Story by Liz Mannegren
I’ve lost a baby in the first trimester. I’ve lost a baby in the third trimester.
They called one a miscarriage. They called one a stillbirth.
I watched the remains of one swirl in a blood-red toilet. I buried one in a tiny, infant-sized grave.
But both were loved. Both are missed.
It’s true that some pain digs down deeper. That some pain leaves sharper scars. But that pain isn’t defined by weeks or months.
Loss is loss.
At four weeks or at forty — that love is real. At four weeks or at forty — the pain of separation is real.
A loss is always still a loss.
And your grief, sweet mama, will always be valid. At four weeks or at forty, you are not alone.
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