Your pain found a mirror in mine

Dear Friend,

We’ve never met, but I feel like you know me better than many of the people who see me every day but don’t share my journey. About a year ago, I wrote an article in these pages, laying bare my pain with the struggle of RPL — repeated pregnancy loss. I put to words the hopes and highs of carrying a pregnancy and the crushing hurt of losing it over and over again.

You reached out and tried to contact me, and I mustered the courage to step out from behind the shadowy comfort of a pseudonym to answer you. We talked. How we talked. You understood the depth and nuance of what I was grappling with, because you were going through it yourself. Trying to balance the demands of work and family alongside secret appointments. Trying to understand why your body was suddenly unable to do what used to come so naturally. Trying to thank Hashem for the precious gift of each child you do have, while begging Him for another. Trying, trying, and trying… and often falling short as you dissolve at the end of another day of carrying this weight.

You wore the same facade of a regular mother with regular problems. You also watched your youngest cross each milestone with a bittersweet mix of pride and mounting anxiety, as your “baby” just wasn’t a baby anymore. Your pain found a mirror in mine.

Just your presence was comforting. It lifted the burden of isolation and loneliness. Although I can’t picture you in my mind, I have your name etched in my heart as we daven for one another.

And now, close to a year after my last loss, I’m grateful and so humbled to be on the path to motherhood again. At first, I found myself skeptical about the pregnancy, bracing myself before each appointment for the worst news. As it progressed, though, I felt more excited about sharing, especially with the people who knew my history and would be happy for me.

You were the one person I didn’t want to tell. I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of someone else’s good news, to clench your teeth and feel the tears pricking your eyes, hoping they don’t hear your voice catch over the phone. But I’ve also been burned by friends who tried to avoid hurting me by hiding their joy until it couldn’t be hidden; I’d felt betrayed with the memories of every time I’d shared my struggles while they harbored their secret.

It hurts both ways, and I don’t want to hurt you. But I do want to reassure you that even though I’m wearing maternity, I haven’t forgotten what it’s like to be wishing I was in this place. I haven’t forgotten the sleepless nights, wondering if and when I’d ever get another chance, another child. I haven’t forgotten the stinging comments, the pointed questions, the bloodwork, the waiting, the simchahs I wanted to miss. Dear friend, I haven’t forgotten you.

I daven for you with the same passion and tears as I ever did — that our simchah should be complete as Hashem fulfills our deep longing. Both of us. Together.

Your Sister-in-Arms 

After I received notice that Family First accepted this letter for publication, I sent it to my friend. I knew I couldn’t let her see it in the magazine — that would be more hurtful than anything. It was with trepidation that I hit send, and joy that I opened her reply with the half hour.

She wrote: That was beautiful! I’m so glad you reached out first, because unbelievably, b’chasdei Hashem, I will be putting on maternity about this week! I feel the same way as you do… so so happy for you and beyond excited that we get to share this together, baruch Hashem! I will certainly keep davening, like I have been every day until now!

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 955)