messy, sudden, one sided and calculated. He timed it to what he thought was the end of my miscarriage grief- the day after I donated eggs. After the miscarriage it took me many months to even consider continuing the egg donation, but when I did I always spoke to my partner about how I hoped it would help me with my grief, to be able to give to others what I couldn’t have myself and in their names. The day of the donation he secretly packed his bags, the next day he left. Of course, there is no cut off point for grief. The point is, it was not an amicable or mutual event. So in the coming weeks a lot of harsh and nasty words were spoken on both sides.
I regret what I said, but not that I meant it. But I feel as though I used my children as ammunition against him, and that is what I lose sleep over.
My neighbour said to me the other day “I think it was a blessing in disguise that you lost the babies, imagine being on your own with them now.”
I love my neighbour, but I was taken a back at this statement. It is not the first time I have heard it though. It’s as if I’m going through the “at least” stage again, which is the hardest part of having angel babies with someone you are no longer with. Those who care about me have watched me transition into a single mother, but a single mother who doesn’t need any help with childcare, who doesn’t have to get up in the night to feed. A single mother who lives alone in a house where there should be two gorgeous little babies, irrespective of the presence of a Father. And it appears hard for most people to acknowledge that I would rather be a single mother with two babies than a single mother with none.
I have learnt to be and grieve on my own and I have learnt the love of a single mother. If you share this grief with someone you are no longer with it can feel like starting over but wherever you go and whoever you are with, you will carry your baby in your heart. No one coming or going can take that away from you or me.