This one is going to hurt.

I haven’t opened this wound in a while.

There were supposed to be three. Three little loves keeping us on our toes. Three unique, beautiful faces full of interesting ideas.

Life has a funny way of working out, God knows what we needed before we did. But that doesn’t change the ache of what was supposed to be.

We agreed that if we were going to have kids, three would be the optimal number. It meant that at Christmas, if someone couldn’t make it home, there would be more than one. It meant that they’d have a natural, built-in “tie-breaker.” It meant an eye-pleasing, odd number in family photos. It meant so much more than these things, too.

Everything was going according to plan. Pregnant a year ahead of “schedule,” but delighted and excited all the same. Easy pregnancy, nightmare delivery… perfect baby boy. Scarred for several reasons there, but committed to three anyway. About a year and half later, I felt up for trying it again. Nightmare pregnancy, scary delivery… perfect baby girl. I could do this again, it was only one more time.

While on the post-delivery high, sniffing the top of my baby’s head and filled with inexpressible joy, my OB paid us a visit. There in the postpartum room, my “perfect” world crashed. She told me that due to a near rupture of my uterus, she was recommending there be no more babies. Another pregnancy would be very risky to both the baby and to me.

…

Yes, I had a healthy boy and a healthy girl. I am and have always been aware of what a blessing they are. But in all my visions of the future, there were five of us. That child was already part of my life. And now, they wouldn’t exist. In no way do I understand the pain of losing a child, but I do know that losing one you considered part of your family already is intense.

It has taken years, therapy, medication and stress to move through this type of loss. We are a two child family now, and it seems to be hard enough, so perhaps we were saved from a reality that wouldn’t have been as wonderful as I had made it out to be in my head.

I still think about that child, but it doesn’t always hurt anymore. Tonight, the wound ripped open wide.

Skimming through my Facebook newsfeed, I noticed an article that had been shared called, “There’s Just Something About That Last Baby.” I read it, and I sobbed.

The author writes, “When you hear her cries, you breathe a sigh of relief. Not only because she’s happy and healthy (although, mostly that), but because you realize it’s the last time you’ll ever experience the beautiful agony of growing and delivering a child into this world . . . and you’re at peace with that chapter ending….Your last baby will bring a fullness to your heart like you’ve never felt before.”

But what happens when you didn’t get to make that decision for yourself? My case is not unique. There are parents, or would-be parents, all over the world who mourn the children who are not. They feel cheated in some way for the decision was not theirs. Infertility, miscarriage and stillbirth are likely much worse than my experience, but that doesn’t mean I’m not allowed my sadness.

The article is sweet, and I am not angry. I just wasn’t expecting to be back in this place tonight.