For All The Fallen Stars

A wonderful friend is in a serious amount of pain, a suffering so deep and personal that I do not know how to begin to digest it. I suppose I must start by breaking the silence, by saying the word few will say out loud. Miscarriage.

At twelve weeks the baby that grew inside her died. She wanted this baby so badly, so deeply that the love she felt exuded from her skin. She glowed. She was radiant.

But now that light has gone out, and though the glimmer of hope for the future remains there is an unsettling stillness there, an inconsolable anguish that burns beneath her brave smile and broad shoulders. Today we laughed and today we cried as we tried to piece together the incredulity of this life we live.

She is certainly not the only woman to experience this heartbreak. The numbers are substantial, especially considering we do not talk about this. One in five pregnancies ends this way, one in five mothers-to-be suffering in silence. Including myself.

My story is different, but still causes me terrible pain some two years later. My baby was barely there, barely a twinkle in the sky of my mind’s eye, but its fire branded my soul. For less than six short weeks we lived and breathed together and I still mourn. The child was accidental, but not unwanted – or so I believed.

I knew before the first twinges of violent, caustic heartburn that something had changed in me. My body felt different, my breasts and center. I felt lighter and brighter. It was mysterious and magical. At once I recognized its presence and I knew it was beautiful and that I loved it; the overwhelming love that parents speak of and the rest of us don’t quite understand. The connection was complete and it was holy.

My partner had wanted a child so badly he threatened to leave me if I would not produce one for him. He dreamed of a family of his own and I was uncertain. But when I broke the news I was confident, changed, and he stood stunned – stunned while I held my breath waiting for his gleeful cry, waiting for his loving and accepting embrace. I waited over a week, sick with anxiety. Sick with worry that he would reject me or the child. Our child. The child we had made together.

When he finally let his breath go, when he finally released his reaction he was cold and distant from the beauty of the life that grew inside me. Frigid and analytical he told me he could do it if he had to, that he didn’t want it now, that he wasn’t ready. Ready was not the word I would have used to describe my own place either. I was terrified and overjoyed all at the same time.

I felt the light fading before my body began its work. I would awake in the night clutching my stomach and praying. I prayed for the life of my child and that my partner would embrace me and the growing life inside me. But he slept farther away now, the distance on the mattress a cold and vast canyon. I cried myself to sleep, waking all too frequently in a delirious whirlwind of worry. That last night I knew it was over and I soaked my pillow with wracking sobs as my uterus contracted on the life within me.

The blood was thick and the reddest I have ever seen. It poured and dripped and seeped out of me and every time I saw it I wept. The heartburn stopped and I longed to feel its prickly acid again.

When I told my partner his breath did not catch in his throat, he did not blink or sigh. His face told the story. He was relieved. He hugged me and told me he was sorry, but I could feel the tension that he’d held in his body leave him and enter the space between us. It stood like a wall, blocking him from me. I was more alone in that moment than I had ever been before or since. It was more than the end of this precious life when he told me two days later to “get over it” that “it’s not like you were really pregnant”.

As I mourned my loss, my baby, I was comforted knowing I had dodged an enormous bullet. Or that’s what my friends told me and I believed them. But now as I try to comfort my friend who lost her child after three months of knowing, loving and breathing with her I am overwhelmed by guilt. Her light had been brighter and still faded. Her child was desired by both herself and her partner. Her child was created with intention, love and purpose. My own loss is shameful in comparison, but it is also the only understanding I can offer, the only context I have.

I love you, my friend.
I love you, baby.

Women do not have to endure this pain in silence, putting on brave faces for our friends and family. No one need shake their head in secret code. Your loss is real, your pain is justified. Do not hide in the shadows of guilt and shame, share your stories and know you are not alone.

Some Interesting Things

I first heard about Polly Morgan at work the other day. My boss mentioned something about Courtney Love freaking out over a moving crew throwing out an expensive piece of art which happened to be a taxidermied chick in a match box. I was instantly enthralled. Not by another of Ms. Love's tirades, but rather by the macabre and alluring idea of fine art taxidermy. Call me creepy, but I like it!

http://www.flickr.com/photos/polly_morgan/
(too bad her website doesn't seem to be working... http://www.pollymorgan.co.uk/ )

Another artist I came across was Guilherme Marconi, a Brazilian illustrator. You may recognize some of his art from various ad campaigns including Nike and Absolut Vodka. While I am not a fan of advertising in general, I still enjoy Marconi’s style and intricate images. I have always had a fondness for images in which I can see others. You know, things that look like other things? The abstract, perhaps. I also dig repetition and manipulations. Or maybe I just like weird art (and if we consider who I've dated... well, that's another story isn't it?).


http://www.marconi.nu/



And finally, I had a thrilling and fulfilling experience after Atomic Vaudeville last night. The show was a success and the usual merriment began, but just as I thought it would be the same old Saturday with AV a young lady starting teaching everyone how to Double Dutch. Now, I am not a very athletically inclined person (nor am I terribly coordinated) so the idea of jumping over two skipping ropes that are turning in opposite directions had me backing slowly away. Sure, I used to jump rope like it was nobody’s business, but that was 1989. I’d also never been successful at Double Dutch, even at that tender age, and I just took it as my lot. I mean, we can’t be masters of everything, right? Well, twenty years later the crowd is cheering and the ropes are turning. The pressure is building as everyone asks, “are you going to try it?” and I realize I’m the only one who hasn’t.

Call it peer pressure, exhibitionism or being a little bit drunk, but I suddenly had to do it. The hypnotic rhythm of the ropes clicking against the floor awoke the nine year old in me and I flung myself at their mercy. Our instructor was concise, the crowd was supportive and I was nervous as hell. My first attempt was a disaster with me running into the fray and getting tangled in the ropes, but by attempt number five I was flying!! I ran in and suddenly my feet lifted and there was no turning back. I was caught up in the magic spell, and it was easy. I was nine years old again with the spring breeze blowing my hair triumphantly behind me and the patter of school yard rhyme dancing on my lips, no one could stop me!!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Double_Dutch_(jump_rope)