The day I met my husband for the first time, we had only been speaking for less than 12 hours following our first discussion through an online dating site. We had so much in common, we met that evening for drinks, and after that night, we were inseparable. This was in 2016, two days after Christmas, and as anyone following me would know, we were married in May. Some may have thought it was fast but I knew this was the man I wanted to marry, to raise a family with. Something I had waited my whole life for and now, I was "grown up" enough to handle a real relationship.
Of course, this world loves nothing more than to try it's hardest to prove me wrong, and it has.
A month after our wedding, on Father's day, we found out I was pregnant, and even though I should've known better, I got excited. Super freaking life-changing excited. I hadn't been pregnant since 2011, where I had two ectopic pregnancies, and I knew the risks of having another, but I thought surely, it wouldn't happen again. Surely, the world wouldn't torture me like that. Surely, surely, surely, after giving me a wonderful man for a husband and a great dad for my son, the world wouldn't play any tricks on me. This was it, this was what I had waited for.
We all know what happened. Three days after, I had bleeding and the hospital told me I was having a miscarriage. I was devastated, yet at the same time, happy that it wasn't in my tube. That my body was finally doing something correct and it meant we could try again when the time was right.
That isn't what happened though. By the beginning of July, I hit the ER and after being sent home, I was back hours later in excruciating pain, and losing my right tube through emergency surgery, the only thing left of my natural ability to get pregnant.
For three weeks, I wouldn't get out of bed except to use the bathroom or when I otherwise had to force myself to do so. I scared my husband, I scared myself, with how much I merely wanted to wither away and die, all my hopes and dreams for a family dashed forever.
I cried, but I didn't plead, I didn't beg, I didn't bargain. I cried until I ran out of tears, until I knew if I didn't get out of the bed for my husband and my son, I might do something drastic. I went to my doctor, I got on some Zoloft, and for a while, that drug helped me hold on when I had nothing left in my heart to keep me going.
Even thinking about this makes my heart pound and hurt in my chest, tears begging to free themselves from where I'm tamping them down, telling them no no no because I just can't bear to cry anymore. I won't survive it, even now, 7 months later during the week where I would've been due to have our child, had the pregnancy being normal.
Never, ever have I thought I would get over it or move past it, but what really happened is, I shoved it aside and buried it so deep. Until a month ago, I told myself that it is what it is and I had a son who needed me and a husband who didn't deserve to have a wife who couldn't cope with what happened.
So, I put on my mask, the one I'm so comfortable in after using it all my life to pretend everything is all right, the one I needed to wear in order to make it through the days, weeks, and months, and yes even years of my life following all the shit I went through as a child and young adult. For the never-ending parade of shit falling on my head once more.
That's the thing about masks. Eventually, they slip, fall off your face, and shatter all over the ground.
My dreams... my hopes... everything I wanted, they are in pieces and there's no way to put them back together again. Because last year, in that hospital, the me that my husband fell in love with died and I'm not like humpty. I can't be put back together again with a little glue; nothing in the world will allow something magical to happen when I can suddenly have a second child without costly intervention.
Nothing will give me back the little piece of my soul that withered and turned to ash as I lay in that bed after it all happened, begging for the world to just let me wither and turn into ash, too.
And nothing, not even love, is enough to save my marriage to a man who deserves better than what the world handed us. My entire world changed in that surgical room and by nothing more than what he represents to me every time I look at him, or the children who are his but not mine biologically, so did his. I am not the woman he married and I never will be again because the whole event fundamentally changed me, shook everything to the core.
Killed what was and turned it into something that could never be.
Neither of us are at fault. Some tragedies just can't be overcome and yes, I'm irate with the world, but mostly, I'm just irrevocably brokenhearted.
Maybe, one day, it won't hurt this bad, and I'll be able to look back to find something in this huge loss of mine.
But until the day, good bye, love, and thank you, for loving me the best you could. I'm just sorry that love isn't enough to repair the damage to both our hearts.