*****WARNING Long blog post*****
I knew that I couldn't wait to see you but not like this. I was expecting contractions but not so soon. I was expecting to hold you in my arms not scoop your remains. I was expecting to hear you cry, not to be flooded in my own tears. I was expecting my heart to burst open not to become heartbroken. I was expecting to announce your arrival, not your departure. I was expecting to bring in your life, not usher your death.
And now I have no further expectations because you are no longer here.
After seeing your heartbeat flickering on the screen and the sonographer saying you were looking healthy and well at 8 weeks and 2 days. We were so excited seeing your little head and body, with everything in the right place and all was as well as could be expected. My husband and I squeezed hands and felt tears slide down our faces as we dreamed of the day we would have you in our arms.
I was in wonder as in my fertile soil, you germinated. You were just a tiny poppy seed when I knew you had chosen to use my womb to slowly form, develop and grow. I felt I was nutritious, rich and ready to support your fledgling life. And whilst the outside elements ravage - leaving me on my knees and retching, battered to exhaustion, I heard the call to motherhood and she was singing my name.
I mixed matter, mineral, gas and liquid to help you grow. I was your home and supply, your carrier and vehicle for your soul to create your body. And in doing so, I drew a boundary around myself and cocooned, allowing life to care for me and you in our process of transforming and becoming. I snuggled, lay and forgot the outside world whilst I pondered on how life reflects life reflects life and how my microcosm helped me to understand mother nature's struggle, pain and joy of birth.
Once just a field, I had felt my curves become hills and sensitivity heighten. I could feel even the tiniest organisms trace my skin and grace my soil. My growth into a hill felt like it could become out of control and be possible for me to become a mountain or volcano as deep earthquakes within relentlessly pushed me to spread and expand, to breach any limitations I previously assumed about myself - physically, mentally and emotionally. I felt myself become softer, stronger, powerful and wide enough to hold enough love to transcend our microcosm and fill the universes. I felt I had become a servant of mother earth, acquiescing to her constant creative process.
And you allowed this, my dear seed. You gave me a gift that no other has and for that I will be eternally grateful.
I was so nauseous at the time of the scan, it was the first time I had left my bed in two days. Thereafter I stayed in bed for a further three. Little did I know the day I went back to work your healthy little flickering heart stopped.
Still.
I had no idea. I still kept you inside and for as long as you were in me, my body still believed it was pregnant. I couldn't wait to see your precious little life on the screen at my 12 weeks scan. I couldn't wait to broadcast your arrival to the world. I had read every website that detailed your progress and the effects your being would have on my body. I whispered and sang to you, made promises and wishes, I told you stories of the family you would grow into and the world we wanted to create with you.
The day before the scan I was at work and just about to go into a meeting. I went to the toilet to find spotting on my knickers. I took a photo and sent it to him. In our fear, we both frantically Googled what it could mean and then placated each other, 'It could mean the placenta is embedding.'
'It's just spotting and dark red, so it could be just old blood as the baby is shifting...'
'It says on this site that lots of women experience spotting, I am sure it's fine.'
'We've got the scan tomorrow and everything will be alright.'
'You don't feel any cramping or pain so that's a good sign.'
I have no idea what I spoke about at the meeting.
The morning of the scan I had no energy for work and stayed home and rested until we needed to leave. We arrived at the maternity unit, swarmed by heavily pregnant women waddling with life and we waited to be called in. The sonographer asked if I had experienced any bleeding and soon tears filled my eyes as I recounted the spotting I saw yesterday, but then I wanted to be hopeful as I recounted all the pregnancy symptoms I continually kept experiencing.
She pressed the scanner into my belly hard and moved around quickly and efficiently. She said the baby didn't look the right size for twelve weeks but that she was going to look for a heartbeat. After a short pause, she said she couldn't see a heartbeat and asked if I would mind her scanning the child internally just to check if it had been missed. In minutes, she was scanning again and broke my heart with just a few words, 'I'm sorry, there's no heartbeat.' Another nurse came in to confirm the prognosis and I felt my head spin.
We were ushered into a room, too tiny to be comfortable, and then taken six floors to a nurse who spoke to me about my options of types of miscarriages.
In my head, very loudly, I was saying, 'I don't want the option of a type of miscarriage. I want my baby, I want pregnancy, I want motherhood and all the heaven and hell that entails. I want my promised future that I was given after seeing my Poppy's heartbeat. I want the plans I have created and those conversations with my husband and family, talking about the new changes life is about to bring. Poppy is due at Christmas time and would be the best present I would ever have been given. STOP TALKING TO ME ABOUT MISCARRIAGE.'
All I said was, 'I want to go home.'
That night we informed everyone and then curled into each other in a pool of tears and words. We shared our feelings, held each other and delved deeper into the sense of shock, pain, sadness and a deep sense of injustice. We received stories of how others had also gone through this, we received texts of love and heartfelt wishes of support and concern. I would move from finding solace in humour, philosophy, spirituality to howling with a deepest sense of grief that was creating the deepest fissures in my heart, feeling lost and unhinged with nowhere to cling to.
And I heard Ayahuasca call and remind me, so I looked for my diary and read, and again learned about surrender and how it is the only way to process this experience we go through. I was reminded how surrender is the only way I can make sense of something so insensible. And I read further about death, how it is the sternest, most persistent and patient teacher there is and how grief is medicine for the soul. That every soul has its own journey and we never ever have control over anything or anyone. Everything in our lifetime is temporary, all of this will pass, and I just need to keep observing, observing, observing and find equanimity in it all.
I will always be your mama in my heart and if you ever want to return to me, I will be waiting.
