I caught a glimpse of my bare stomach the other day as I was changing my clothes and it occurred to me that I never look at it. The thought caught me off guard but I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I had actually looked at my entire body.
It didn’t take me long to realize why. My scars were gone.
Not my huge C-section scar. No, that one remains in all of its crooked glory, boldly proclaiming the story of my children’s births.
But my Hazel scars are gone. The three small incisions that tell the story of her death have been erased from my skin and that I can’t bear to see.
There are days when I let my mind wander to Hazel. What color would her eyes have been? Her hair? What would have been her first words? Would she be walking by now? In my mind I’ll always wonder and I’ll forever miss her.
Pregnancy loss isn’t talked about much. It’s a topic whispered over a lunch between intimidate friends. It isn’t shouted from the rooftops and it isn’t published for an audience.
Most of the time it is suffered alone, quietly and because of that we can’t help women (and men) with their grief, and we can’t reassure them of the value of their loss. No matter how brief a life, no matter how short an acquaintance, no matter the passage of time, each one is intrinsically valuable.
Every baby matters.
I never held her, but through her death I met God on different terms. I gave Him permission to guide my grief, to not bottle my pain and pretend it didn’t happen while it ate away at me, but to let Him use it in whatever way he saw fit. I wish I had her in my arms, but since that never happened, I am grateful for a God that met me where I was, carried my broken pieces, and drew me closer to Him.
When I think of her now, it isn’t all sadness and when I look at my stomach I wish there were scars… Because Hazel mattered.