The Dance - Blog Post

"Henry Ford Hospital," Frida Kahlo, 1932, oil on Sheet Metal, 12 ½ x 15 ½ in. Collection Museo Dolores Olmedo, Xochimilco, México. © 2014 Banco de México Diego Rivera Frida Kahlo Museums Trust, Mexico, D.F. / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

As the pregnancy test signified Life, I swayed and revelled in her dance. I allowed Life to flow and welcomed her signs. Life caressed and soothed me, she reached out and said, 'Come, we can play this game together'.

Life was ecstatic with her creation - she cavorted, glimmered and sparkled and I was entranced. I felt her fingers stroke my skin and her body cuddle into mine. I was comforted, held and supported and she whispered to me her dreams. 

  'This little one is forming, my darling'.

My body obeyed and revelled in growth - hormones increased. I swam in the nausea, my breasts became full as my belly ripened and I felt every movement as if I was swimming in water. Sickness moved me as if by tidal pull, and Life kept encouraging, 'Yes, my darling, feel everything. Feel it all'. 

Calling to all the humans I needed, I tried to nest, to feel safe in the world. I needed to find the people who would support this pregnancy so I could meet this little one - to experience having a baby in this lifetime just. one. time.

And then one day at work, Death decided to visit and she called my baby's name. 

Death sang softly and so sweetly, every note caressing the air around me. The spectral pied piper of the little womb ones. Death danced around me whilst Life started to shrivel and cry. Death shimmied, allowing her pendulous breasts to swing, and she shook her childbearing hips. Death waggled her finger and spoke to me with a smile on her lips, 'My darling, thank you for growing this little one of mine'.

I could see Life was helpless in the face of Death's call and could only witness the events unfolding. She watched as my baby heard and reached out in joy to suckle on her breasts, sit on her soft belly and be cradled in her sumptuous lap. Death sang, soothed and tended... whilst Life, and I, looked on in dismay.

My body was so full, then so empty, as I straddled and embodied Life and Death. My body understood what was happening and vomit, blood and tears seeped from me - ravaged by the loss of my little one. My husband collected my heaves, wiped the red from my legs and helped me collect the remains of our little one as I allowed the cramps to sweep my uterus, making sure Death took every last remnant. 

Then I heard Death speak to me, 'You have given me four of your gorgeous babies and I am indebted by your kindness. I will leave you with four gifts in remembrance of your sacrifice'.

Death laid the gifts out in front of me, and smiled with gratefulness. 

First of all, here is acceptance, which will also bring you peace. When you meet me without resistance, you will see I will also bring you a deep, resounding peace that will continue within you always. I know your resistance to me has devastated and exhausted you to the point that you are ready to receive this gift now. I nodded and took this gift into my hands.

My second gift to you is the ability to learn how to parent yourself - there is a little one within you that has waited so long for you to be able to embrace her. Now you can learn to look after her and allow her the healing she craves. This little one desires safety, comfort and love from you so very much. I understood the wisdom in these words and agreed.

I also allow you the capacity of compassion so that you can mother the lost ones in the world who are in desperate need of love. You are being given a limitless well of compassion so you can support others in their growth and allow them to find their own way. I took the gift without response.

Lastly, I bestow on you the title of 'Warrior'. A woman who has witnessed the dance of life and death of her own children she was unable to keep learns great courage and knowledge. A woman who can embody Life and Death and is able to hold them within is taught some of life's greatest secrets. There is very little in life you will be unable to handle. I bowed as I took on the title and tried to integrate this with who I think I am.

Death watched me receive these gifts, nodded and slowly bowed. 

She then turned and walked away with my little one in her arms.

 

Play free my dear Little Sprouty, play with your brothers and sisters in the spirit world - come and find me when I am ready to dance with Death once again.

I love you.

 

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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 just buried 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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Merry-Go-Round - Blog Post

***WARNING - long graphic post and a little bit of swearing***

I no longer believe in blowing away eyelashes and making wishes.

My whole life I used to get so excited when I saw the tiny hair fall from someone's eyes. I would carefully scoop it up and present it to them... 'Make a wish,' I would fervently say, believing that this was their special moment to call on the magic and power of the universe.

When someone would give me my eyelash, or I would find my own, I would solemnly compose my wish, send it out and blow my wishes into the air. For the last few months my wish has been the same and I would wish our little baby, our second pregnancy, would stay with their mama and papa this time. We affectionately named it a name that would have no meaning in our daily life, but the song was significant and I thought to myself, you can't have a second miscarriage when you have named your baby Chumba - short for Chumbawamba - that would be ridiculous. Yet here we are again, and the poor little one is stuck with a ludicrous name now.

I had lost my innocence of pregnancy the first time around. When we told family and friends that we had become pregnant again, without exception everyone congratulated us and then wished us luck. Every single time I went to the toilet I felt anxiety and scanned my knickers for any signs. I would check for the discharge to make sure it was the right colour and consistency. If I felt a twinge or cramp I would run to the toilet for a quick check. Sometimes I wouldn't even go the toilet, at home I would just drop my knickers and ask my husband to confirm my findings.

On my 8th week I had slight brown coloured discharge.

I was at work and left everything. I called my husband and he collected me and we went straight to Accident & Emergency. We were so lucky as within 30 minutes we had been assessed and sent to the Early Pregnancy Unit (EPU) and was scanned. To our delight we saw our little perfect baby - they were the right size, there was a regular heartbeat and nothing seemed to be wrong. The nurses placated us with how lots of women bleed throughout their first trimester, that we haven't had pain and it was only a little brown blood so there should be no need to worry. Together we hoped so much they were right and I fled to the forums - all of them, I became a forums slut - Mumsnet, Netmums, Babycentre... you name it, I read it. There were so many stories of women who have bled and have been okay, even after miscarrying before.

Two days later at work I found more blood - red blood that filled my knickers - and I again called EPU. The next afternoon I was scanned again, fear filling me up and anxiety nipping at my heels, and I cried when the sonographer let me hear the heartbeat. I saw our baby who was very much alive. The Doctor later came in and gave me an internal, 'Your cervix is closed. There's no sign of cervical erosion. This just happens.'

So I calmed down. There were only spots of brown blood after that. No pain. No problem.

Except it wasn't.

A scan is a snapshot in time.

We went for a 'comfort scan' two weeks before the 12 week nuchal scan and we weren't worried as everything seemed to be back to normal. The bleeding hadn't returned, my belly did not seem so tender and I was feeling all the symptoms.

My husband had to park the car but as we were late I went in to the EPU first. I joked with the sonographer about my bloating, at 10 weeks my belly was so large I was wearing maternity trousers. The sonographer placed the scanner on me and said nothing, then after a while she said there was so much gas she couldn't see what was happening and asked if she could do an internal scan.

I asked if I could go to the toilet, stalling time till my husband arrived because I already knew what she was going to say.

He arrived just as she was placing the internal scanner in me and then she said the words I hate the most, 'I'm sorry.' No woman in the world wants to hear those words when they are being scanned. Ever. Now, whenever I have to let anyone know about my situation and the first words I hear are, 'I'm sorry,' I feel like I am experiencing a flashback and my reaction is anger - honestly, when someone says that, I may be saying some sort of trite response in return but I actually am just trying to find ways to stop myself from scratching that person's eyes out.

This time I left the sonographer's eyes alone but I burst into tears and clung on to my husband for dear life as yet again I realised I had lost a tiny little soul I so desperately wanted to meet.

So here we are again, on the merry-go-round of miscarriage.

I have calculated that I have spent just under six months in first trimester this year. Six months of nausea (and weight gain as the only way to stop my nausea is through eating), painful breasts, peeing constantly, and bloating so much I generally looked six months pregnant with a constant need to sleep at all times. What I have in return for this permanent hungover state is two babies to bury, a very deep and intimate relationship with my bed and so much knowledge about miscarriage and loss I didn't have previously. I am not sure this is much of a return on our investment - it has left me bereft, heartbroken, grief-stricken but most of all, it has made me fucking furious.

One of the hardest part of the situation is the loneliness of it all - the first time around everyone I knew had a story of miscarriage they could tell, they could relate to one miscarriage and the pain, discomfort and unfairness of the situation. Yet, this time around, the usual first response after the ubiquitous, painful, fury-inducing, 'I'm sorry' is about my being tested to see what's wrong with me, compounding the sense of failure I am already feeling. After that, it's usually silence or a random, 'Thinking of you' or an emoticon to let me know they are there. I am now not just a case of bad luck, I am recurrent. I don't blame people, life goes on, there's a world to be part of, but it is an uncomfortable place to be in - full of hard edges and muted impotent responses.

Being on the merry-go-round means I already know how to process the emotional response I am experiencing, I know what to do and where to seek support and advice. I know the process of grief and the journey that is laid out for my husband and I. I know about the possible tests I could take, what I would need to do to start them, how they are not always successful and how there may even be nothing wrong with me. I know about the physical process I am about to embark on and what I could try differently when we try again.

I also know I need to accept that the journey of parenthood is a path to becoming a warrior, whether we have a baby to hold in our hands or not. The whole process is refining us to be people who are courageous in the face of extreme adversity and forcing us to continually embrace acceptance and surrender in the deepest way.

Statistically, I still have a very good chance of becoming a mother. However, I also need to accept I may never become a mother in this lifetime. I may never know the joy of having a child in my arms that I can watch grow and become. I may never experience the labour of a woman who sees their child for the first time with a heartbeat and open eyes. I may only experience loss in this chapter of my life and somehow if I can make peace with this I will find freedom in this process.

I also need to accept that others will have the experience of motherhood and it is just as important for me to be able to remain open-hearted to their joy even in my deepest hurt - to be able to embrace everything this world has to offer so my heart can be open to it all. It will take some time, but that's okay.

But if I see an eyelash, there will be no more wishes.

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