December 14, 2009.
DISCLAIMER: Trigger warning. This post is about my miscarriage and is graphic.
. . .
I was talking with a friend last night about her recent miscarriage. Generally, it only takes about 2 seconds for “it’s so common” to come out of somebody’s mouth.
What’s uncommon is two women sharing honestly about how truly devastating miscarriage is – no matter how long the baby was alive. What’s uncommon is sharing and how complicated and layered of a grieving process losing a dream to miscarriage is for all involved.
I told my friend about Poppy.
Poppy was my daughter. She was 7 weeks and 2 days old when she decided to go back to heaven and leave my body. She’s with me everyday, just in the upper right of my line of sight.
And she came to me – so clear – in a meditation at the Integratron last August, (which will be the third and final part of that series).
In that meditation I relived the entire process of losing her. The shock of the smear of blood in the bathroom at work. The panic. The tears. The phone calls. The ultrasound. The pain. Involuntarily pushing her out of my body, all alone. Lying on my bed, unable to breathe. Pulling pieces of her out of me in the shower. The DNC. The depression – the dark, dark depression that followed.
It makes me so sad to remember those days. The dreams shattered. The darkness for months. And the eating – gaining 30 pounds – eating away the pain.
Poppy said goodbye in early January of 2010. I feel compelled to share 3 writings I have about her, about losing her and about that time.
. . .
2010 started off pretty funky in my land, but that’s just an opinion and not particularly a truth.
The facts:
#1. I was pregnant. I am no longer pregnant. We had the sweetest Christmas ever, followed by an emotionally, spiritually, and physically draining past week. In a nutshell – pain, discomfort, sadness, grieving, awakening, acceptance, growth, understanding, communication, support, support, support (I am so blessed), love, Mother Nature, consoling, comforting, and many many more.
After an outpatient surgery today, my womb is clear. We will not be trying to conceive for a while, as we are giving ourselves time to heal.
Which leads me to:
#2. Life and death makes me think about a lot of things; mostly all that I have and all that I hope to achieve during my time on this planet. And while I think bringing a human into this world is a very important and amazing thing to do, raising that human by far more important. As you can see, I was born just fine. Actually better than fine, exactly as I was supposed to be.
I was born with a strong spirit; I was born resilient; I was born with a purpose and to search for what that means. So, I was born by those two parents, but I was raised by the creek, by those blackberries, by that incredible red dog, by the chickens, by my sisters, by drunks, by bartenders, by whores.
What I really mean to say is I found and continually find my truth all around me. 2010 and this loss has reminded me of the gifts I’ve been given – countless gifts by nameless faces – and they lead me to believe that I have a story to tell. To share. To bring to the next young learner. For me to teach and continue to learn.
Because there’s some little one, or big one, out there who’s searching. I want to be there to help out if I can.
. . .
“I’m okay.”
I hear myself say it. Walking up the stairs. Just now.
I.
Huff.
Am.
Puff. Cramp.
O…
Ouch. Drip. Drip.
Kay.
“Shit.”
Another out loud expression. And my husband is just a floor below. And I’m conversing with myself.
I’m bleeding. A lot. Sometimes it pours out of me like rain. I’ve been running around today sharing my epiphanies with the world, which I hold dear to, but I’ve worn myself out before I’m strong enough to shout from rooftops.
I yip from the top of the stairs and lie on my bed beside Malife, my sweet black dog. Here I am again, on my bed, fetal, staring into the darkness of Malife’s doe eyes. He lies on his side. We touch noses. I scan his so-much-wiser-than-I-should-ever-aspire-to-be soul for the answer. He sighs and rolls his eyes. I’m not kidding.
He’s got to be sick of watching me do this dance.
I’m cramping pretty bad. I want to cry. This miscarriage is kicking my ass right now. I’m feeling the loss. I’m grieving. Alone.
I’ve made so much progress in so many areas, but I still default to I’m okay when I’m in a group. And part of it is that I am okay when I’m in a group. I feel better when I’m not alone and not thinking about every ache and pain and the fact that the lining of my uterus is in a biohazard bag in Beverly Hills somewhere.
I turn off the light and tuck my mom’s down pillow under my belly where the baby used to be. I let go of the tension and close my eyes. One tear drips across my nose. I tuck my fetal pose a little bit tighter. I try to sleep.
I’m okay.
. . .
And last a poem my mom wrote.
POPPY’S ODYSSEY
DECEMBER INTO JANUARY
OUT OF THE AIR,
POPPY…
AN EGG, A THOUGHT, A SEED
FALLING LIKE FAIRY DUST
INTO WARM WOMB FLESH
BY NAME:
‘POPPY’
AN IDEA
AN IMAGE,
POPPY
BURNED INTO IMAGINATION
AND HEART
WITH ANGEL WINGS NOW
HOVERING
JUST ABOVE US
I CAN ALMOST FEEL
THE GENTLE BREEZE
OF HER EFFORT
love you cocoon.
know it, not the same but the same.
and it’s never “common” when it happens to you
I love you too cocoon!
Oh, Courtney, how I feel the same pain. I’ve been pregnant 5 times & have 2 sons. The second, my sweet Chance with zero problems for 9 months. The fourth left one week before I would’ve had to name it & bury it. The fifth, Kane, tried to exit at 21 weeks. Thank God for my kickass doctor who saved him. He saved him four more times. I never asked the sexes of the babies as I was nowhere near that strong. I love your bravery to share this. And to give Poppy a name. And I love you!
Oh Em Jesus! You’ve been through it – wow. I truly can’t fathom the courage you had to keep trying. Heartbreaking. I love you so.
Wow. I just realized that I have never shared that with anyone outside of my family. Your courage is contagious! Disclaimer: Kane was the only one we planned & tried for. The other four were surprises!
Yay Em! Cool. You’re courage makes me happy.
Wow this is a beautifully honest post. I’m currently going through an ectopic pregnancy, and just had the courage to post on my blog about the journey. It’s so difficult, and your openness and bravery are inspiring. I also love that you gave the sweet one a name. Poppy, so light and free. Thank you for your writing. You don’t know how important it is for us.
Oh honey I’m so sorry for your loss. Thanks for commenting. Maybe you’re the reason I felt compelled to share this tonight. I’m sending you so much love and healing. Xoxo
I turned on my reader and you were the first article I saw. I’ve never seen your posts before, but there was definitely a reason for this. Thank you, thank you!
Wow! I’m reading your blog right now. We have even more in common…
Oh Courtney, I am so sorry for your loss of sweet baby Poppy. Your story brought back memories for me – lying in a ball, crying rivers for my lost babies.
Hun, you write about the deepest pain in the most eloquent way. And your mom’s poem is beautiful and so heartfelt – a grandma’s love for her unborn grandchild. I’m glad you have that poem.
You are so compassionate and understanding for those who come to your site and require a warning about triggers. For me your trigger warnings signal that I should go get a tissue before I read on, but I realize for some people seeing that warning could mean dire consequences if they choose to read on. That being said, I feel that I should warn you that I have a blog post ready to publish this week about my miscarriages but mine isn’t eloquent like yours – it’s more about suggestions about ways to help a mom who’s lost a baby. Still, it’s sad and made me cry writing and reading my own story. Interestingly I recently realized that I’ve been blogging since August but have yet to write anything specific about my miscarriages. It hasn’t been intentional, but I’m sure it’s been put on the back burner because it’s a painful subject. So thank you for sharing a piece of you, of your painful story. And your friend Mishedup is right – it’s not common when it happens to you.
((hugs, always hugs))
S
PS. I love that your mom wrote a poem – would you mind if I mentioned it in my blog post as a suggestion? It’s a simply beautiful idea. ((hugs to your mom too))
Awww my girl Sonya! How I appreciate your support. I would love the mom poem suggestion! Great idea. Yeah, Beepea was born in April and this is the first time I’ve written about my miscarriage. I still have sadness and confusion and regret around losing her. Grief. Such a strange process. I could start a whole blog about grieving! On so many levels.
I love you. Thanks as always and I look forward to reading your post, too.
Xoxoxoxo
I lost three. The oldest would be 24 by now. The youngest 18. I still feel the loss. The desperation. I still feel the bitterness when strangers would ask me why I didn’t have kids and argue me about how I should have them. How I’d end discussions with taxi cab drivers by screaming at them about my losses. I was a cynical angry mess for the longest time.
I’ve learned to live my life to the fullest in a way where I honor the loss by doing stuff I’d never do if I had kids. I live in such a way where my life is not wasted by the loss but maximized because of them. If that makes any sense.
And I’ve also learned to not talk about the miscarriages to anybody else but those who’ve had them too. Otherwise its like spreading a virus they’re afraid they’ll catch like an airborne disease.
I just love your honesty and perspective so much. I totally get it – maximizing opportunities – living life to the fullest. Honoring them by thriving. You’re truly an inspiration Marr. Truly. Thanks for sharing your experience. Xoxo
I found Poppy in a journal a few weeks ago while cleaning my office. She rests in my heart still.
Aww mom. Your poem made me cry when I read it again last night.
Miscarriage is such a horrible thing to go through, and I know what a tragic loss you experienced. I’ve miscarried 3 times. Once when I was 20 and didn’t know I was pregnant and I thought the miscarriage was a blessing, but 15 years later when I was trying to conceive to have a sibling for my then 3-year old daughter, I miscarried at 12 weeks. I felt guilty about it thinking it was a kind of payback for not mourning the previous one.
Oh Cathy! The things we do to punish ourselves – boy do I get it. I had a miscarriage when I was 17 & I was so happy! I had the abortion scheduled already, so I was thrilled to save $400. Not once did I think of it as a life.
Wow was it different when she was planned.
Thank you. I just got 4 feet tattooed on my hands yesterday; one for each of my babies in heaven… don’t think yer post could have come at a better time for me.
Wow. Thank you for sharing, sweet Amanda.