It was early. I grieve that.

"At least it was early."
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I heard these words more than once after #ihadamiscarriage . The phrase was intended to offer an encouraging pat on the back, but only added to
the shame--that my pain was somehow misplaced and that my grieving process should be rushed. It felt as if the size of my grief needed to shift with the amount of weeks I carried each baby.
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If you've walked through the pain of miscarriage, I'm guessing you've heard this phrase a few times too.
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Yes, my miscarriages at 6, 8, and 10.5 weeks (twins) happened "early". They happened before we prepared the nursery. They happened before I reached the second trimester. They certainly happened earlier than the age at which we lost our newborn son, Ethan. Yet both types of loss resulted in the passing of a precious child. Our miscarriages happened "early" and I mourn that.
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I grieve how little I knew them.
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I grieve that someone could feel like I stranger to me when I love them so fiercely.
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I grieve the lack of memories.
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I grieve that I never felt their kicks.
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I grieve that I don't know what foods they would have made me crave or what kind of pregnancy I would have had.
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I grieve that I don't know if they were boys or girls.
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I grieve that I never felt like I knew them well enough to name them.
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I grieve that I don't know the color or their eyes or the color of their hair.
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I grieve that there are no photographs.
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I grieve that I never got to see their faces.
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So yes, It *was* early. It was early and I grieve that.

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