Wednesday, September 7, 2016

A Poem about Miscarriage


The first hint of pregnancy,
She was elated—but scared,
After all, she had miscarried twice already.

At ten weeks, she and her doctor
Were hopeful, and finally,
At twelve weeks they were very confident—
This time it would go well.

And then, and then, a little bleeding,
Life and hope leaking out,
And then at fourteen weeks,
The flush and rush of blood—

And it was all over.

All her friends with babies, and she
With a broken heart.
Not all that unusual, she knew,
Most women have had miscarriages at some point,
Sometimes so early it was hardly noticed—by others.

But the mothers knew.
In fact, years later you could ask them,
And they could tell you how old
Little Johnny or Suzie would be.

The burning sorrow does fade,
But the long ache remains.
Hope returns, slowly,
You find another path—maybe a future pregnancy,
Or adoption,
Or a life without your own children—

But you don’t forget,
And you know how old Baby would be now.

[Bob Coughlin / September 7, 2016]

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