(Note: I borrowed this title from the 2004 bio-documentary film by Bill Rose)
In the last two weeks, several people in my life have been pulled to the brink. Some have lost parents unexpectedly, others have lost a child, a sibling, a grandparent. With every new conversation came the news that someone else I knew was suffering. And my heart ached for them. Loss is so hard.
And then, in the course of this same period, I found out I was pregnant, and my heart was full. Then, just a week later, in a matter of minutes, I wasn't pregnant anymore. And my heart ached...for me.. Loss is so hard.
I didn't expect that I would grieve very much if I had a miscarriage. I had separated my feelings out of the equation, realizing that the loss of the pregnancy was a very real and possible situation. Just like four years ago, when I was pregnant with B, I didn't allow myself to get too attached to this pregnancy, speaking about it as an abstract thing, just in case it didn't work out. I chose to tell many close friends and family, figuring that if I lost the pregnancy, it wouldn't hurt too much to have to tell people that, too...since I wasn't that attached to the pregnancy to begin with.
And then, just eleven days after discovering the pregnancy, it was gone. Pangs that didn't feel quite right had started to pull in my groin and lower abdomen the night before, and by morning, I was bleeding. Not spotting, but full-fledged, can't-deny-this-is-a-miscarriage bleeding. I remember hoarsely calling out, "Oh nooooo...." while Bryony played next to me. Trying to stay calm for her sake, as well as a reminder that I wasn't emotionally invested in the pregnancy yet, I patted her head and made a makeshift maxipad out of toilet paper. At some point later, I called Adam. "Looks like the little sesame seed is gone," I told him, referring to an article he'd read earlier that the embryo was the size of a sesame seed at that stage of the pregnancy. He didn't get it, so I had to (painfully) repeat myself. Then he understood, and there was silence, and we were both sad.
People don't talk about this, but miscarriages aren't just painful for the soul...they hurt like hell for your body, too. The cramping, the pulling and stretching of muscles and ligaments, the waves of nausea, the bleeding, the passage of tissues and globs of other stuff that is unrecognizable. No one talks about what to expect when you're not expecting a miscarriage. The scientist in me caught some of the unrecognizable stuff in my hand and examined it, wondering what it functioned as when I was still pregnant, and whether the little sesame seed was buried in it somewhere. The other part of me--the mother who wants to be a mother again--was just sad. I was sad to lose the pregnancy I wasn't all that attached to yet.
I was lucky to have been visiting Michigan when this happened. I was surrounded by my best girlfriends who took such good care of me...getting me out of the house so I didn't wallow, wrapping me in warm rice socks, propping me up on pillows, bringing me hot tea, not asking many questions but letting me talk when I wanted to...all while I was essentially bleeding the living daylights in my pants while sitting on their couches. One friend laughed (nervously at first, then for real) when I told her it was like Slaughterhouse 5 whenever I went to the bathroom.
In the few days that have passed since I lost the pregnancy, I've been thinking about why I'm sad. After all, there have been people in my life who've lost parents, children, siblings...all of whom had a real life and had made an impact on the world. How could I mourn for the loss of a sesame seed no one had met yet? Now, I'm realizing that I'm mourning the loss of a nameless thing...parenthood? sibling for B? complete family unit? I'm sad for what that sesame seed would have become, and would have meant for our lives. The loss is hard because after a year of trying, we thought we'd succeeded, and now we have to contemplate the long, frustrating process of waiting, waiting, waiting. I'm no spring chicken.
I debated about whether to tell B what had happened. We had decided against telling her about the pregnancy, "in case something happens." Now that "something happened" I didn't know if I should just keep it all from her innocent mind. She had seen me red-eyed and sniffling enough times to know that something was wrong...and I finally got to the realization that my 3-year old, in all her youthful bliss, was also hardy enough to know the truth. So, without gore or details, I told her the truth: there was a teeny, tiny baby in my belly, but it was sick and had to go away. Like the trooper my gut told me she'd be, she wrapped her arms around me and consoled my spirit. She patted my back and said, "It's okay, Mom. I didn't want the baby to go away, either." Then, she pulled back and fumbling, formed her little fingers into the hand sign for "I love you." It was amazing and timely and exactly what I needed in that moment. Incredulous, I asked her where she learned to do that, and she said one of my girlfriends had taught her; I was so grateful.
And, in the end, that is what stays with me...gratitude. Gratitude for the family I have, gratitude for the friends who love me and took care of me at one of my lowest times, gratitude for the ability to create a sesame seed even if it wasn't meant to stay with me. Gratitude for my life. My life is good. It is full of wondrous and awesome people, and amazing experiences, and tremendous opportunities. It is full...of nameless things.