I’m having a difficult time with the term “miscarriage survivor.” Really, it’s more the “survivor” part of it because I don’t feel as if I have survived anything. I think that the term “survive” should be saved for times where you had a near death experience but you ended up coming out of it alive. Like my friend who was just electrocuted by 12,000 volts and managed to live…that’s survival. He survived stepping on a power line and trying to put out a wildfire. For me, besides the brief moment where I wanted to drive into the river after the February miscarriage instead of go to the doctor’s, I can hardly say I have been close to death. And let’s say for arguments sake you don’t need to be close to death to survive, even then I can hardly say I’ve survived. I’m still trying to survive if that’s the case. And when will I stop surviving this? When I finally succeed at a pregnancy? Even then I’ll be mourning the deaths of my babies, that won’t disappear, so can you really say I’ve survived the miscarriages? But will I then be a survivor because I did succeed in my initial goal of becoming (and remaining) pregnant? I just don’t feel like it fits. But what does? It goes along with that feeling of not fitting in — the feeling of being between motherhood and before. If there were two groups of women, as our society often puts us into, those that have never been pregnant and those that are mothers, I would have to stand alone. Of course, there are many women that would join me, yes, but what exactly would we call ourselves?
Anyway. There’s my ramble for this Friday afternoon. I think I might be a little stir-crazy.
Have a great weekend!