The writing anniversary: March 14

March 14, 2021.

The day after we officially became a couple, my wife and I.
White Valentine's Day.
The day of Pisces.
The due date of the two babies. A day that should have had the whole universe rejoicing. Today the universe carries on as usual. For me, though, today is a day longer than usual, tangled with all kinds of feelings. I want to call today a day worth remembering, an anniversary, but I don't know what kind of anniversary to call it. So let me call today the writing anniversary. Writing to remember.

I remember sad things more than happy ones. Happy, I still remember the sad. Sad, I still remember the sad! That's why I want to live a little more openly, a little more generously — better to be happy and still remember the sad than to be sad and refuse to be happy. But even with several more lifetimes, I could never prepare myself for losing two children. Funny, who could prepare for that? I've been working for over a decade and I still can't prepare properly every morning, let alone for this. Partly, I was just flying around in my own heaven at that time, so when things didn't go the way I wanted, I collapsed. But who isn't happy to have a child? Let alone two at once, which I knew I was having before even the doctors told me. And one boy and one girl! I even guessed the sexes before the doctor! So how happy was I? (Not to mention that since primary school I'd dreamed of growing up and having two kids, one boy and one girl.) I don't even know why I knew — I was just happy and hopeful. Hoping. Hope.

The worst thing to come out of the pandora's box were not the sorrows or the plagues. It was hope itself. Hope's a gamble. Hope lacks certainty. (Batman: Dying is easy).

Hope is the road that leads to disappointment and suffering. My universe collapsed. On the day the two babies "decided to choose a different family" — that's what my wife and I said to each other then. They didn't suffer at all; they don't have to live this life that's more sad than happy. That's lucky. I said that to my wife. I had to find something positive to comfort her. And myself too. My duty now was to send our children off with gladness. No crying — we had to smile. Life is long, and we'll have more children. Hoping in order to keep living, even knowing where that road leads.

I felt I had been born again. I was still alive. I gave myself a responsibility in that moment: to write on 14 March 2021. Like a goal I had no idea how to reach. An empty hope. Writing for those who have been through it, so they know I understand. I understand how hard it is to stand back up alongside your other half. You are not alone. And keep hoping. Writing for those who haven't been through it, so they cherish what they have a little more. Writing for those who might go through it, so they have the strength to face it. Just a small outstretched hand to help carry a little of the load, to light a small flame of hope. I had to teach myself to get through it, to have to get through it. You'll make it too. All of us will.

My wife and I are happy again. And we're aiming at new goals. Thank you to all the family and friends who walked through this stretch with us, those who knew the story and those who didn't. Being grateful is the least I can do. Miscarriage is more common than society admits. What makes it seem uncommon is that no one talks about it. There probably won't be a lot more sharing. But if you know someone going through it, stand beside them. You can comfort them, help them, cheer them on, or just be there — that's enough. Or be like my best friend, the one I almost married, and ask the one question that needs asking: "Are you okay?".

<He actually did everything else too. Thank you, man.>