On Somatic Memories & the Drastic Impact of 2 inches.
It’s 3am and I am experiencing agonizing body memories.
Our sweet Rowan was supposed to be due this Sunday, December 8, and although I’m sure they would’ve arrived early and in a bold fashion like big sister B, I can’t help but think and feel like this should’ve been my final week of pregnancy.
It’s hard to explain the somatic or physical sensations my body is experiencing, but it’s almost as if my body is signaling to my brain: “We did it. We’re almost there. These cramps are going to turn into contractions and you’ll be that much closer to meeting your baby. Your boobs feel heavy because your milk is coming in and soon you’ll be the main source of nutrition and food for this baby.”
I experienced similar sensations in the days leading up to the first anniversary of the twins death, except then I struggled to understand what was happening to my body while I needed to prioritize mentally working through some of the trauma memories that had returned.
I can’t help but feel like these physical grief memories are real. And maybe they are trying to tell me something. When Rowan was removed from my body, I was unconscious but apparently my body was still keeping score.
Our whole world would’ve been different if Rowan had implanted just 2 inches lower. This pregnancy would’ve been entirely different had I been able to carry until at least 35 weeks (again, like big sister B) and I can’t help but to think that then I would’ve been gifted the only thing in the world that you can’t achieve by working harder or smarter for, or by having money or knowing certain, important people - none of that would’ve changed the tragic outcome of this pregnancy and delivery.
Oh, how I desperately wish that weren’t true. That I could’ve (and would’ve) done nearly ANYTHING to preserve both Rowan’s life and my physical and mental health. And even more so, I wish with all my heart, with all of my wishes, that losing Rowan hadn’t also left me without the option to try to carry another baby.
Baby Rowan nestled in 2 inches away from everything being alright.
2 inches away from making my dream come true.
Those 2 inches changed me irrevocably.
Those 2 inches broke my body and shattered my heart.
Rowan was just 2 inches away from being here at exactly the right time. I’ll never not feel devastated about this.
Love
Rowan’s mama
Amanda,
Your words are heartbreakingly raw and beautifully brave. The depth of your love for Rowan and the pain of what could have been is palpable in every line. I’m so deeply sorry for this grief you’re carrying—grief that lives not just in your heart but in every part of your body.
Rowan’s presence, though fleeting, has left an indelible mark on your soul. The "what-ifs" and those two inches weigh so heavily, and it’s okay to feel devastated, shattered, and irrevocably changed. Your body remembers because it held Rowan with a love so profound that even loss cannot erase it.
You have such strength in sharing this pain, Amanda. It’s a strength that honors Rowan and reminds us all of the love and resilience within you, even in this agony. Please know you are not alone in this journey. Rowan’s memory will always matter, and so do you.
Sending you love and light in this moment.