When miscarriage comes…
A few precious weeks we spent together. You came in and I welcomed you with all my heart.
I enjoyed with such glee those little moments when I felt you there. A wave of symptoms. A tingle or an ache and I just knew you were there.
Then there were the times in between where I waited for those feelings, searched for you and willed you to be growing. Followed by the brutal day when I woke up and I knew you had gone. My heart told me it could sense you no longer, and sadness took me over.
I didn’t see you coming, but now I can’t bear to let you go.
I had the feeling I needed to surrender. That I had to stop hanging on to the will for you to be ok. That I had to be what ever you had chosen me to be for you, and that as your mum I would vow to take care of you for as long as you could cope with being here on this earth, be it days, weeks or years.
As I sit in the thick of grief I feel unexpected things. I can’t stop staring at a pile of oranges in the fruit bowl. I bought them for you, and for me, because vitamin c is important when you are pregnant. I indulged myself in pregnacare and alcohol free drinks. I got right into the role. And now that I don’t need to anymore I feel humilated. Foolish. Those oranges seem to mock me somehow. I never thought I would feel like that but I do. What an idiot I am for doing those things. For thinking for a moment that this was a ‘real’ pregnancy.
But it hurt me to think like that about myself. Inner wisdom whispered to me; “but you had a duty of care. With that little life choosing to have a short physical experience with you, you owed her the honour of giving her the best possible care for her tiny being. Even if it was over so quickly. What you did was respectful and caring. You honoured her, and she deserved that.”
I felt better when I heard those gentle whispers.
I wrapped up all the pregnancy tests in beautiful paper and placed a little white feather with them. It didn’t seem right to throw them in the bin. It felt like I would be throwing you away. I have no idea what I will do with them now, but my heart needs to remember that they existed. That they were real. That you were really here. Years of infertility means it is that bit harder to believe it happened at all.
And I want to remember you.
I also want to thank you.
I never expected you to heal me. I never expected things to feel so much better from you having been there. I bled and it didn’t drain me. It didn’t hurt and it didn’t take from me. All I could feel was a healing energy inside my body, as though you left a legacy. You came in and did something for me. Perhaps you have paved the way for your soul sister or brother to come later. Perhaps it was just for me. Who knows but I feel different. I am sad and a bit lost without you but I feel myself growing, and my highest inner soul fiercely protects and guides me as I wander through the aftermath of loss.
Surreal moments as everything is exactly the same, except that everything has changed. The outside normality can feel terribly overwhelming and I stare like a rabbit caught in headlights, waiting for the harsh emptiness to pass, and the tears that sting my eyes to roll down my cheeks.
I miss you, but I let you go. I let you fly home and I decide instead to honour and nurture myself, and hope that new life can begin.