I no longer blame myself or feel betrayed by my own body. I have allowed the Atonement to work in my life enough to know that I am not responsible for the absence of those babies here. I think of them. I hope that they know me, and that I will someday know them. I miss them. I know that I am a better person because of them. I know that I have much to give to others because they existed. I try not to let any of this make it awkward for others at any time. It is often more difficult to hold it together when others become awkward.
Imagine how I felt when my sweet youngest child, my only son, came to me one evening after family prayer and cried out, "Why couldn't you make any of those other babies live?" The tears and the lump in my throat, and the ringing in my ears were instant. Through the fog of feeling as if I'd just sustained a major blow to the head, I could just hear his little voice telling his daddy how much he'd like to have a brother. I know I wasn't moving, and I couldn't speak. I just sat there until he'd gone to bed. Nick turned out the light and pulled the covers over himself, silently. I wept and wept that night. Those missing babies have never held the same weight for Nick and I. They were never real for him, and he didn't experience their passings as I did. None of them were born living, and so he has been unable to recognize their reality. It remains a lone canyon between us, no bridge in sight, only the long way round, or sprouting wings to fly. He held me, silently.
This event has percolated in my heart and mind for nearly 3 months. I haven't spoken of it to anyone because I am afraid of their awkward. I haven't written it down because it feels so lonely when paper is the only one listening. I haven't prayed on it since the first night because I suddenly felt angry that God was the only one who could hear and understand when my husband is right here, and they were his as much as mine. I don't want to feel angry. I don't want to stare at that canyon, an ugly gash in my otherwise happy marriage.
