Miscarriage Monologues
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March 29th, 2017

3/29/2017

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Picture
That morning I knew.. 
I had known, but I didn't say anything. I ordered cheap tests on ebay. 
The post woman dropped them through the letter box, and I plopped down my toddler and peed into a cup - dipping the stick in, holding my breath. 
I wouldn't look.. just wait. 
there was no need to wait, in an instant - my answer was revealed in a second line 

My breath was caught. in a wave of shock there was also the sting of joy rising. My mind spinning - what will i do? this is okay. this will be alright. a little baby... oh baby. 

I checked the clock, nearly time to go pick up my daughter from playschool - but quickly, a phone call to a midwife to make sure there was space on her books for a homebirth. I felt like at least if I already handled the midwife stuff telling Steven would be easier - it's under control - we can do this.  
The midwife laughed on the phone - as I hadn't even told him yet.  
I was still out of breath from the excitement of the test - she congratulated me.. and we  hung up - we'd be in touch. 

I went out to get Claire, the whole time my mind swirling.. what am I going to say? How will I tell him? What will he think? He's always okay about this stuff.. He'll be fine. I thought about this secret baby inside of me. All mine.. no one else aware. 

I came home with my girl - settled here in and started making a card to tell him when he got home from classes.. 
Finally, he walked in - my belly doing flipflops. I don't know why I was so nervous. 

'Congratulations! you're really fertile. (I'm freaking out)' it said.. along with the due month... 

I handed him the card, and with that - he already knew. A wave of joy did not wash over his face.. there was no smile. There was a furrowed brow, disappointment really - in himself, in us.. how irresponsible could we be? what will people think? this isn't the right time. how could we be so stupid. 

I felt deflated. I had already thought all of these things.. I had already felt that sting of shame - I had already wondered how the fuck I could be so irresponsible. I had already wondered how I'd manage. I had hoped that he would smile, that he would hug me, that he would say 'this is great news, we'll get through this, a baby is never a bad thing' 

and he did say that, in time, when he processed it further. 
but still.. the underlying feeling was.. shhh.. this isn't really something to celebrate. this is dumb. we are stupid. what the fuck are we doing?! 

-- 
and then i wiped and saw blood. no no no.. this is it. 
i'm losing this baby that i didn't want and then wanted. 
i went to get a scan and baby just fine, heart beat and all.. little tiny bean 

and the blood stopped. 

and then i wiped and saw blood. 
this, a few weeks later. back to the hospital for a scan - all good. all well. all just growing along nicely. 
nothing to be concerned about. the bleeding maybe just irritated cervix. the end. no more investigation. 

Christmas came and went - bleeding was on and off. I had resigned myself to the idea that I was losing this baby many times, so was trying to be careful to just accept things.. 
12 weeks - when you're 'safe' 
so the holidays were upon us, i was bleeding, but i didn't tell anyone really - it was the new normal for this pregnancy.. the scans wouldn't be available in the hospital even if i were to go. i had an appointment coming up with the early pregnancy unit - so i'd just wait. 

and I did, and baby was growing right along. kicking and alive. perfectly measuring with my dates.  
an injection of anti-d since i was still experiencing bleeding, and on my way 

until three days later.. 
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unexpected 

3/24/2017

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Grief.
it came rushing in to my open mouth like a fly
unexpected and hard to swallow
these rituals and ways we work through
healing the holes  with flower seeds
​and leaving the past in the past, blooming into new seasons
little remnants and reminders, as we keep them with us
but then.. out of nowhere
the glimpse of his tiny body in a black and white scan
his heart beat recorded there on a trace…
there he was… he lived. Right there. Inside me.
and he was perfect.
I was the only one that witnessed his legs kicking
just days before I went into labour
miscarrying.
what an ugly word….
it looks like the fault is with the carrier. They mis-did something. Did it wrong.
and so they no longer carry.

it just feels so weird
to suddenly feel that ache constricted in my throat
for him.
for that tiny baby in my palm.
because I did all my rituals. And I moved on.. and I loved him. And I loved me. And I loved what he brought to me.. and I love this baby that I have now, because.. without that sequence of events I would not be who I am right now.. and I would not have what I have right now.. and… it just is. The way it is. 
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First Quarter Moon {42 weeks} 

7/24/2015

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I remember as each milestone passed, the first week, the first full moon, the first bleed, the first ovulation - each bringing you further away from the final moments of carrying a tiny baby within. Each month bringing new milestones to meet, of what would have been - 20 weeks, 40 weeks, 42. The waxes and wanes of moons and months.  

There is an odd nothingness on the threshold of The Day He Would Have Been. 
It's just another day, the sky is a rolling sea of sun, and a tease of rain clouds. 
I wake with two children using my body as a horse, climbing and clamoring all over me, blowing raspberry farts on my belly, erupting in laughter. 
I'm broody, not sad. 
a third, how wild might that be to add to this brood of mortal kombat battles breaking out on the foot of the bed? where would everyone sleep? when would anyone sleep? no one sleeps through the night anyway, what's one more little body awake and sniffling and shuffling to touch mamas body?  
''I want next to mama!''  ''no I want mama!'' 
''there's two sides of mama, you can both have some... maybe mama doesn't want either one of you touching me right now?!'' 
eh whatever, c'mere - pulled into the crook of my stinky armpits and morning breath kisses. 

I butter warm toast and the smell reminds me of the hospital, of the midwife, Rachel, who would have been my second midwife here at home. Her sweetness and deep empathy, holding my hands and meeting my eyes with tenderness.  She was awful sweet, goodness.. everyone was. everyone has been. so kind, so loving, so gentle, so easy. 

Friend's that just show up, in packets of seeds and letters, in books and groceries, silk kimonos and home spun honey. They show up, and through all of this, I have realized all the more what beautiful people I have in my life, how lucky I am. How lucky am I 

This wee fairy sprite, the boy born under the full moon, tiniest limbs and toes I ever did see 
How lucky I am, to have witnessed the wide and vast generosity of hearts around the world. To have witnessed the precious ability of my body, the magnitude of life. How lucky I am, to walk the road taken by millions of women - those often silent or forgotten. How lucky I am, to breathe and beat and have another chance again. How lucky I am, to have the opportunity to dig deeper, to find ceremony, to commune with the mystery blood of my womb. 
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star dust infinity

7/13/2015

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Since before you became, you were. 
a tiny seed
star dust infinity
thrown down from heavenly galaxy
nestled in waiting
within me.

Since before you became, you were. 
tree sap hibernation
tangled roots take pause
leaves fallen in mushy muck. 
conkers for childhood games 
and new life possibility. 

Since before you became, you were. 
held in the life of dreams 
a future expanding before you, 
a birth at home and siblings to adore you
blonde haired and fair 

Since before you became, you were. 
a fusion of love and lust and longing
absence makes the heart grow fonder
lovers limbs intertwined
lazy, late September afternoon. 

and you were. 
rhyme and rhythm 
expansion under the melody of heart beat 
swollen belly and breasts
flicker of hummingbird heart on a black and white screen. 

and you are. 
forever etched in memory
held in the palm, delicate body blessed and buried 
back to the earth from which we came 

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medicated

7/7/2015

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I started taking antidepressants, I'm about a week in and starting to feel the lift
but it also is weird to me, because it dulls out the reality and rawness of what i know i would be feeling right now. 
the can't breathe, can't wake up, can't mother, can't partner, can't recognize myself in the mirror. so many things going on in my life right now, the miscarriage is just a muddled pile in with it.

i would have been 39 weeks yesterday, but i wouldn't give birth until 42 weeks, as always. and now, with being medicated for the next coming month or two, i wonder how i will experience it all. feel it all. honour it all. without the raw emotions and reality. to do justice to what we have been through, this babe and me.

i woke up today and feel like i'm surviving right now, giving myself exactly what i need to so i can be here and mother my kids, mother myself, love my man. so i am not floating in between, out of my body, watching my children grow as an outsider looking in a fogged over window. like i'm not missing out on this precious time with them while they are wee things growing so fast. up up and away from me. 

the day is dreary, and it's the first day in a long time that i don't feel like i'm stuck in the mud with it. it feels... level and normal while it's miserable out and the kids are fighting. i actually feel okay.

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May 17th, 2015

5/17/2015

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Picture
oh i miss those days..
belly full of baby, no idea who was inside
preparing the house to birth in
greeting every morning sun on my own, before claire would toddle down the stairs to join me..
i don't imagine that there is anything more holy than this.

and in rediscovering these pictures this morning
there's that tinge of grief and longing
the baby that never was, how i would be a day shy of 32 weeks pregnant right now with our third.
exhausted and wrecked, with no sleep between two wild children and one within.
preparing supplies and my house for a birth in 10 weeks time

there's something so jarring about reaching milestones of empty.

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Thirteen

4/6/2015

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Thirteen weeks he grew within me. A mystery unfolding, on the cusp of flutters felt.
Thirteen weeks since he's returned to The Mother, where life continues to flourish and grow. In a little garden where picking slugs is part of daily rhythm.  We hang clothes in the sun to dry, and play in the daisy filled grass. 
'where's your baby?' she asks me, as I'm digging near the tiny grave, planting more flowers
'he's right here'
'you very sad mama?' 
'yes, i was very sad'
'i sad too mama'
'i know.. i know'
i wonder what her memories will be.
The memories of her brother born in the pool are retold over and over. She asks for the story of her birth and how we adorned her with love and crooning about how beautiful she was, how she was held and kissed and never left my side. Will she have memories of our Leo's death and birth? of helping me to prepare his tiny body? of the simplicity of the human experience - there is death, and there is birth. there is sad, and it's okay. there is blood, and it's not scary. there are flowers for the little baby that was in mama's belly no more.

Every Monday in reverence.
It doesn't matter how busy we may be, how the day is flowing.. It doesn't matter if it's not at the forefront of my mind, as it becomes more of the past than of the presence. There is the pull of my body, like a compass steadily pointing North even when you don't look at it - wherein my body remembers, grieves, loves, accepts, reflects how it's part of the story, part of this quilt of life..  Miscarriage, the greatest loss is the story untold. The memories that will never be, the age gap that is stark reminder where one would be, a place holder there unintended.
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This Holy Work

3/29/2015

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I ovulated, and as I did, there was  a great mourning. This body.. this beautiful egg release and in waiting, with all intentions of becoming more. I felt so sad for that little egg that has been with me since I was in my mother's womb. How it will never be anything more. I felt so sad for my womb, that was preparing to nourish life, all things hopeful and sweet... like a lie, because it never would, not this month anyway.
I felt a deep need to honour it all, giving away this egg into the ethers, never to have a chance again. I really ached with yearning this time, as I took an ovulation test to make sure I was reading my body signs right - and having to tell myself over and over again that my giddy excitement while waiting for a second line was not because this was a pregnancy test, and that I was not pregnant, and that there is no baby where there should be one.

***
I'm bleeding. The first quarter moon wrapped with a halo around her, my back and belly growing heavy with release. All that energy of hopeful creation now making swift exit.
and I wonder when, or if, the reliving of life escaping between my legs will ever stop, with each gush of blood as I sit here knitting, or turn over in bed, or stand up to go make the kids another snack. An uncontrollable river, I remember trying to clench in the hospital bed to hold it in, trying to be polite and not letting it all wash like rivers on the crisp white sheets. Being beckoned to stand up, and knowing that I couldn't stop this all from leaving, but trying all the same.
That feeling of having no control over my body. Of losing everything, and still trying to be a good patient while my tiny baby was dead and coming quickly.  I feel that all between my legs as the day goes on, and into the night as I move and try to stay still, containing it all tightly between my thighs.
Will every period feel the same? As the body remembers, will it be replaced with the sensation of bringing life right on down instead of loss?

My daughter watches me wash out cloth pads in the sink 'you have blood? where's your baby?' she says,  searching the blood that washes down the sink
'I don't have a baby right now, that's why I have blood'
I talk to her about the beauty of our bodies. About the blood of women and how she has little ovaries and eggs inside her body. How, when she's big like me she'll bleed too. I try to make sure it isn't scary blood, just part of the process, part of giving life to the world.

I take a good look at myself in the mirror, a mental picture of this time right now - no wrinkles around my eyes or mouth just yet. No grey hairs springing from my crown. I look deep in my eyes and see all the women I have been, recognizing right now, in these eyes, that I will always have been a mother at 27 that miscarried one of their siblings. Knowing that in years time, I will look at myself in the mirror to really see myself, and the startled reflection of someone who is older will look back at me, recognizing all the women she has been.

At the end of yoga practice every week, I thank myself for the practice.  I hold this vision of my elder self, as she thanks me right now for doing this work.

This holy work..

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the unknowns and unanswered 

3/3/2015

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I was going to write something else today, about healing and shit.
and then the post came while my boy slept, I poured a cup of tea and started reading through the hospital notes that I requested
and then the pages finally, towards the end, came with my blood tests - showing very high readings for infection.
and the page that lists this tiny baby's weight and measurements... that there are no abnormalities. that he is.. he was. so fucking perfect.

and i think about how high the infection reads in the blood and urine tests
and i'm so fucking pissed off. obviously i have no idea if anything would have been any different. but what if they would have taken my blood and urine and tested it when i first presented with spotting at 7 weeks, at 9 weeks, at 12?

would they have seen an infection, and i would have taken an antibiotic, and be 21 weeks pregnant today?

i think about that 12 week scan, where he was so alive. and moving, and those little limbs going wild. how i felt when i saw that baby on the screen, my baby... that's my baby. my heart welling with pride and love.
his heart beat singing in the room for a few seconds
just a week later his world came crashing down. was he suffering from my body fighting an infection? my temperature spiked so high that night that i went to a&e..did he die then?  did my body kill this little baby because it was under so much strain to fight an infection that could have been treated?

i'll never know
could i have advocated for myself and my baby better, and demanded some tests to know why i was spotting, besides the ultrasound which showed all was fine?
instead there will always be this gap, where a baby boy should have been.
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What's in a name?

2/25/2015

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His name came to me while I went out for a walk for fresh air.
I was in the dark of the parking lot, and the brilliant moon was shining down on me, my only witness.
and there, whispered in the same parking lot I walked and walked while waiting to go into labour with my first born, his name found me. 
I went to the chapel in the hospital, desperate for a candle to light. annoyed to find that the 'candles' not only were electronic, but you also had to pay for it. what bullshit. no change in my pockets, that's fine.. his name would be better whispered under the open air instead of this dusty chapel.

It felt so intensely private, I didn't want to share with anyone. I kept it close to my heart, I didn't tell my husband until sometime later the next day.
It's simply symbolic. had he been born a Leo in July, at home, right into my hands, right to my breast... his name would have never been Leo. ever.  but for this tiny whisper of a son, to be forever remembered and named by the season and the tides.
it's not his name, it's what *he was*
I wanted to keep the name to myself, and for a few days, I did
but I can't ever keep anything to myself.....

in ways I regret that, kept to myself his name is powerful, sacred, holy. sweet.
in some ways it feels that sharing his name it's watered down... i can't explain it. his name only has meaning to my immediate, intimate family. for anyone else, it's just a name
there is no explaining it
some things demand to stay secret
I wonder how my feelings on that will change as the years pass

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    Artist and mother of two, writing and sharing about my miscarriage as cathartic therapy. Helping myself, and possibly helping others navigate this path

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