Heavy heart

I don't think I ever truly understood what it felt like to mourn with those that mourned until I had my miscarriages. I always felt deeply for people when they had trials or tragedies and would sympathize with them, talk with them and even, I hope, help make their way a little easier to bear. But it was sympathy and not empathy.

Since I have begun blogging, albeit irregularly, about our infertility struggles and the heartache of the miscarriages, I have come across the amazing network of blogs and communities of women and couples who are struggling, too. I am not a central player in any of this; I tend to lurk and read blogs without commenting most of the time. One of these days when I'm more organized I will get around to putting up a list of some of these blogs that have inspired and helped me.

When I hear about any of these wonderful people getting that positive test, or getting chosen for adoption, I cheer for them. When they find out the flavor of their baby, I start thinking thoughts of pink or blue. When they post pictures of their miracles, I coo and sigh and melt and post comments with wayyy too many exclamation points.

And then there are those other days. Days when someone gets one more negative test. Days when suddenly it's too hard for someone to put on a hopeful face and they need to vent or cry or scream in frustration. Days when the Clomid didn't work, or a new round of shots failed, or the doctors just don't know what to try next.

Or days of loss, like today. Days when I find out that one of these amazing couples has been unchosen for adoption. And then the loss seems as unbearable to me as if it had been my own. I'm weeping as I type this, because my heart aches for this couple (who most likely had no idea I was even reading their blog). I can't lift the burden for them. I can't make it better. All I can do for them is mourn as they mourn.

Please, keep Josh and Savannah in your prayers.