Bluebird in Your Soul

It’s been a year and eight days since we lost Sephy. 

I haven’t written. I haven’t chased the grief. And yet, it finds me.

At the back of a plane. Sitting next to a stranger. Dashing the tears away as the flight attendants go through the safety instructions. Coming back from a long trip that would not have happened if things had gone just a little differently a year ago.

And that’s the thing. When you lose a child there seems to be almost an obligation to lose the rest of your life too. How else can you feel close to the one you’ve lost? If you’re out there in the world, touching things, tasting things, doing things, you’re that much farther away from the one weight you truly want to feel in your arms. It feels like doing anything other than fading away is a betrayal. 

I still struggle with this. Am I sad enough? Has my life been rocked enough? If I am able to get up and move on with my life after such a devastating loss is there something wrong with me? Some call it strength, but it feels as though there’s something missing. I haven’t fed the wolves of grief and their howls are quiet. Shouldn’t they still be overwhelming? Shouldn’t I still be chasing after that ghost? Am I a bad mother for letting my daughter go?

I don’t know. 

I don’t think so.  

I think that the process of creating a child produces energy. It builds up in you, stored away in your heart and your soul and your bones and your muscle. It’s there for you to draw upon as you deliver your child. It’s there for you as you complete the grueling task of readying this precious new thing for the world. It buzzes and crackles, giving you the fortitude necessary for the impossible task of motherhood. It doesn’t leave you, no matter how old your child grows.

When you lose your baby that energy is still there. It hums and thrums as you look at that still face. It pops and cracks as you give that weight away, look at the tiny box in front of the tombstone with that carefully chosen name and single date on it. It doesn’t disappear with your baby because it is not your baby. It is you.

And it can destroy you, I think. It has to go somewhere. Here, I think, is the choice all of us mothers of lost babies face. Do you hold on to that precious, unworldly spark, or do you let it go? Do you clench in, tighter and tighter, or do you channel it? 

I believe you need to send it outwards. It hurts, and it’s hard, but if you hold it tight it will destroy you. It’s too much for one person to bear. And as much as you want to give it to your precious little one, you can’t. You have to direct it elsewhere. The people around you. Your children. Your partner. Yourself. Most importantly yourself. 

And it feels selfish. I know. I struggle with that every day. But this is a thing that destroys us. That urge to mother, that connection with our lost children, that unspent energy, believe me when I say that these are good things. But like all good things, they can go bad. They can send you leaping into the grave after your baby. They can leave you a numb, traumatized shell. They can take away your life. You’ll feel closer to your baby, I know this, but it will destroy you in the process.

So I channel it. That energy, it’s still in me. Now that I have wrapped my hands around it, sunk my fingers in deep, it pushes me. At the base it helps me to take care of myself. Eat right. Exercise. Sleep. Then it encourages me to take care of the people I love. Cooking meals. Service. A chat. A smile. And at the very edges, where it’s hot and crackling painful blue, it draws me to a place of acceptance. That energy, so painstakingly gathered and so breathlessly carried, allows me to see my life for what it is: a life without my precious daughter here in a physical form, but nonetheless a life filled with purpose, fulfillment, and love.

The thing is it was ectopic

The thing is it went bad

The thing is I was in trouble

The thing is it all worked out

The thing is I’m okay

Had my first midwife visit today. Totally unexpected - when I called yesterday I assumed I wouldn’t be going in until I hit 9-10 weeks, but my midwife wanted to see me right away.

Perfect.

One of the things I’ve had the hardest time with after losing Sephy is, for lack of a better word, “medical-phobia.” It doesn’t help that I despise the American medical system with a burning fiery passion. So in the months leading up to this pregnancy I’ve been somewhat anxious about what my experiences were going to be like.

But I think it’s going to be okay. Part of it is simply the Women’s Center I go to. It’s in a tiny hospital in a small town. It’s very small: 2 midwives and 1 OB, and everyone knows each other. They were extremely supportive after losing Sephy, and everyone seemed genuinely thrilled that I was back.

So I got a chance to talk about some of the symptoms I’ve been having. And, of course, they’re nothing to worry about. It looks like I’ll be having some extra testing this time around, which suits me fine. I’m having an ultrasound next week! My midwife gave me her home phone number and her pager number and told me to call if I stub my toe. She’s amazing.