So, everything is as it should be, I suppose. I have grieved all I can grieve, made as much of a deal about it as I wanted to, and memorialized it how I wanted to. I have an amazingly supportive husband who may not understand why I've done these things, but respects my need to do them. People all around me have offered their shoulder to cry on, arms to hug, or ears to listen to my woes. There was even a day at work the management almost sent me home (which is one of those things that never happens unless you're throwing up exorcist style) because I was too sad to do my job. That's right, it was the two month anniversary of my miscarriage, I had just started my cycle (which meant no new baby) and I just couldn't help myself. I was crying.
At work.
I've never been a crying sort of person. In fact, I've looked down on those who were 'emotional idiots', crying at every little sentimental thing, because I felt they were out-of-control weak humans. Oddly enough, my husband is a very emotional person, but I could tolerate such a thing because I felt, in a way, that it balanced me. I could be the strong one, he could be misty eyed. That was okay. I used to cry on occasion, but always privately - in bed, in the shower, always at home, always alone. It was my sorrow and mine alone and I didn't need anyone else to bear it with me.
Perhaps this is one of those 'mother' things. My mother was very emotional, very sensitive, always thrusting her feelings out onto other people. Maybe I have always been a little sensitive myself and it bothered me to be in the constant bombardment of her emotions and drama. But I couldn't stand it. As I got older, I couldn't stand to cry. I wouldn't be like her, crying at every little thing, letting every tiny detail upset her, having huge issues of stress and anxiety. I would be strong. I would put up walls, I would deal with my emotions privately, I would smirk at the world and let it come. Darkness had already come and gone many times. There was no reason not to let it come again. I would stay strong. The walls had held through everything and they were still standing.
And then the pregnancy happened, the miscarriage happened, and all those beautiful fortifications were destroyed. At first, it seemed like it was the hormonal letdown that was causing me to weep at nothing and writhe in mental agony. It let up after awhile, to a certain extent, but I have found that this experience has had lasting effects that I am not pleased about.
I realize that when a woman becomes a mother, her body undergoes a profound physiological change. In most women, it's not just that your hips are bigger or that your breasts will never be the same. The brain seems to change as well, preparing the women to be a mother, causing the deep natural child-rearing instincts to come forth. Even though I have no research to back this up, I have seen it happen in so many people I can hardly deny the truth of it. It's like the programming of the brain is rewritten to turn the baby into the center of the universe, instead of the self. This is a necessary thing - our offspring are born helpless. If mothers weren't willing to kill for (and die for) their children, our species would have never survived.
My pregnancy never reached that point, but my body was still undergoing changes that have not reversed. My clothes fit differently around my hips, I noticed. I bought bigger bras and I can still wear them. It's harder for me to lose weight than it was previously. And all the walls came tumbling down.
The post-pregnancy hormones knocked the walls down, and as of yet I have no ability to build them back up. My emotions are raw and turbulent. I take things so personally. Every little thing bothers me. I can't deal with people, and I can't deal with stress. I feel like the Grinch when I say, "the noise, noise, noise", but it's true. I cry. I cried at work that day, in front of managers, co-workers and complete strangers. Things build up, and instead of me being able to sleep them off, or work them off, or (heaven forbid) eat something sweet to take the edge off, I cry. I completely shut down and I have to go and cry. I don't even know how to manage this. Other people who have always been more emotional might have some idea about it, and I'd love to hear it. Because I feel half-functional. This is the new normal, the new me that has emerged from the ashes, and I am sorely disappointed.
If my mother felt like this day in and day out, it's no wonder she lost her mind.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Monday, March 5, 2012
The Power of a Name
Here I am in the middle of the two-week wait, sullen and biding my time. The gravity of what may lie before me does weigh heavily on my mind. As much as it gives me relief to return to the cycle I started before, I feel as though things are not quite finished. Almost, but not quite.
The mizuko jizo is set snugly into a bookshelf next to an olive green box holding the precious gifts for my lost child. The flowers I planted under the tree sprouted a few weeks ago, and though they have struggled with a few cold spells, they reach toward the sun more each day. Tiny green sprouts with two leaves, then four, then six. I water them when there is no rain. Two days ago, there was rain, and I didn't have a chance to see them. But the sun shines today, even though it reaches the Earth through a cold wind, so I will tend those little flowers once I put on shoes.
I spent time last week just marveling at the sun. It was streaming so warmly through the patio, filtering down through the leaves of that same tree. No photograph can do it justice, but perhaps I'll try again. Sometimes sunlight has the quality of almost appearing liquid, like droplets of light are floating on the top of water, and yesterday it was droplets of light on the leaves of that tree. It's at those moments that I know that we did the right thing to bury it there. In that place, bathed in that liquid light, the mizuko grows into the branches of that tree, is the leaves, loves the sun. It lives again in that brilliant, peaceful place.
That chapter of my life is ending as another one begins. But something feels unfinished. Many posts ago, I said that I could not see any reason to name a cluster of cells, that it made no sense to do so. I still stand by the fact that it makes no sense, but somehow I ended up doing it anyway.
Maybe it has a little bit to do with my Catholic upbringing. Long before I sought my own path in life, I learned the ways of Catholicism, and one of the things that I learned about in the time of my youth was the concept of Holy Innocents. I had forgotten about that term until I read about the mizuko jizo. After a few days of searching, I realized I remembered something else that had to do with the unborn - when I was a child, I had heard about the Holy Innocents, the souls of children who died before birth. My grandmother, who had taken it upon herself to impart me with spiritual teachings, had always been very adamant about her pro-life status. Not only was I brought along with her to abortion protests when I was very young, but I was also encouraged to pray for the souls of the unborn who were lost, whether naturally or on purpose. It all came back to me very vividly once I thought about it, so I did a search for Holy Innocents to see what I could find. There were a variety of church web pages, explanations as to why a child had been taken so young (if it in fact was a miscarriage) and ways to seek reconciliation (for abortions). But there was one common theme that went through each and every page, and that was need to acknowledge the life that had passed in a permanent way - giving the child a name.
I resisted this idea for quite a while. I couldn't know the gender, I rationalized, so I couldn't say anything other than 'it'. There were plenty of unisex names out there, I just didn't see a reason. It was a mizuko, and that's what I would refer to it as.
But it nagged at me. What was really stopping me? Was it because the Catholics had suggested it? Maybe in part, but that wasn't the only reason. Perhaps it was because there had been no embryo. It didn't form the fetal pole. It didn't even have an up, or a down, or a right or left. It was just a ball. Did that make a difference?
In truth, I have named inanimate objects before. Living things of all kinds, too. Snails, caterpillars, worms, fish, a cockroach - all more sophisticated life forms, yes, but all had such humble beginnings as a ball of cells. And wasn't my grieving really wrapped around the life that could have been, that would have been? Wasn't I shedding tears about the baby I wouldn't hold, whose life was cut short because of some genetic mishap? Didn't that potential deserve as much consideration as a cockroach or a snail?
Well, actually, I somehow decided, yes. Before I even realized it, I had convinced myself to choose a name. I remember, I was in the bathroom stall at work, just standing there, trying to compose myself during a very trying day. Opening my phone, I searched a baby names database for something unisex, something simple, something that caught my eye and felt right.
It wasn't long before I found what I was looking for. Maybe it was a little trendy, but it wasn't some weird made-up word. It had an origin and a meaning that I felt was appropriate for us. I waited for the other people in the restroom to leave, and once I was alone in the bathroom, I walked over to the sink and whispered the name to myself. In the mirror, I watched my mouth say the words a few times. It was the right name. I could feel it. But I didn't tell anyone else about it because it still felt strange to name my miscarriage.
Over time I came to understand why the giving of name is important and why I have been hesitant to share it. Until a few days ago I had never spoken it to anyone, not even my husband. Maybe I read too many fantasy books, but as far as I'm concerned, a name has power. A name conveys existence. A name gives a person or a thing a place and a time and establishes relationship and purpose.
A name makes something real. And to name something I have lost makes the loss real.
It's been too painful to say the words, but I've been holding on to it long enough. The name deserves to be spoken, if only by me, only once. It's my chance to give the baby a place in our family that can never, ever be taken away. Today is the day I speak it, so today I can finally say goodbye, goodbye to my first child.
Goodbye, Kiley. May the Earth hold you warmly in its soft, sun-drenched soil.
The mizuko jizo is set snugly into a bookshelf next to an olive green box holding the precious gifts for my lost child. The flowers I planted under the tree sprouted a few weeks ago, and though they have struggled with a few cold spells, they reach toward the sun more each day. Tiny green sprouts with two leaves, then four, then six. I water them when there is no rain. Two days ago, there was rain, and I didn't have a chance to see them. But the sun shines today, even though it reaches the Earth through a cold wind, so I will tend those little flowers once I put on shoes.
I spent time last week just marveling at the sun. It was streaming so warmly through the patio, filtering down through the leaves of that same tree. No photograph can do it justice, but perhaps I'll try again. Sometimes sunlight has the quality of almost appearing liquid, like droplets of light are floating on the top of water, and yesterday it was droplets of light on the leaves of that tree. It's at those moments that I know that we did the right thing to bury it there. In that place, bathed in that liquid light, the mizuko grows into the branches of that tree, is the leaves, loves the sun. It lives again in that brilliant, peaceful place.
That chapter of my life is ending as another one begins. But something feels unfinished. Many posts ago, I said that I could not see any reason to name a cluster of cells, that it made no sense to do so. I still stand by the fact that it makes no sense, but somehow I ended up doing it anyway.
Maybe it has a little bit to do with my Catholic upbringing. Long before I sought my own path in life, I learned the ways of Catholicism, and one of the things that I learned about in the time of my youth was the concept of Holy Innocents. I had forgotten about that term until I read about the mizuko jizo. After a few days of searching, I realized I remembered something else that had to do with the unborn - when I was a child, I had heard about the Holy Innocents, the souls of children who died before birth. My grandmother, who had taken it upon herself to impart me with spiritual teachings, had always been very adamant about her pro-life status. Not only was I brought along with her to abortion protests when I was very young, but I was also encouraged to pray for the souls of the unborn who were lost, whether naturally or on purpose. It all came back to me very vividly once I thought about it, so I did a search for Holy Innocents to see what I could find. There were a variety of church web pages, explanations as to why a child had been taken so young (if it in fact was a miscarriage) and ways to seek reconciliation (for abortions). But there was one common theme that went through each and every page, and that was need to acknowledge the life that had passed in a permanent way - giving the child a name.
I resisted this idea for quite a while. I couldn't know the gender, I rationalized, so I couldn't say anything other than 'it'. There were plenty of unisex names out there, I just didn't see a reason. It was a mizuko, and that's what I would refer to it as.
But it nagged at me. What was really stopping me? Was it because the Catholics had suggested it? Maybe in part, but that wasn't the only reason. Perhaps it was because there had been no embryo. It didn't form the fetal pole. It didn't even have an up, or a down, or a right or left. It was just a ball. Did that make a difference?
In truth, I have named inanimate objects before. Living things of all kinds, too. Snails, caterpillars, worms, fish, a cockroach - all more sophisticated life forms, yes, but all had such humble beginnings as a ball of cells. And wasn't my grieving really wrapped around the life that could have been, that would have been? Wasn't I shedding tears about the baby I wouldn't hold, whose life was cut short because of some genetic mishap? Didn't that potential deserve as much consideration as a cockroach or a snail?
Well, actually, I somehow decided, yes. Before I even realized it, I had convinced myself to choose a name. I remember, I was in the bathroom stall at work, just standing there, trying to compose myself during a very trying day. Opening my phone, I searched a baby names database for something unisex, something simple, something that caught my eye and felt right.
It wasn't long before I found what I was looking for. Maybe it was a little trendy, but it wasn't some weird made-up word. It had an origin and a meaning that I felt was appropriate for us. I waited for the other people in the restroom to leave, and once I was alone in the bathroom, I walked over to the sink and whispered the name to myself. In the mirror, I watched my mouth say the words a few times. It was the right name. I could feel it. But I didn't tell anyone else about it because it still felt strange to name my miscarriage.
Over time I came to understand why the giving of name is important and why I have been hesitant to share it. Until a few days ago I had never spoken it to anyone, not even my husband. Maybe I read too many fantasy books, but as far as I'm concerned, a name has power. A name conveys existence. A name gives a person or a thing a place and a time and establishes relationship and purpose.
A name makes something real. And to name something I have lost makes the loss real.
It's been too painful to say the words, but I've been holding on to it long enough. The name deserves to be spoken, if only by me, only once. It's my chance to give the baby a place in our family that can never, ever be taken away. Today is the day I speak it, so today I can finally say goodbye, goodbye to my first child.
Goodbye, Kiley. May the Earth hold you warmly in its soft, sun-drenched soil.
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