My first public outing, besides the dog park and library—where I hid in an obscure window-seat reading a book about miscarriage, the perpetual student in me unable to stop learning, even when it hurts—was to the Senior Center, to my Wednesday morning writing group, to my adopted Grandmas.
And it doesn’t matter how many times I’ve said it on the phone or written it here and in emails it’s still impossible to say: “ I lost the baby.” As if I merely misplaced it and will discover my anticipated child in a random purse pocket or underneath one of our many stacks of paper. “I lost the baby.” It’s easier I guess than “the baby died” but still there’s nothing easy about these words. They sink to the floor where they lay haphazard on the ground, as they steal the collective breath of the room.
I asked the class to bear with me and participate in the following writing exercise. I set the timer for two minutes and we started with “Gratitude is…” When the buzzer sounded we switched to “Loss is…” and we repeated this process five times.
Here’s what I wrote:
Gratitude is remembering to breathe, walking outside, a dog that knows when to be still, hugs, letters, emails, comments, phone calls even when you don’t pick up the phone, the feel of your body still able to move, even when its heavy, even when its full, its one step and then another, gratitude is my husband’s blue eyes, Elias waking up to snuggle in the middle of the night…
Loss is this empty belly, empty womb that days earlier filled with life, a heartbeat heard not once but twice, where is it now? Loss is a canyon, deeper than deep, loss is falling, loss is waking up and remembering its true, it really happened, its not a dream, loss is sleepless nights and naps all day, loss is hunger and unable to eat …
Gratitude is remembering all that is still possible, gratitude is the fresh snow on the limb of a tree, the sun that peeks out for a moment to remind you that it will return, gratitude is the absence of pain, the end of suffering, its dark chocolate, raspberries, and tuna noodle casserole, gratitude is deep breaths even when its hard to breathe…
Loss is unbearable and yet we must, must accept it as part of this life that does not make mortal sense but somehow fits together despite all our unanswered “whys”, loss is the monster under the bed, the white elephant in the room, the pale yellow wallpaper that you never noticed until it came down, loss is in our pores, in our cells, it grows in our hair, on our fingertips…
Gratitude is ever present even when we can’t see, even with shudders pulled and ear muffs worn, gratitude dances before us wanting to be noticed, gratitude is my ability to speak, to hear, to see, to feel, to write, gratitude is the words which never leave, even when I can’t find them, gratitude is knowing that this too shall pass, that the tide will come back in, with conch shells, hermit crabs, and mermaid’s fingernails…
(As we listened to what each other wrote, we realized we had so much more to say. Gratitude and Loss could keep us writing still.)
--Excerpted from Following Elias, originally published on Parents.com. Copyright 2009 by Meredith Corporation. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.
loreleismama wrote:
Loss is on our cells. I heard that some of a baby's cells (no matter how young it was when it leaves you womb) stay in your womb for something like 2 year. It was comforting to me after my losses. My two babies that never made it here were concived within 6 months of each other so they knew each other. They had siblings that they knew. My daughter who was concieve shortly after and made it to this world also knoew them. She knew there cells.
That comforted me.
It also help to think that for a while I still had those babies with me in my body not just my heart.
1/10/2008 3:03 PM CST
Niksmother wrote:
What a marvelous exercise and a way to help you find your way back to whole sentences...when you are ready. Id din't comment on the other posts as they were so raw, so visceral and I had nothign to say to you except "I am so, so very sorry." Nothing will fully heal the hole; sometimes I still feel the loss of Nik's vanished twin. (I like the idea that loreleismama wrote...that Nik and his sibling knew each other.) Days get easier and sometimes you won't think of it (way in the future, not now) and then other days it will sit on your heart like a weight. Honor the feelings as they come...whatever they are.
Sending big hugs.
1/10/2008 9:27 PM CST
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NOLAeyes wrote:
Once I was able to return to my home in New Orleans after the disaster of 2005, I found myself struggling to be home in a city that I loved and that was not...the city that I fell in love with over a decade ago. And each day, loss was revisited just be opening my door and looking out at the houses and neighbors gone... and then a beloved friend of mine who writes for a living sent me to From the Mountain Top. "I think she'll be good for your soul" she wrote. I have read your blog ever since. And you are. Even in your pain, you offer healing and solace. Sending gratitude and soul hugs from my devestated city to your devestated heart...
1/10/2008 10:08 PM CST
nataliebenson wrote:
My responses may or may not be helpful...sometimes reading about someone else's loss meant NOTHING to me. "Yeah, but," I'd think.
Maybe this tiny story will make you smile for just a second...just to feel the smile spring across your face before the pain returns.
I teach second grade. I miscarried on a Friday (after taking every single second graders' picture)...one moment I was with my students, the next minute, I was so upset that someone else had to take me to the doctor. My poor students had NO idea what happened to me. My co-worker wrote a beautiful note to the parents asking them to explain everything however they would prefer and ask the students to just act normal when I returned (this was my request--I just wanted things "normal"). One day, several weeks after I'd returned, one of my students said, "Mrs. Benson, is your baby still in your tummy?" Another student said, "No, she LOST it." A third student replied, "She didn't LOSE it like we lose our pencil."
So, I completely understand that saying, "I lost" the baby is no easier than saying miscarriage, it died...every way you say it hurts like hell and reminds you of the emptiness at the center of your being.
I think I might try your writing exercise.
1/11/2008 9:22 PM CST
Following Elias wrote:
Natalie, thanks for the smile:)It's amazing how even in times of grief kids can still make me laugh. Thank you too for sharing your experience--it means a lot.
NOLAeyes, your words mean so much, I can't even tell you...thank you, from my heart to your city.
Niksmother, as always, I feel like we are connected in so many ways.
And loreleismama, I hadn't heard this, about the baby's cells staying in my womb, and I can't thank you enough for telling me, for the comfort it brings.
Posted by: Christy | 09/27/2009 at 10:27 AM