Then it all made sense. The universe. My reason for being in it. The interconnectedness of us all. My life was currently a cascade of epiphanies that had me full of this “everything,” and I was in total bliss. Sure, others would think it was totally strange that I spontaneously fell in love essentially with a stranger (let’s call her Superbloom, for fun) based on the memory of an interaction I’d had with her weeks before, or that I suddenly believed my miscarriages to be a way to save other mothers from soul-crushing pain. But in my defense, that’s why I didn’t tell anyone. I stayed right there with my fantasies where it all made sense.

This was my second miscarriage; the first was tough to grapple with after having tried for eons to conceive. I had wondered why it had to happen to us…a married, responsible, financially-able, church-attending, child-seeking couple. We were set up well; we were ready. With all our attempts and “failures,” to be honest, I wondered why God, the Supreme Being, would allow–and even choreograph–this to happen. All around us, it seemed that happy-go-lucky teenagers were getting pregnant (accidentally), and then having the luxury to choose whether or not to make a go of the whole parenting thing or whether or not to abort. It was mockery.

To be brutally honest, I wondered why God hated me.

I then went down all of the paths that that kind of wandering takes you without really getting anywhere. I turned around. I prayed. I grieved. I said rosaries every day and went to church. I “meditated,” if that’s what you call it. I can’t say I ever understood why things happened the way they did, but I eventually came to peace with our miscarriage and came to terms with the doubt in my own lovability. God and I were tighter than ever.

So. Fast forward, oh…four years from the previous miscarriage. And there–right there–after this miscarriage–I had an epiphany. And in my perfectly precious epiphany, I had the answer to this miscarriage and the last: I was being used. For a Purpose.

In my life, I had always turned toward grief and sadness. I had consumed and digested it. Most people can’t stand to feel those emotions, and they try everything they can to avoid them. Not me. I would say I sort of…wallowed…in them. I even, maybe, relished them. It previously felt like I couldn’t do anything else but to bathe in despair, very much aware of my sensitivities, and feeling damn special for them. And now, currently, with my second miscarriage down…the obvious reason for all of this time and energy spent in the wallowing was: to give me the resilience to process the legitimately difficult things that others couldn’t handle. I had built up some stamina for this stuff. I loved all of humanity, and yes – I would be their Martyr.

My heart and my ego did a little dance.

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You know how exciting it is to be infatuated with someone? Imagine that you’ve been pining after them for months, even years. Now imagine them showing up unexpectedly at your door to tell you that they’re in love with you…………………… Nowww imagine that you’re living in the moment right before that’s about to happen.

That was my continuous state of being for a few manic days. In between seducing my husband and making major online purchases, I kept thinking about Superbloom. I knew that wherever she was, she was already trying to find me.

In the hours between, life went on. I fantasized about Superbloom over and over. And I did detailed research on how to get pregnant as quickly as possible, ordering a thousand supplements and charting all of the things like a mad woman. A mad woman who was expecting…

miscarriage.

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