I share my personal experience, through poetry and prose, of losing my baby-in-womb at 11 weeks.
The Ripples
In the immediacy of my miscarriage, where I am solely in the awareness of my body sensations, there comes a rippling effect that hugs close to the impact of that moment. This imprint is thin. Delicate. It holds to the truth of the moment, saying ever so quietly, this is the way it is. This moment is ok. There is perfectness even here. This ripple doesn’t seek to ask questions, or find answers, nor does it want to distract itself, because it has seen the calm and quietness that pervades the experience. The calm is surreal, like a second moon entering the sky.
But then comes a second ripple; it has a steep crest and drop. It is an edge that takes me away from the centre, and I know I am never going to arrive back in that same space again. I will be moved. I will be affected. Deep within this, I yearn for my own completion and I know there is nothing, no-thing, that can satiate me, despite my reaching and wanting. It is a quiet but inconsolable discontent. I am wanting the purest of nourishments; to touch the divine that has and is the heart of my child; to reach for anything less casts me to a pantomime of unending thirst. I know no other way to redeem the self that is lost. Amarum hum, Madhuram hum I chant.
The third ripple comes. It has a deep trough… and invites me to wallow. The stairs that I used to bound up to work on the 10th floor, are now arduous. Every step returns me back to my old life (but I’m different!) and back to a compartment that feels too stiff, too rigid and without lament. I tell myself there’s no escape. I overhear my self berating me for not having healed my mother-wounds. I catch glimpses of my body returning to belly fat rather than Hapu. I deem myself unworthy of the graces of hapu; a word I had embraced and worn, recognising its innate esteem. Goddesses are hapu. Mere mortals just get pregnant. I have fallen from Grace. I couldn’t hold the energy of Goddess and so this word, this world, this state of being… it’s gone. My child…
Oh the lack of ceremony I gave him (I’m sure he was a boy). He slipped from my vagina while I was on the toilet, after hours of bleeding and cramping, and all I could see was blood and shit. I was at hospital, wires and tubes dangling from my arms, and coming down from the morphine administered in the ambulance. On auto-pilot, I flushed the toilet.
I never caught sight of you. You were not named, but I fancied you were a Robin, flying back to your nest. Those bold Robins that peck at our footprints in the forest, wise to the bugs that have been unearthed.
No one midwifed this ordeal. Instead my boy-friend googled what to do, and came back with stories of women sinking their nails into their partner’s arm and screaming into the endless night when will this end? Who let loose the snake inside the womb, curling itself around the hot-iron coals and flicking the embers into the night sky?
My sister welcomed my initiation into Motherhood. That’s what birthing feels like, she told me, and your body knew exactly what to do, once it needed to. But it lacks joy, or triumph, or bravery. Yes, it was an initiation imbued with disconnection and confusion, and yet there is a reaching for connection and clarity. Over the phone she sends me a hug.
A few more ripples later - who knows how many - I get pregnant again. This child is here to stay; I know it! What startles me is how elevated in spirit my body felt in the first pregnancy; this one lies on me heavy and lethargic! That’s good, everyone says, as I share my morning sickness woes. It’s a very good sign.
I know it to be true. The Robin that came, came to prepare my reflexes, my partnership, my desire, my womb. To clear out and make ready the Temple; My Body.
I namaste to you dear one.
These poems come from the ripples
two souls
two souls
upon my body
and I am primal
I am survival
I am instinct
Great Unknown!
Your sea of potential
lives
within me
feather moon
the park is daylight
great trees brim with blue sky
feathered moon
perhaps you’re not there
light can play
astonishing tricks
feathered heartbeat
are you with me?
travel
there’s always a dream
that precedes our departing
yup, I turned up
without my passport
the one before me left
unexpectant-ly
taking my luggage
I don’t want to travel there
it’s not what I planned
upstream
he lies on his back
I take his hand
leading him
through the shallow wash
this stream curls
to the umbilical ocean
up stream
away
I can not sense
that you are anything
but happy
and I am happy to take you
on your course
wasp
at night before
I woke
I was stung
the honeydew
of morning
withdrawn
the wasp
my womb
ecology
upset the natural chain
of events
I come reduced
like soil saturation
of organisms
losing balance
catch you
she said perhaps
I can catch you
in my hand
you will be substantial
I am swollen
and the great ballroom is
sounding a bell
signalling it is time
for us to leave
the sound is neutral
but it makes the room feel
small
in process
I can see the sun doesn’t have long
this winter day
the dark will set in
I sit.
I change position.
I lie.
I move.
I walk.
The ocean sounds loud
in my belly, like a king
tide waiting to go out
taking the beach with him
Sensation
Sensations possess all my attention.
Sadness exists
somewhere far away
like a rainy day forecasted
for some other city
for some later date
miscarriage
out in the Cook Strait the waves
are rough we are warned
to sit still, all children
must be accompanied
by an adult at all times
but they run away
laughing
there is a transition
from Sounds to Strait
from indistinct motion
to commotion
the ship pitches
and the window takes
the shape of the sea, takes
the shape of the sky
outside silver fingers of God
impose a small relief
on a very distant
land, we overheat inside
with ice in our mouths
to control the shivers
and the waves come
thicker
heavier
closer
no space inbetween
and we roll
shudder puke and stare out
to one very discrete
point on the horizon
pain
I’m high in my womb
and it’s all going up
I wear a hat in case
I lose myself
out of my head
it’s hard to stay
in my body
I’m up my spine
I want to escape
my legs are lost
at sea, waves curling
I bend forward
Is this surrendered enough?
silver hair
I singled out that one
silver hair
it stuck out and I pulled it
the sac casing
cool and moist
pops from my skull
between my thumb
and finger I hold
a silver hair
to the light
it shines
a thread of myself
leaving
the smallest bald spot
lifted
this near full moon
high in the sky
this daylight surreal
these solid clouds
to walk upon
but I can’t fly
and see
what you see
you were lifted
from me
blue sky
two watery moons
alighted
off to one side
away from the clattering
water delighting
in its descent
mossy lichen cling
to the vertical
some drizzle and drops
form an ambling pace
some part of the stream
suspends itself
its slow dance
against time
as if alighting
before arrival
field trip
at the end of my life
I will write
a poem
to say this is how
the not-yets
go
taking some womb
with them
collecting minerals
door
Your heartbeat is too big
to shrink
into a body
our dimensions
limited, conditional
You wear your heart
on your sleeve
you model for us,
for me at least
that carrying love
is completion
is nature
You leave the door open
dear mother
I am willing
to try again
I offer my womb
as a journey into
my fullness
and fullest self
If there is no baby
or if there is a baby
I am willing
to try again
Natal moon
guide me