Dear Little Mizuko Bean

Dear Little Mizuko Bean,

Twice as much time has passed since you stopped growing as you ever lived.  I’m learning to move forward with your void.  I think about getting my first tattoo to honour your memory, but I don’t think any single image would suffice.

I knew I was going to get pregnant in January.  I don’t know how, it was just a feeling I had.  Then, three days after you were conceived, as I was sitting at my computer drinking my afternoon cup of Earl Grey, I smelled Old Spice aftershave.  The kind my dead grandfather used to wear. And I heard his voice say quietly in my ear, It’s a boy. Was it his ghost or my body giving me a message? No matter, you somehow shyly announced yourself.

I remember that the week brought a temperature dip and cramps on 7DPO and seeing a tiny streak of brown CF on the loo paper the following night. I remember the disappointment of seeing my temperature dip again at 11DPO, and the relief the next morning when it rose again.  That night, I had vivid dreams about not being pregnant and P-SIL saying Don’t worry, it’ll be your turn soon. The following evening, at 13DPO, I enjoyed a margarita with dinner.  I told DH that if my temperature was still high the next morning, I was going to take a pregnancy test.  I ordered the best Patrón tequila and drank my margarita slowly, figuring it might be the last time I enjoyed a cocktail for a while.

The next morning, at 14DPO, you boldly announced yourself with two pink lines. I had long-imagined this moment, and had always pictured whooping and happy tears. Instead, my knees knocked and my hands trembled. I’m pregnant. Did I dare say the words aloud? I’m pregnant. DH took a deep breath and said I knew it. He sounded more stressed than happy. I felt more stressed than happy.  Those two pink lines appeared, and our lives changed forever.  I replaced the cap on the test and put it in my desk drawer. I took photos of the two pink lines but over the coming days would take the test out of its drawer to look at it, hold it, marvelling, wrapping my head around the proof that I was pregnant.

Pregnant. What kind of mother would I be? We sat down to our favourite lunch, a simple meal of bread, cheese, fruit, and homemade habanero peach jam. I barely tasted it. Pregnant. Puh-RE-GUH-nunt. I tested the word out, feeling my lips, breath, throat, tongue, teeth form the word.  It seemed foreign. Did it really describe me? I held the test in my hand. Yes it did. The next morning, another test revealed a second pink line, slightly darker than the day before’s. A third consecutive morning, a third positive test. They lay side by side in my drawer. I looked at them affectionately and placed my hand over my flat belly. There was life in there.  I could feel it.

The changes in my body were almost immediate.  Tired all the time. Hungry all the time. Thirsty all the time. I no longer had a bladder of steel and couldn’t make it through the night without getting up at least once to pee.  And my usually unsensitive boobs became so sore to the touch that I slept in a bra for the first time in my life. They went up a full cup size and I enjoyed picking out a new bra. I was at the mall and timidly entered a maternity store. I was pink with pleasure when I was asked how far along I was.  Five weeks and two days, I grinned, shyly. As I waited at the checkout counter to pay for my non-maternity/maternity bra, a pull-on foxy little black lace number, I admired the blonde woman ahead of me who was about 5 months pregnant.  She looked wonderful. Now I, too, am part of this club. I thought about buying myself a top or a tunic to accommodate my extreme bloating and hide the hair band I used to fasten my jeans. I was tempted, but didn’t want to invite bad luck.  (A few days later, I bought ‘regular clothes’ from Nordstrom Rack instead: three long stripey t-shirts that I could wear whether I was pregnant or not — but I have never worn.)

I don’t recall feeling happier in my life than when I was pregnant with you, Bean.  I made lifestyle choices that would be considered sacrifices by some, but for me it was a delight to forgo coffee, deli meats, raw cheese, mayonnaise, large fish, and alcohol.  I never paid more attention to what I put in my body or on it.  I checked myself out in the mirror: my thighs were rounder, my belly fuller, my breasts heavier. I put on 10lbs, and wondered if my usually fast metabolism would be permanently slower, if I would lose my figure, but I didn’t mind too much.  You were coming.

You were coming. We began to share the news of you.  When I think back to our friends’ and families’ delighted reactions, there is a tug at my heartstrings. The one that tugs the most is P-SIL’s response: Omigod, I’m so happy! Then she turned to her daughter, my 2-year-old niece, who was trying to figure out what everyone was so excited about. Little Ceeeeee! COUSINS! This usually emotionally grounded woman began to cry with happiness.  I shared with her how much I was looking forward to us both being pregnant together in the summer. It was going to be so much fun. And there would be cousins the same age, exactly two months apart.

You were coming, and it was perfect.  Even from a medical insurance perspective, it couldn’t have been planned better: all prenatal care and delivery costs would fall in one calendar year, which meant we would have to only pay the annual high deductible once.

You were coming, and DH began to get really into the idea. He started touching my belly and referring to you as the baby.  He was so protective of me, anxious to minimise any stress because it wasn’t good for the baby. I caught a glimpse of the terrific dad I hope he’ll someday be, and I miss it so much. I miss you so much.

You were coming. Every day, I was aware of minor cramps that felt like stretching, pulling, and tugging. I began to talk to you first thing in the morning, last thing at night, and quiet moments in between: Grow, little bean. Grow strong, grow beautiful, grow. I imagined myself in silhouette: a woman in profile, with bent neck, lovingly cradling her belly which radiated light.

And then your light went out.

After weeks of flurry of activity, it slowed down, and came to a grinding halt. I Googled my absence of symptoms, to no avail. I posted on Reddit.  I called the nurse at the clinic where I wouldn’t have my first ultrasound for another 3 weeks. Everyone agreed that a lack of symptoms was nothing to be concerned about.  I put it down to first trimester nerves and reminded myself that now came a lifetime of worry.  I still had some signs of pregnancy, so I didn’t worry that I didn’t have morning sickness — after all, my mother didn’t until about week 8 or 9, she said when I casually asked. But the light had gone out.  Deep down, I knew it.  I was reluctant to say I’m pregnant. When I did, I felt sheepish. I didn’t feel pregnant.  I felt like a fraud.

The day of the first ultrasound came.  I noticed my boobs weren’t very sore anymore.  I was dreading the appointment.  I joked with the receptionist about finding out one way or another. Part of me couldn’t believe that I would fall headlong into an unfortunate statistic. After all, what were the chances? I did everything right. I thought positive thoughts.  I radiated happiness, felt stress-free, loved the world and everyone in it.  I instinctively knew you were there from the moment you burrowed into me. I loved you. YOU ARE COMING… …aren’t you?

After cheery (and, as it turned out, ill-timed) congratulations from the nurse practitioner, the ultrasound began. It was like in a movie where a character picks up the receiver and tries to listen for any sign of life at the other end of the phone. Hello? they say over the crackle. Hello? Anybody there? Hello? Hello?  There is no answer, only static. Pick up! I begged. When I found out you had stopped growing, my heart stood still. The most powerful call of my life has been put on hold.

These days, I see the things I will never share with you.  Two weeks ago, I was riding in a forest in North Carolina.  It was so green.  I thought of you, that you would never see colour and be so moved by nature, by life all around us. My horse reared up a couple of times, and I thought of you, that you would never know fear or discomfort, nor the rush of being on an actively frightened horse.  We ambled along a muddy path on a hill past a doe standing nervously and protectively over her hour-old fawn. Something of her wide-eyed and alert watchfulness, assessing if the slow parade of humans atop horses was a threat, reminded me of myself. In some small way, I envied her her new motherhood.

I don’t know if there is an afterlife but if there is I imagine you with Nanny.  If I cannot hold you in this life, I am comforted to think that she might. There is no better soul to love you and play with you than she.

Instead of looking forward to meeting you in two-and-a-half months’ time, I am trying to move forward. Instead of looking forward to meeting your cousin in a few short weeks, I am wrestling with difficult and complex feelings. I don’t know what lessons I can learn from losing you. I am determined to not let this suffering and loss be in vain.

You were conceived six months ago today, but you are not here.  I am a few days past ovulation and I am hoping to have re-conceived you or your sibling.  Since losing you I have felt that getting pregnant again would be the final piece in the puzzle to mend my broken heart.  And I have felt all along that July, like January, would be the month.  My boobs are tender again, and there has been a strange pulsing twinge an inch below my navel.  Are you quietly announcing yourself again or is it the most magical thinking? I study my face in the mirror and my intense gaze is returned.  I wonder if I look different, if my father noticed a perceptible difference in me.  Are those the eyes of a woman who miscarried? Is hope returning? Or is life dancing quietly behind them?

Whatever happens, my dear little Mizuko Bean, I love you.

Your Almost-Mama xo