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.
#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 hear myself say it. Walking up the stairs. Just now.
Ouch. Drip. Drip.
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.
. . .
And last a poem my mom wrote.
DECEMBER INTO JANUARY
OUT OF THE AIR,
AN EGG, A THOUGHT, A SEED
FALLING LIKE FAIRY DUST
INTO WARM WOMB FLESH
BURNED INTO IMAGINATION
WITH ANGEL WINGS NOW
JUST ABOVE US
I CAN ALMOST FEEL
THE GENTLE BREEZE
OF HER EFFORT