She doesn't tell you - Poem

She doesn't tell you what it means,

When she tells you her little one is no more

When you will say, 'I'm sorry.'

And she will wonder what you are sorry for.

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she tells you that inside she is feeling numb

When you will say, 'Don't worry.'

And she will wonder what she will overcome.

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she tells you her baby's body will not leave

When you say, 'Be patient.'

And she will wonder how to silently grieve.

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she tells you of the hot anger in her heart

When you say, 'Please calm down.' 

And she will wonder if she's fallen apart.

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she talks about the torrents of blood released

When you will say, 'It's nature.'

And she will wonder at the flow of the deceased. 

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she tells you her beautiful baby has gone

When you will say, 'I don't know.'

And she will wonder how on earth to hold on.

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she talks about the sorrowful tears she's shed

When you will say, 'You're healing.'

And she will wonder if she's better off dead.

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she talks about the endless days of bare breath

When you will say, 'Time will help.'

And she will wonder about her baby's death.

She doesn't tell you what it means

When she talks about the dark silence that surrounds

When you were never there

And she will wonder at the pain that abounds.

She doesn't tell you what it means.

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Letting Go - Blog Post

I was hauling a brown splattered 17kg suitcase through the mud of Bushy Park just a day after I had passed the majority of my third baby and all that entails. We had decided to bury little Noodle with their other siblings by the tree we had chosen nearly two years ago.

As we were trawling through, I looked up at the sky and said, 'Why are you pushing me to my limit?'

And I heard a voice say, 'Let go and all will come.'

The day I heard that I had lost this little one I had to make my way to a friend's house over an hour away. Diving into overcrowded, claustrophobic tubes, doubling over with cramp, I sweated my way to a hug and a goodbye as she left to look after her relative. I grabbed a hot water bottle, sat down and let the warmth of the water seep into my abdomen, which was indignant, as I had allowed another internal scanner to poke, push and annoy.

Sitting on that couch, I soon experienced a sense of blissfulness. I fell into the deepest gratitude as I was so grateful for this pregnancy, one that took over a year to achieve. I was so thankful for every single hormonal signal - from the positive pregnancy test, the sore breasts, the bloating and nausea to the increased saliva and deep deep exhaustion. Food never tasted better, sleep never felt so refreshing and the knowledge that a little life had chosen to grace my uterus with their presence was gratifying and humbling. I promised myself this time that I would love every second of the pregnancy and I did. I relished every single second of being a mama and immersed myself in the maternal love kept only for this little being.

That evening, I felt this deep joy and relaxed deeper and deeper, knowing it wouldn't last forever and that the inevitable pain of attachment would soon catch up. I tasted sweetness from the cup of gratitude and allowed my body to submit and let go - glowing, free and relaxed.

That evening, a friend sent me information about a film maker called Richard Martini who speaks about how miscarriages can occur for the spiritual development of the parents. Since reading up on him, I have been guided to read, 'Letting Go' by David R Hawkins and 'Ask and It Is Given' by Esther and Jerry Hicks. I have had dreams instructing me to meditate and I am trying to come back into my body slowly.

Clearly, this is another opportunity for spiritual growth and development that I need to work on although I am a very slow learner at the best of times.

Though I was provided a taste of how I could feel if I just let go, I know I am resisting and as a consequence feel a build up of anger, pain, upset, hurt and can feel myself drowning into waves of this. I find it difficult to find peace and see myself react, react react.

Because, for me, nothing feels right after experiencing deep maternal loss. Physically, emotionally, hormonally, spiritually and in relationship to any or everything. I feel off kilter, unlike myself and raw - as if layers of my skin has been hacked off and my sores are left to bleed. I find human interaction exhausting, limiting and frustrating. In Real Life, I have found nobody who can truly understand how lonely, sad, painful, brutal, traumatising and heartbreaking repeated miscarriage is and so I know it is only up to me to brave this initiation, find a way through and learn.

I keep being told that it is up to me to choose the way forward, that I can make the decision to be joyful whilst processing this grief healthily, so I can heal and set myself free. I know the universe is on my side and will help me to learn. In the meantime, I will just take one day at a time and trust that it is possible even if I am not there yet.

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Loss - Blog Post

*****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.   

Goodbye Poppy. May your journey take you to a place where you find real happiness, may you be free from suffering, may you experience real peace, real harmony, and take you on the path of liberation, my love.  

I will always be your mama in my heart and if you ever want to return to me, I will be waiting. 

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The Start - Short Story

"You'll live," he said.
She stood in front of him like a broken doll. She turned and he followed her. He took her to the tram and waited with her until she got on.
  "Look after Bryan," she said, seemingly at a loss for any more words.
  "That might be difficult."
  "Yeah... well...." She paused. "I won't be doing this again."
  "Doing what?"
  "This...  Surprising you… I won't come to Melbourne to visit you again."
  "Oh you come round anytime you want." It's a reflex reaction, this politeness, probably derived from his English ancestry. She could see he would rather pull out his own teeth without anaesthetic.  

She gave him a half sardonic smile and as the tram arrived, he reached out and hugged her. She got on the tram. She could see his face from her seat and it was inscrutable. Her face let her down. She said if her face were a friend she would have deserted it ages ago though I have to admit I used to love the way every emotion would be betrayed by her features. She always was an unwitting master of a truant countenance. At the time, she said, her eyes filled with water. She said she cried all the way home.

That was well over a year ago. They barely communicated since. They barely communicated when they were together but that's another story.

They broke up during their last year of College, she came home a shadow of her former self. She was pale, gaunt and withdrawn. She found herself in a situation and was lost to it. She succumbed to a fatal pleasure that left her in knots later on. Knots she couldn't untangle. Knots she would never release.  

I know this because she has been my best friend since we were sixteen. When she came home from travelling, she sat at my kitchen table and confessed all. She told me about how she sent him an email and met up with him. It was as if she wanted me to replace his hands, his words and make everything better. Of course I couldn't. I didn't even like him. I always thought they were an odd couple. When they were together she would hardly speak about him and if she did, it was always in a light-hearted manner. She never acted like she was IN LOVE with him. How could I know? How could any of us have known?

She sat there, her brown hair falling into her long pale prematurely aging fingers which held her head up.
  "It's not as if the pleasure is worth it... The touching of hands was lovely. Just a small graze of our hands set my body on fire. And kissing... Well, that was amazing too."
I looked around.  "Do you want a cup of tea?"
  "Yeah… okay," she paused and then said, "When we first started going out that's all we used to do. Kiss. It used to go on for hours, at first we were all over the place but after some practice we were a perfect fit." She smiled at some forgotten memory. I brought the tea over.
  "Is it worth going over this…?" I asked.
  "I'm sorry am I boring you?"
  "No, it's just… well, so much time has passed, and he definitely doesn't give you a moment’s thought."
  "Time is an illusion."
  "Bollocks."
  "I know," she smiled again.
The tension is relieved and I started telling her the local gossip she missed while she was away. She sat there and listened but I saw her mind and eyes wander from time to time.
  "It's late. I should go."
  "Yeah, okay." We hugged and she left. Only the transient warmth on her seat and an empty mug a reminder of her presence. I wonder what she left him that night, was it the sound of her cries or the blood from her period on the sheets?

A couple of days later I received a phonecall from the Police. They said she had overdosed on headache pills. The neighbour had gotten worried because they heard no music from her flat and she used to have it on all the time. When they knocked there was no answer except for the cat that howled unnaturally at the door. In the end the landlord opened the door with his master key.

The Police said she definitely knew what she was doing. The flat was immaculate and a pile of letters sat on her kitchen table alongside an empty bottle of painkillers and a note with my contact details on. They gave me her keys. I went home with them snuggled into my winter jacket. I sat at my kitchen table playing with them in my hands. Numbness had crept into me. I opened a bottle of wine from the fridge and poured myself a glass. The dryness hit my throat, constricted my thoughts, I dropped the keys onto my table with a clatter, they broke the unending silence between us. Then there was nothing.

I stood up and collected the pile of envelopes neatly stacked, I flicked through each one and wondered what to do with them. They were all addressed with stamps already bought and pasted on the top right hand corner.

  "We were in his kitchen and he turned to me," she said. "He was drunk and I was sober. I should have stood my ground and filled my glass with water. I should have walked up the stairs and closed the door once I entered the spare room. I should have gotten under the cool covers and closed my eyes. I should have fallen asleep alone." Her face was drawn with pain, these 'should haves' biting into her each time.
  "It's done now. Forget it. He has."
  "Just because he has doesn't mean I can," she said. "What's the point in talking to you? You don't understand."

She was right, I didn't. I moved on from one man to the next. Not getting too close but enough so I could call and settle into some warmth if and when I needed it. I had postponed calling her because I didn't want to hear about him again. This myth she led her life around. In all honesty, it was boring me. This unrequited burnt out obsessive love she harboured.

There was an envelope with his name on it. I fingered the envelope. It was quite fat, almost padded. She had taken extra care to put sellotape on all the vulnerable parts of the envelope. There was no stamp.
  "Oh fuck…" I said to myself as I realised what I had to do, thinking of the enormity of the task that lay ahead of me. The imposed curse she had saddled me with.

………

I arrived early and waited for him. I was standing beside a blind girl at the train station, she was so still, at peace, her arm outstretched holding a money box. Lots of people would stop and give her money. She made no attempt at communication, no noise of approval, she just stood still, a solemn statue amongst the bustle of Melbourne's traffic. I didn't give her any money. I just watched her and wondered about her life, whether she was blind at birth or whether it was a consequence she suffered during the course of her young life and then I wondered what would be better. Maybe I should have given her money; I don't know why I didn't.

Finally he arrived. Well, I say he arrived but it wasn't the he I remembered. When I saw him again I was shocked. It looked like a lifetime had happened to him since I had seen him last. In my head he was still a boy, strawberry blonde hair and faintly oriental eyes. In my head he was still her college boyfriend.

We looked at one another solemnly and he took my bag and led me to a coffee shop. It had started to rain outside so we sat and casually watched the water hit the glass. I pulled out her letter and gave it to him. He took it and played with it in his hands, his name subtly folded in the creases.
  "What happened?" he asked.
  "Maybe I should be asking you that… Sometimes I forget what she said to me, as if I half listened only."
He nodded and opened the envelope. Inside was a silver bracelet, chunky and square, very unlike her. I had never seen her wear this piece of jewellery but then she never wore any jewellery whilst I knew her. Some paper fell out and he sat there and read it. The rain poured and some time passed before he put the letter down. He just sat there completely still. His face did not change. He folded the letter.

  "Can I read it?" I asked. I was desperate. I wanted to know more about her, suddenly, now she wasn't here. I wanted to know, I wanted to hear everything.
  "I guess" he pushed the letter across and our fingers touched lightly. I took the note and started to read. It was his turn to sit and wait.
When I finished he looked at me and said "She was always into hyperbole."
  "She was in love with you."
  "I know."
We sat in silence for a while. Both of us tried to digest her words, the words we didn't want to hear whilst she was alive. I looked up at him. He said "Don't get emotional. Come on, let's get out of here."

We stood and walked up the street and into a pub, he ordered a beer and a white wine and I found a booth for us to sit. He brought the drinks over and we drank in a moody silence.
  "I bet you never thought this would happen," he said.
  "A slight understatement," I replied. Now I had given him the envelope I didn't know what I was doing here. He was not in the mood for a post-mortem and I felt uncomfortable asking him personal questions since he seemed strangely unmoved by what he had read.
  "Was she your best friend?" he asked.
  "Yeah, I mean, yes, she was," I said. Then it suddenly hit me. She wasn't coming back. All the memories I have of her are mine alone. 
  "Were you ever in love with her?" I asked him.
  "At one point… yes I was. But she wrung out every last drop and towards the end I didn't even like her."
  "She just wanted you, no one else in her life came close."
  "She wanted a version of me, not the real me."
  "Really?"
He sighed, "I don't know now. Those words suggest differently. She could never speak clearly in front of me."
  "I can't imagine that," I said.

He looked and touched the envelope, "When we were friends she was vibrant but as soon as we became lovers it was as if she lost her power. She wilted…' Almost as an afterthought he said, 'Yet she could always speak to Bryan as if he were a close friend."
  "Bryan?"
  "He's my best friend. Bryan and her always got on really well."
  "Oh I vaguely remember that name."
  "Really?"
  "Yeah, I think she mentioned him once or twice."
I look at her handwriting on the front of the envelope. Once a teacher at school commented that her handwriting looked like it was trying to hide something underneath the twists and turns of her pen. Her writing always looked neat and tidy but you couldn't read it unless you took a closer inspection, even then it could be difficult sometimes.

  "I don't know why I didn't listen," I said.
  "Don't beat yourself up about it."
  "You're not very forgiving are you?"
  "What does forgiveness have to do with this?" 
  "What a waste."
  "I know," he said.
Then suddenly I was angry at him. "You bastard, she was in love with you and you don't care."
He looked at me, his face was so calm, and quietly he said, "You don't choose who you fall in and out of love with." Then a little louder, "Anyway, why are you getting angry at me? You are the one who said you didn't listen to her."

I wanted to cry but instead I finished my wine and stood up. "I've done what I came here to do. I am leaving now."
Suddenly he said, "Don't go."
  "I have to… I…" I stuttered.
  "Really don't go. I don't want to be alone."
And so I sat down again.
                                                           ………


Both of us cradled a cup of coffee in a café, we had been working in town. She was saving to go away again and I was saving to do my Masters. Not for the first time our paths were diverging but we sat in the warmth, laughing about the Messenger in my office who had taken to dropping in on me whenever he could. He was old and full of wrinkles but obviously thought he had a way with the ladies and I gave her an impression of his slow Australian drawl, and described the force of his breath reaching across the table towards me. She was laughing so hard it pealed in the coffee shop. Some of the customers looked up to see what was going on.
  "It stank!" I cried.
  "Don't tell me anymore! Stop! I am going to piss myself," she clutched her stomach.
  "Well, all I can say is that I am staying sober at the Christmas party this year," I said, trying to keep a straight face before I collapsed into giggles with her.
  "Oh, no more no more…"

On the day she left to go travelling I picked her up very early in the morning. Her neighbours were going to look after the cat and she had paid the rent six months in advance. She asked if we could stop at the beach before we went to the airport. She asked me if I would come in the sea with her but I had tonsillitis and didn't want it to get worse. I watched her from the car park. It was a wild windy day and the sun was just changing the colour of the sky. The whole beach was deserted. She walked to the edge of the ocean and stripped naked. She walked into the sea as if she would never come out. She was as wild as that sea, I could hear her whooping, screaming, crying and I watched her cavort in the waves, body surf to the sand and then plunge into the next depth.  

I had made some Green Tea in a flask and she sat sipping it in the car. Her hair was a salt mine and she brought half the beach onto the floor. She gave me the biggest smile. "You know I am probably making the biggest mistake of my life."
  "Maybe."
  "But you know I have to do it."
  "Yeah I know." 

She had only been back a few days when she came around my flat. She had hardly told me about her travels, she just spoke about seeing him again.

She had said that once they arrived in his house he just sat down in front of the television and ignored her. After that he started to read a book and when she would start a conversation he diverted it to the trivial. She wanted to get to the axis of which their relationship was based but he was happy to stay on the fringes of such a shadowy abyss. She had thoughts that she wanted to share with him yet he ignored her pleas and pretended ignorance. He compelled her to see only his reality, that of an austere environment where his bitterness kept him from understanding.

  "I'm powerless," she said.
  "No you're not."
  "I am in front of him. It's a battle of wills always and I cannot and do not want to fight him. It's easier to let him think he is right and I am wrong."
  "Does that bother you?"
  "It must do because I keep trying to go back and explain. But the more I do that the more set in his ways he becomes. I can't fight a misunderstood memory no matter how much I have changed."
  "Then let it be."
  "Guess I am gonna have too."
  "You'll still live." I said.



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