This week I was going to tell you all about Tencel—a fabric made from eucalyptus pulp… But as I sat down to write, this story came to life on my screen and I decided to share it with you.
My heart is heavy this week… Heavy, because last week Thomas and I went to the hospital to meet our baby. I was 12 weeks pregnant.
But, after running numerous tests and getting my blood work done, after several hours of waiting and anticipation, we sat in the ultrasound room and my blood ran cold. Our little peanut wasn’t moving. She was so still. The technician’s discomfort was palpable. After mumbling a few apologies, she disappeared to get the doctor.
Thomas and I held hands, our eyes watering. Full of apprehension and at the same time, unable to give up hope. The doctor arrived and in a few moments she said the words that changed everything: “Your little baby has passed away, miss.”
Since then, I feel like I’m floating. I had already had a miscarriage—and I have four wonderful children. But that doesn’t change the sadness that’s come over me since. I never thought this news would hit me so hard.
A friend of mine said something that really resonated when she heard the news: “It’s the dreams you have of your child that are the biggest part of the grief.” And for me, that is so true.
As I enter my forties, this grief is so final, so abrupt.
The dream of this little human being had truly become a reality. It was the subject of hilarious conversations to find the most absurd name for a little brother or sister. Plans to expand and renovate our beautiful home to make room for this little peanut. Financial planning to absorb the changes, preparing for a new life with a baby. Hesitantly pausing in front of store windows, admiring the tiny shoes. Such tangible images of those moments when time seems suspended, during those first months when we often fall asleep side by side, skin to skin.
If I tell you this, it’s not because I closed the shop. On the contrary, these last few days, I have found a lot of comfort in sewing, I have enjoyed receiving your messages, preparing your orders, walking to the post office. It has even given meaning to my days.
I tell you this because often these life events remain silent. Grief remains secret. And yet, as soon as we open up to others, we receive compassion, understanding… An almost irresistible urge to say, “I’ve been there too.”
So today, I wanted to tell you—all the moms and dads who have experienced a similar experience that my heart goes out to you. That I know what you have been through is unforgettable, and perhaps deeply painful. Please know that my door is always open, if you feel like sharing your story.
- Introducing CLARK: a thick, soft, soft cotton flannel handkerchief. - 25/03/2023
- A more affordable alternative to paper towels - 19/03/2023
- What being an open book has brought me - 12/03/2023
12 thoughts on “My heart is heavy…”
Sending you so much love … and a great big hug.
That means a lot, thank you very much! ❤️
I’m so sorry to hear, I hope you and yours will be alright
Thanks a lot Roger ❤️
Dear Marion and Thomas
Please accept my deepest sympathy in the loss of your unborn daughter. My heart aches for you. May Almighty God bless and comfort you during this sad time.
With sadness and love
Thank you Maggie, that means a lot ❤️
I’m so sorry for your loss
Thank you ❤️
Thank you for sharing your story. It means so much. Sending you warmth and hope.
Thanks for the kind words, Erica ❤️
Thank you for sharing your story. I’m so sorry for your loss. You and your family are in my thoughts and prayers.
That means a lot Cassandra, thank you so much! ❤️