Agony (Part 4)

[This is the fourth post in a series about my first pregnancy loss. Here are the links to “Agony” Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3.]

Noun
Extreme and generally prolonged pain; intense physical or mental suffering. The struggle preceding natural death.

Two days before Christmas

spritz-wreath

Making spritz cookies are tradition at Christmas. And no pending miscarriage will stand in the way of tradition.

We’re making spritz cookies, my husband and I, because it’s a Christmas tradition. First for me and my family, and now for our little family of two desperate to be three (and almost are).

My mom made dozens of these cookies each and every holiday. For us, for cookie swaps, for the hosts of the holiday parties we attended. She made trees and wreaths decorated with candy hearts and green sprinkles to make them look like holly.

My husband washes the cookies press in the sink and I take out the ingredients one by one lining them up in order on the kitchen counter, just the way mom taught me so many years ago.

Challenged by Alzheimer’s, my mom has silently, if unknowingly, passed the spritz cookie tradition on to me. I’m reluctant to embrace it without a child of my own to share it with.

My longing to be a mom has reached epic proportions, and the universe is dangling the carrot.

That’s the tricky thing about being a little pregnant, pregnantish or lil pregs. You wish, hope and might your way to a healthy baby, but it’s not a sure thing.

It’s so much less than certain, and though the doctor hasn’t crushed every last ounce of our hope, it’s highly unlikely the outcome we want so terribly is what time will bring.

Afraid to jinx any potential miracle, we don’t talk about it. But it’s always there, in our hearts and minds, in the cookie batter I stir furiously by hand.

I squeeze droplets of green food coloring into the blonde mound of butter, sugar and flour. My husband assembles the cookie press and fastens the tree disc.

He’s figured out how to push out a perfectly formed cookie without a branch or trunk sticking to the press.

This small feat is our Christmas miracle.

 

16 thoughts on “Agony (Part 4)

  1. The metaphor/symbolism/imagery in the the last two lines… floors me. As always.

    The pain of your anxious waiting is conveyed so well as you slowly unfold each part of this story for us. Thank you, again, for the opportunity to be immersed in as much of this experience as we can with you. It is a privilege and an honor.

    May God cradle you through this grief as closely as he cradles your little one. ❤

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Anxious waiting is the perfect way to describe it! Unfortunately more pain is on the way and for all those who’ve been through it, I get it and I’m sorry you have to experience it. I hope you all have a Gritty Mama in your corner to support you because despite all the pain there is a hidden joy in grief.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. You’re such an amazing person for sharing your story. Your writing is beautiful and I can feel the pain in your heart as you write. I know that you will hold your little one in your arms soon enough. I don’t know you’re entire journey but I do know that you deserve to be a mother and you’ll be a damn good one, at that. Sending you love and support! 💕

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    1. Thank you so much for your thoughtful reply. I really appreciate your support. When I started sharing my story here it was really an outlet for me, and if helped someone else along the way, great. But I’m finding so much more and the kindness of people like you and so many others is so humbling. I’m following your journey too and sending good wishes your way.

      Liked by 1 person

  3. Thank you for sharing your story bravely and boldly. Miscarriage is too often swept under the rug and when women like you aren’t afraid to share, it brings comfort to their rest of us, knowing we aren’t alone while we learn how to talk about it. I’m looking forward to your future posts- you’re a great writer!

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    1. Thank you so much for your kind words. I’m still groping my way through the heartache, and this is my safe place to share. Knowing someone like you is helped by my story makes this experience a little less painful. Best wishes to you!

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