My Loss

1

Feeling lonely and barren myself, I chose a lonely, barren place to find my answers. I fled to isolation, wanting to lose myself into the knot of pain that was so close to my surface everywhere I went. In everyday life there were reminders. There were Mothers and daughters of all ages. Not only did I bear the scars of not having a mother, I bore the weight of not being one. Of failing in the one thing women’s bodies were created for: bearing a child. 2

I fell short of carrying her life full term; lost her alone, and frightened in the dull green antiseptic surroundings of a hospital. The moment I stopped carrying her, it was replaced by a weight I could not shift; could not shrug away. It became an almost chant of "failure" of "inept". Were our bodies not supposed to know how to bring forth a child without instruction? I did my part. Going to the physician early, gave up caffeine, ate healthy, exercised regularly. Spent evenings, singing to her, reading to her, running a soothing finger over and across my abdomen, as if to hypnotize her; send her the message:"Little one, you are loved already". And for myself, after a life time of feeling unloved. Finally someone who would love me, depend on me - unconditionally. 3

I was denied even that. Hours of blood loss, then the deepest of fatigues, the loss of her, then the rush to surgery to stop the flow of blood which did not even slow. An unknown physician who seemed perplexed; even angry. I found myself apologizing to him. Did my stupid body not know the baby was gone, it could return to normal? No, it inconvenienced this man, causing him to perform surgery at the un godly hour of 4:00 A. M.4

Later, his ineffectual apology did little. In my drugged state I remember his face, some distorted words, "Did he say something about an internal tear?" I remember him saying my blood pressure was low, that I would sleep, that I would heal. 5

The body, yes, but not the heart. The loss just seemed to fester. "A girl", the nurse had said. Something about a deformity, but no further explanation. I never saw her. 6

She was 19 weeks formed. A week older, there would have been a funeral, mourners, other than myself, her father and our families. More I'm sorry's than I could have taken. 7

Every day, every step became a burden; like walking underwater.  So, I ran away. A planned running. A separate vacation- we called it, a desperate need to be alone, to say goodbye. But how do you say goodbye to a life you never held, never soothed? To one who lived and moved within you? Who's tiny flutters kept you awake at night, but whose voice you never heard? 8

I chose the beach at winter. It's solitude a refuge, it's quiet a hug. It's constancy a lesson. It's cold winds a reminder. A sting to tear-stained cheeks let me know I was still breathing. Even if I didn't want to. I ate little, cried much. Not just mourning the child, but the motherhood I was denied.. The tears slowed, then stopped. Winter turned to Spring, and I still lived. Still craved the solitude of here; and it's wave swept sand. The colors did revive. The muted pinks and tan of shells somehow softened the ache to an acceptable level. Seeing the constant renewing of the world outside of sunrise-sunset gave me back my bearings. I went home.9

He and I never spoke of it again. A loss packed away like a trunk in the attic. Our lives continued and there were children. Perfect children; a girl, a boy, another girl.I loved them from the beginning, love them even now. But, I never let go of the first one. Never forgave my body for failing in it’s motherly duties. Until today. 10

Printed on a piece of paper,is a name, and birth date long before mine. My mother’s twin.   The mother I never really knew had a brother. . He died hours after birth, due to a deformity.11

Though I feel a sadness at those words, my heart recognized a truth. I lost a baby girl, through no actions of my own. I researched it further: a genetic predisposition to an imperfection kept her from being whole. Not one thing I could have done about it. There was no prevention. 12

Now, I can let go. 13