The Space Between

The liminal phase began after that weekend, the descent into the most angry, primal sadness I have ever known. My first days back at work were a blur - I don't really know how I stood there day after day. All I knew was that I was tired of saying fine when I wasn't fine. Every time I asked someone how they were, and they responded, only to ask me how I was, I wanted to say, 'my baby is dead'. Somehow a choked 'fine' was all that came out. I really had no patience, either - it was taking everything I had to just be there, dressed and ready to work. I have felt grief before, but never this acutely, and never over a simple ball of cells. My strength was drained and I had no desire to do anything but occupy my hours with sleep or tv. Either way, it would shut my brain off and I could pretend I really existed while hiding from the world.

In other instances of grief, I have been counted on as the 'strong one', one who made phone calls, who helped with arrangements, who could coordinate while others sat watching, bathed in tears. But not this time. It was as though every instance of grief that I had pushed aside in favor of work or sanity bubbled up inside me like a spring, every unresolved moment came through and so my tears and my emptiness were magnified. I could no longer escape them. The death of several grandparents, both parents, and even a few beloved pets stayed in my mind. It was as though this was my reckoning of grief - all my hopes for the future of this pregnancy were destroyed. I spent the next week after the miscarriage spotting into a pad, and after days and days I wanted it all to be over. No more spotting. No more crying. No more deep dark places where my mind would go. I was tired of it, I just wanted to feel okay, be able to not feel hatred towards a friend who told me to smile. My teeth would grind together in my jaw, and I would say, 'no', or 'I don't want to'. A few people who didn't know my circumstance proceeded to lecture me about how things could be worse. Oh no, they really couldn't.

And I got so tired of the platitudes. Somewhere, I logically realized that this is something people say to make themselves feel better. As with any loss, most words are inappropriate and might make a person feel worse. Like sympathy cards. The part that bothers me is that I know that in the past, I have thought some of these phrases myself, and perhaps even said them, in response to a miscarriage. I once thought that it wasn't that big of a deal. But the truth is, it's not possible to know how wrong these things sound unless you're on the receiving end.

"It's God's plan." Because someone in pain wants to feel like God, should they believe in such a thing, is torturing them. Go Old Testament.

"It's Nature's way, something was wrong with it, this is for the best." Yeah, thanks for reminding me that the universe is a cruel place and our lives are filled with random uncertainty. I totally got that from the miscarriage. Don't rub it in.

"You can have another one, there will be a next time." Maybe this is true, but I wanted *this* one. I was planning for the future of *this* one. I mentally understand that I can in fact try again, but my heart is broken because my child is dead.

"At least it was early, it wasn't really a baby yet." I didn't actually hear this one, but this is one that I have used to make myself feel better about someone else's miscarriage. It's absolutely false to think that a dead child was not still at some point a living thing, even if it died as a ball of cells or a tiny worm-like creature. It was not conscious or sentient, but it was alive, and it was my child, the product of two loving parents. There is truth in saying that the miscarriage itself was physically easier because of the early stage of pregnancy, but I don't think emotionally that it matters. It was a future, it was connection, it was wondering if it was a boy or a girl, if it would have Jeremy's beautiful brown eyes and dark curly hair. The destruction of the prospect of a life was even more powerful for me than some other traumatic events I've experienced, much to my surprise.

I think the nicest thing that anyone said to me was "I'm sorry, I know how excited and happy you were." That made me feel so validated, that my feelings of loss were real. But the person sharing that had a miscarriage of her own years ago, so she knows what it's like to be in these shoes. In fact, in telling other people about the babyloss, I learned that so many had losses of their own, perhaps too painful to mention until I mentioned mine. It was though there was this common thread of pain running through human history, touched by so many lives who stayed silent, not wanting to relive their pain. But why silent? I found so much solace in the words of others, in knowing that what they felt and what I feel are the same, and they survived. Even my doctor has experienced two of her own. This explains the depth of her compassion. She too has seen the face of hell and stood on its edge and let the flames destroy her innocence.