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Again. It happened again.

Another miscarriage, another baby we will never meet.

This one hurts so much more than I expected. The night before it ended, I knew. I told Patrick, “This one isn’t going to make it.” Just twelve hours later, the bleeding started. It was instant and heavy and painful and over as quickly as it started. Nothing like with Eli, whose passing started with the faintest of spotting and ended with three days of intense contractions before I delivered his miniature body. By midnight, baby no. 3 was gone.

I know I should be happy that two of our children never had to feel the pain of being human. That they get to live with Jesus for the entirety of their existence. But, shit, this sucks. It took me two years to just reach a point where I was okay with what happened with Eli. Two. Years.

And then it took us nearly two years to conceive this sweet baby, that we’d prayed for, and yet never let ourselves get excited might one day exist. While everyone and their brother asked us when we were going to have another, constantly reminding us that it still hadn’t happened… We built walls around our hearts to protect ourselves if we couldn’t conceive again or if we lost another. Like The Wall. The GoT Wall. Jon Snow’s Wall. Yeah, those kind of walls around our hearts.

Well, call me Jon Snow, because I know nothing.

There is no preparing for the love that invades your heart, and there is no preparing for the heartbreak of having someone you love so much taken away.

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