I was pregnant.
Then, I had a miscarriage.
Being pregnant was miraculous, given that we had done everything possible to NOT to be pregnant.
I had two glorious days of familiar exhaustion + nausea, + the settling of a new presence fitting in with me. + then nothing.
Absence.
Emptiness.
A return to feeling ‘normal’.
On one hand, + I’m not sure why, I expected a miscarriage to happen. On the other, I really wanted a second child + happily continued to plan for a babe + start my countdown to the end of the first trimester. When it would be ‘safe’ to openly celebrate this pregnancy.
Life continues. Until it doesn’t. The first signs of blood were, not necessarily a surprise, but heart wrenching all the same.
My refrain; “No… No… No… No… No…”, and on.
I was far away from my husband with my parents + sister for a family friend’s wedding. No children allowed. Quite literally.
As I prepared to head to the hospital, my family’s love + support allowed me space to cling to a spirituality that has guided me + also supported me through all of life’s good + bad. It brings me peace. I can see a bigger picture. I believe in a plan larger than myself. I believe there is purpose. I am not the centre of all that there is. I feel carried by a strength that I can’t claim to be my own, + a love that allows me to fall into grief + emotional pain without judgement.
On the ride to the hospital I felt surprisingly at peace. I felt that the baby I thought I was carrying was in a place far better than we know. So my sense of loss was, + is, for what would have been…the plans, the snuggles, the growth, the pain, the chaos, the love, all tangible in a small body I would protect with my life.
This happened the morning of the wedding. This visit to the hospital couldn’t confirm what we all knew to be true. So a second visit for the following morning, an ultra sound, a follow-up with the doctor, was scheduled.
We took part in the wedding. It was on a mountain top. It was small + intimate. + awe-inspiring + beautiful to be where we were + consider + share the love that was being celebrated. I had thought I would be able to step aside from my personal grief + embrace the love, the experience, the vista, the memory of my husband + mine’s wedding, + find solace, peace + gratitude for life + love. But “blood of my blood, bone of my bone” struck too keenly.
+ the night got progressively harder.
For the first time since I was a very small child, my mom slept with me to make sure I was kept safe.
In those moments…everything was amplified. I still laughed. I had tears of grief + sadness. Tears of joy + gratitude. I cracked jokes. I stared at the mountains + had conversations with my baby, with God, felt their presence. Reflected. Felt transcendentally connected to all that exists.
My family says I am strong. Perhaps I am in moments of grief, because I am present in each moment. Acutely present. + open. It’s the after moments, the time of recovery…those are harder because they seem so unending. The reality of this new reality.
The ultrasound confirmed the miscarriage. The doctor removed the remaining tissue with forceps. + i got to see a perfect, clear yoke sack and minuscule embryo. Or fetus. I don’t know when that change happens. I should have been 11 weeks pregnant. My baby should have been the size of a prune. According to The Bump dot com’s weekly email updates. It was barely the size of a grain of rice…between 5-6 weeks.
I felt joy, relief, + I choose to be deeply grateful for having been able to be pregnant. + based on other tissue that I had passed, I had likely been carrying twins. That might have contributed to having the miscarriage. I won’t ever know.
+ for the gratitude of being pregnant, + knowing without a doubt I want another child.
I am also angry + frustrated by the fact that I had been pregnant at all. We had actively tried NOT to have a baby…+ after the joy of knowing this baby was coming whether we were ready or not…to have the pregnancy terminate…that brings me to a place of sadness…that I don’t understand.
After leaving the hospital my parents, sister + I wandered around the little village. We waded in the ice cold river. Found a cafe for lunch. Browsed through a used book store. I came across a copy of The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran. It had been the requisite mind blowing read in university. + my husband + I had the following passage read at our wedding, as we were celebrating the coming together of our family – he + his daughter + I – as well as our marriage.
On Children
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.
A friend of my sister had said once that though we are responsible for the well-being of our children, they do not belong to us. We only keep them for a little while. I try to keep reminding myself of this.
Now that i’m home, + my husband + I have talked + shared + held each other tightly, I am heavy hearted. I feel the loss more deeply. I am physically far from where I had to experience this loss, where I had to leave a part of me behind. The days aren’t long enough to grieve. The nights aren’t long enough to be lost in sleep. The sameness of each day numbs this grief, yet here it lays, weighing me down.
Occasionally I am reminded + gifted with joy + gratitude. By sun beams through clouds. Rainbows outside of the Costco parking lot.
My son.
Songs on the radio that play at moments when you need to hear its message the most. This song by K’naan came on as i was having an epic moment of self pity.
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HYBxXkXzwgU&w=420&h=315]
And any man who knows a thing knows, he knows not a damn, damn thing at all
And every time I felt the hurt and I felt the givin’ gettin’ me up off the wall
I’m just gonna take a minute and let it ride
I’m just gonna take a minute and let it breeze
I’m just gonna take a minute and let it ride
I’m just gonna take a minute and let it breezewritten by Eaton, Gerald / West, Brian / Warsame, Keinan, performed by K’naan
I knew miscarriage was a chance. A 20% chance, actually. Yet I have so much to be grateful for.
From the moment I knew I was pregnant, I was a mother to the life growing in my body. You don’t stop being a mother. I have faith that I will meet my babies when it’s my turn to move on. + I am grateful that I will know them, have known them, + that I got to experience being pregnant with them even for so brief a period of time.
The women in my family are able to conceive easily. I am grateful. So many struggle to become pregnant + that is a grief + heaviness I will never know.
My husband is a man of very very few words. When I left on this trip we had had a huge fight. But when the miscarriage started, he was there for me, for us. He was worried. He was supportive. He was sad that the babies I was carrying died. For him + our relationship, I am grateful.
I was far from home. But was able to go to a hospital in a different province in our country + was able to get care without issue. + I am grateful.
My family protected + cared for me, + we are stronger + more connected. + I am grateful.
I lost this pregnancy. These babies. But it was not due to hunger, violence, strife, illness. I am so grateful.
While I will grieve for my loss, my heart breaks more for mothers who have had to watch their children experience or die from hunger, violence, strife, illness. I have the privilege of being able to grieve surrounded by loved ones. + I am grateful. + humbled. for I deserve these things no more than any other.
I hope to remember to keep an open heart. To step up when others are in need. To not stay wrapped in my own pain, fear, + grief…or even day-to-day monotonous selfishness. This experience is part of the journey that continues to shape who I am. I want to be open to the experience of life, to approach others with love + understanding before judgement + assumptions. When we experience grief, pain, sadness, trials, we have a choice. To get lost in the darkness. Or to live. I hope to continue to choose life.
