“Ring the bells that can still ring.
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.”
-Leonard Cohen
Last week proved to be the
hardest week of my entire life. It was
the week in which I lost my baby. And my world broke open. It fell apart.
We were so excited on Monday
morning, going in for our first official scan at 10 weeks…both under the
assumption that everything was fine. I felt pretty good, had not been cramping
or bleeding or anything that would cause alarm.
So, both Craig and I were
confused when the doctor performing the scan couldn’t find a heartbeat. Even
then, I still didn’t understand what she meant until she used the word
miscarriage. And then there was the shock. I remember lying there, feeling my
whole body scream “No!!!!!” but only lying there quietly, tears immediately
coming to my eyes. I remember Craig asking a question to two, I could see him
trying to understand what she meant. The doctor was not one of compassion, she
was blunt and cold and told me I could go into the toilet and I quickly made my
way in, Craig touching me gently as I walked by….I remember sobbing quietly as
I sat on the toilet, still trying to make sense of what had just happened. I
had seen my baby on the screen, so small and yet, the doctor told us that baby
had probably died a week before, based on his/her size.
It’s called a Missed
Miscarriage. This is where the baby has died or failed to develop but is still
in your uterus. I learned a lot about miscarriage and this whole other world in
a very short period of time. Such as, one in every 5 pregnancies will miscarry
before 20 weeks. I was one of them. As we left the doctor’s office, Craig
holding me up at this point, I couldn’t control the audible sorrow coming from
my mouth, the tears pouring down as it truly hit me. We were never going to
meet our baby. The most exciting and beautiful moments of these past couple of
months had just come to a very abrupt end.
I have never in my life felt this kind of sorrow and pain in my body, in
my heart. I had loved my baby, no matter
that I hadn’t yet heard his or her heartbeat yet. I absolutely adored our baby
already.
Craig made a call to my Mom,
to a few other family and friends. I couldn’t speak to anyone; I was still
processing it all. He took me to the beach where we sat in our sorrow together.
He found us shells to give back to the ocean, in honour of our baby. I knew,
even then, that this was exactly how it was meant to be…yet it did not take
away my emptiness. Our midwife asked us to come in and they sat us down and
gave us our options. I could wait for the miscarriage to happen naturally,
which can take up to 2 – 3 weeks at times. I could take tablets to bring on the
miscarriage or have a D & C, a surgery that removes the contents of your
uterus i.e. my baby. I couldn’t yet know what to do or properly take in all of
the information. I remember how kind and compassionate they were, I remember
her hand on mine.
We went home and I wept the
entire day. Craig held me close, he had his own sorrow but he supported me in
ways that I cannot put into words. I was unable to function and I knew I had to
let this process come out of me as it may. I felt sadness, anger, confusion and
so much more. I didn’t know my body anymore, this body that created a miracle
had all of a sudden taken it away. Or at least, that’s how it felt those first
few days. The next day was much of the same….I woke up crying, I remember
feeling so numb at this point. There were messages of love sent from family and
friends who I could feel were with us, even those who were very far away. I
felt as if somehow, I had let them all down. I had let Craig down. I had let
our baby down, hadn’t I? How was this not my fault?
Miscarriage is a very lonely
place. You feel absolutely helpless and it is hard to not blame yourself for
all that has happened. It is still something that many keep quiet about, which
I completely understand and respect. But it can feel so isolating, especially
when there isn’t a lot of readily available information out there. Luckily, I
found a few support groups online that were so helpful throughout this whole
experience. And I also had women friends of my own friends or family who
offered their own miscarriage stories, their own support and hope. It became
very evident that I wasn’t alone. And my god, it was the most powerful thing
for me to hear these stories. I understood quickly that I had done nothing
wrong, that it wasn’t my fault.
As the week went by, I decided
to take Misoprostol, which is the medicine used to bring on the miscarriage as
nothing was happening. My body still acted and looked like it was pregnant
which was a sort of quiet torture in its own way. I took the first dose, and
nothing happened. Craig had gone and bought me many supplies and we were ready
for whatever was to come. Nothing. I called my doctor the next afternoon and
she said I could take the second dose earlier than the allotted 24 hours. I
did. And still nothing. She recommended I go in the next day for surgery with
her, to perform the D & C. Craig and I discussed it and made the decision
to go through with the surgery. We had to get on a flight to the States in a
week and we knew I would need to recover beforehand so this seemed to be the
best option.
The next day we were at the
hospital. I had never had any surgery or anaesthesia or spent much time in a
hospital. The whole day was full of many firsts. Craig came with me and he
stayed with me the whole day. The surgery itself is quick, 15 – 20 minutes but
the rest of it is not. The preparation and the recovery hours in the hospital…after
the surgery was over, I woke up and they moved me into a separate recovery
area. There was a lovely older nurse who came to my bed and asked if I’d ever
been through this before…she didn’t finish asking and there were more tears as
I realised….it was over. They had cleaned me out. My baby was officially out of
my body. She brought me a pamphlet and a beautiful tiny heart that someone had made
from yarn and we put this on our altar in our home. There was a feeling of
relief in this day. The waiting was over, I felt that this could be the
beginning of the healing process. The tears kept coming. Craig kept holding me
close.
I had yet to leave the house
much, besides getting some fresh air in our yard. I didn’t feel I could face
anyone or speak to anyone yet. I was messaging with a few of my family and
friends. I had Craig to speak to when I needed but much of the time, I just
wanted to be alone. He was somehow holding everything up around us. He was
literally the Earth and all that was solid throughout this entire time. I knew
that this wouldn’t last forever. I knew I would get back up again. Just not
yet.
As we moved into the next
week, my body made it clear that my hormones were out of whack and trying to
rebalance themselves. I was all over the place. I had migraines every day. I
cried at the strangest things. I didn’t know which side was up or which was
down. I still didn’t feel ready to interact with the outside world. Social
media wasn’t something I could handle, and I deleted my apps from my phone. I
didn’t find it healing in any way. I was quick and blunt with what I needed and
didn’t need in my life. It’s funny how with an experience of a tragedy, of a
trauma; somehow everything quickly shifts, your perspective, your whole
outlook, your entire being. I am no longer the same woman I was before, and for
that I am grateful. I am not meant to be the same. At some very visceral level,
I understand that this is all part of the process in my growing and becoming.
As the days go by, I can feel
that there is more light coming through the cracks. The heaviness is still
there, and the emptiness lingers, but no longer in that wide-open endless sky kind
of way. It is more of a wave. It crashes through and then it’s gone. And I can
see the light again.
There is something about a
loss that completely changes you. And for some, the loss of a child that a
woman never got to hold is considered “not as bad” as stillbirth, or losing a
child you’ve lived years with….but this I know. I never heard my baby’s heartbeat
or held my baby in my arms but I held my baby in my heart. The moment I knew
our baby was growing inside my body was the moment he or she had my complete
and unconditional love. And nothing can ever take away that I am the Mama to
that beautiful soul. And always will be.
I am utterly grateful to my husband
Craig, who has held me in body and soul throughout this experience and who
continues to nurture and love in whatever way I need. I could not have gone
through this without him…at least not in the healthy way that he has helped to
provide for me. I know that through this we are closer, stronger and made up of
different fabric than before. Thank you to my family and friends who continued
to reach out throughout this time…even when I couldn’t respond, your love and
messages also held my little crumbling world together.
There is a beautiful
organisation called Pink Elephants Support Network and I have found their
website so helpful and informative while going through this sometimes confusing
and scary time. I think the women who have shared their own stories of miscarriage
and loss were the bravest and most beautiful for me in my own journey. It was
reading their stories that gave me the courage and hope to keep moving forward,
day by day. Something that moved me, taken from the Pink Elephants website: “it
is believed that when a mother elephant loses her baby, the other elephants
stand in a circle around her and allow her the time she needs to grieve and
mourn. They gently touch her with their trunks, in a silent show of unwavering
support.” Thank you to my beautiful circle of support. Thank you for holding
the space for me to grieve.
I do not feel that I will
necessarily “move on” from this, not in the sense that this phrase brings to
mind. How do you move on from something like this? Instead, I feel that I am
changed and moved in ways that will only allow me to open even wider to this
life. I have a deeper appreciation for life itself, for my loved ones and for
the possibility of new life.
And even after all of this, I
have so much hope. Hope for our future and all that it will bring. And when the
time is right, both Craig and I have agreed we would like to try again. In no
way would we do this to replace what we have lost because that is not possible.
Our little baby will always be remembered, and we are going to plant a tree tomorrow in
his or her honour on our land.
“Hope is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul-
And sings the tune without words-
And never stops -at all- “
(Taken from the poem by Emily Dickinson)
This little soul has broken
something open inside of me, has altered my heart in ways I cannot describe. In
many ways, my baby has shown me a greater love and vulnerability than I have
ever known.
And I share all of this with
you as part of my own healing process but also for any other Mamas out there
that need to hear it. I am so sorry for your loss. You are strong, you are
courageous and there is a light ahead.
