Darkness and Light

Years ago, one of my high school teachers stated that people don’t create art when they’re happy. “When people are happy,” he explained, “they’re out enjoying life — hence the stereotype of the tortured artist.” I feel the same is true of me: when I have better days, I am too busy enjoying life to blog. Sure, there are quiet moments where I pause and make a note of something I might write about later; but when I am consumed by my grief or living the sober hours afterwards, that’s when I turn to OFT and write.

♥

Today is another milestone, another Saturday, which means I would have been 18 weeks because it’s been 8 weeks and 3 days since my D&C — as pregnant as I was when I had my first ultrasound, the details of which I can still recall in vivid detail and which still make my blood run cold. Today marks the point at which I pass into the new territory of post-pregnancy longer than I ever was pregnant.

Eight weeks and three days — 59 days in total, and still no sign of my period coming back. Cruelly, on Tuesday and Wednesday I had terrible cramps all day. They didn’t feel like the post-operative burning I feel here and there from time to time, they felt like the familiar sharp aching. I gritted my teeth and welcomed them back like an old friend. When I saw a tiny streak of pale brown in my underwear, I began to hope. I even began to relax. I even thought I might be strong enough to see my SIL soon. Ha! I should know better than to get my hopes up: five days later, nothing… Aunt Flo is a flaky bitch. I feel so betrayed by the body I thought I knew so well. I can’t stay pregnant, I can’t miscarry properly, and I can’t even get my period within a typical post-miscarriage time frame. I can’t begin to describe the darkness that comes over me. I am wracked with grief that cleaves my chest, my breastbone feels like it might give way with an almighty crack and I can feel my heart physically being squashed by choking sobs, and through it all a tiny hummingbird in the back of my head wonders if it possible to cry oneself to death.

I used to be the kind of person who, a couple times a year, would wake herself up laughing hysterically (but forget the joke as soon as my eyes opened). These days I seem to wake myself up crying every couple of weeks, and I always remember what I was dreaming about. Last night was all about having my baby — not my bean, but an actual breathing full-term baby with dark blonde waves — taken away from me; then being surrounded by one, two, three, and counting, friends all announcing their pregnancies and new births. I dreamt that two of these friends had successfully undergone fertility treatments and I was so happy for them, that they should be pregnant and finally sailing through their pregnancies, but I was mostly sad for me. In my dream, as in real life, I felt guilty for having such selfish feelings. In my dream, as in real life, I longed to scream and scream and scream, but had nowhere to do it. In my dream, I started wailing, and in real life, I woke myself up with a peculiar dry-eyed sobbing that stopped when DH’s hand found mine and he nestled his sleepy body against mine. I lay awake for a few minutes, preoccupied with the miserable thought that the usual post-nightmare comfort Phew! It was only a dream… does not apply.

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Yesterday, I received another package in the mail, this time from my friend, Momsicle. She picked out a prayer shawl for me, lovingly knitted by one of the members of her church, and had it blessed by her priest, a woman (!!) who knows something about grief and loss.

I’d never heard of a prayer shawl before, but I love the idea of a group of people coming together in their belief community to enjoy a shared hobby and using these two things to create some good in the world.

My prayer shawl is a fiery rainbow of red, burnt orange, and violet, flecked with copper and gold. The wool is soft, fuzzy, even. I know nothing about knitting, but the square trellis pattern intrigues me. It’s longer than I am tall (6 feet / 184 cms) so when it’s draped over my shoulders, there is a pleasing weight. As I wrote to Momsicle, If ever there were a way to send a hug in the mail, this surely is it.

 

♥

It’s past noon, and I’m still in my PJs and haven’t yet put in my contact lenses. I’ve been wrapped up in my prayer shawl and my thoughts.

I’m thinking about how alone I am in this experience. Everyone I know in real life has either never had a miscarriage, or has but already has children, or is struggling to get pregnant in the first place. I don’t know anyone in my shoes: post-miscarriage, childless, and no one to fully commiserate with. Then I remember a wise friend’s words: …then there is hope.

I’m wearing my two Jizo pendants and thinking about serendipity: the first one I bought after searching for something to carry me through this difficult time and onto a happier time; the second I won in the recent Jizo & Chibi giveaway. (It, too, has a pleasing weight.) Thinking about it, the first time, I found Jizo; the second time, he found me. There is a lovely symmetry to that.

I’m thinking about how over the past couple of weeks, I’ve learned that several friends are each going through a tough time for one reason or another. We can’t fix each others’ problems, but as the old saying goes, “a problem shared is a problem halved.” I’m thinking about how sometimes, in the midst of our despair, having a friend lean on us can also be a pleasing weight.

May we love and support everyone in our lives, and may we do so whether or not we think they need it.

May we remember we all need love and support, during the good times as well as the bad.

May we be strong enough during our bad times to make space for others’ grief.

May we remember that only in the darkness do we see the light.