*To my precious pregnant friends, or anyone else for whom miscarriage is a trigger, please refrain from reading this post if you have any inkling that it will upset you. I appreciate your love and support, and regardless of what I’m going through know that I rejoice with you.*
As I signed my name at the bottom of the discharge paper, my eyes fixed on those two words. I held myself together long enough to make it to the doors, but as soon as the wind hit my face the tears came hard and heavy.
I couldn’t think, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t process a thing.
I couldn’t believe this was actually happening.
It wasn’t a dream. It was my harsh, cruel, and excruciatingly painful reality.
We had lost our baby and my heart was shattered into a million pieces.
It’s been 6 years since I touched your skin or gazed upon your face. A face I’ve known from birth and one I can no longer see in real time.
It’s been 6 years since you left, and while I can’t blame you for being ready to reside in your true heavenly home, sometimes I’m simply that little girl who misses her dad and I wish you were here with me.