The teal of my tale

I am hesitant to experience what Brené Brown calls a vulnerability hangover, but equally if I don’t have somewhere to share I will explode and this is so very much part of my tale and this is my space. So I am sharing my current experience of miscarriage and I also know the power of sharing our stories and literally how reading another’s experience in the middle of the night can ease some of the pain and aloneness. 

I know everyone experiences things differently and some don’t struggle with a miscarriage like I have but I am struggling. In the very depths of my soul. 

I will start backwards though because yesterday was three months since I delivered my 7 week bean I have named Constance on the side of the road in the middle of our family holiday. It was a day of reflection forced upon me because over the weekend some who I care most about in the world indicated that I was not sad over losing Constance but sad over my life in general. Intimating ever so carefully and what felt not understood that I was grief crazy and not in my right mind. 

Sparked by my husband declaring he did not want us to try for another baby. He felt that his age and our lifestyle would not benefit from a new baby. I disagree from the most primal heartfelt place in me. But it was framed over the weekend that my husband held the practical rational point of view, while I was heartbroken and grief filled and presumably in that assumption lacking reasonableness and practical rationality. Maybe. But when did emotions become wrong or lesser against logic?

In any event this is a discussion that will continue to be had by my husband and I because I am not ready to concede that life that I glimpsed. Rightly or wrongly this is where I am. 

I do however concede that my husband’s decision has made me realise that I had delayed feeling all my grief over Constance with the thought that I would be blessed with a new baby. When my husband told me that was not what he wanted I have felt the feelings of grief all over again. So strong. 

I have felt every part of this pain. I have faced it. I have journaled in a special book I bought on the day of my miscarriage where I have written to God, my baby and even to myself. I have sat and just cried. I have sat and felt sad and heartbroken and broken and empty. I have sat and listened to whispers. That is how I learnt my baby’s name and even that she was a girl. I have consciously felt my grief. Touched it. 

Though on the weekend I was made to feel that I had had enough time. This was not over a lost baby and I felt like I was been made to move on. But I was not even at the three month mark. And I say to them and to you and to myself that at three months we are still allowed to be deeply sad and broken and numb. We are allowed to have good days and bad days. We are allowed to cry. We are allowed to want another one. And I know for sure that grief is not rational and practical and we are damn sure allowed to not be rational and practical and that is good. That is okay. And I am not the only one. Neither are you if you are reading this in the middle of the night with tears running down your cheeks wondering if you are crazy. You aren’t. Neither am I. 

Mothering is not a rational practical journey. So I don’t think the deciding factor on a baby should be only rational or practical either. And the also don’t think our grief over lost babies is rational or practical. The biggest loss I feel is the lost dreams I had for her. I had worked out where her 3 month portrait photo would go next to her brother and sister’s. I had glimpsed my future of breast feeding, wondering what sort of sleeper she would be, wondering what it would be like after the big gap. Excited at what I knew now and looking forward to cherishing the heck out of her. I didn’t just lose a 7 week old foetus, I lost all those dreams and thoughts and wishes because you don’t just start loving your baby when they are born, you love them in your belly if you are lucky and blessed enough to conceive. 

On the side of the road, telling my children to stay in the car, four hours after my labour pains had begun, one day after been told there was no heartbeat anymore, two days after I first started spotting, I delivered a baby and lost dreams and so much potential. It wasn’t tidy. It was hard and traumatic and surreal. I am beyond grateful my beautiful husband was there to support me and hold me up and love me. I know what I have and am lucky to have when I look at my beautiful children. But knowing that does not take away from what I have also lost.

It was real, and three months does not make it any less so. Even with the thought of a need for a new baby to bless our family. Because I will still be the mother of an angel. That can’t change. I know because I have wished and prayed for that very thing and it is still the same. 

So. The start of my story or what I will share for today because it is enough. And it is a start because it is a journey. And not all of it can be tied up in a bow, sometimes it is just messy, and may skip around and make no sense, but I will share and express my story here. A blog that started off about how to define my joy. Ironic that it will be this space where I hopefully find it again as well. Where I will define a new joy.

I am sorry to those who are only here for the art and creativity. But that will be here too. This influences a lot of my art at the moment. I have become obsessed with spirit vessels and plaster angels and wings which I will share here. And emptiness. That too.

But this will be here too. For those who are looking for threads in the middle of the night. To try to weave together so they can hold themselves together in the light for those that need them. And because I need this for me too. In a purely selfish way. 

I see you. I see me. And we are doing okay. I have never subscribed to rational and practical and I won’t start now or try to define my grief journey through that lens either. I love those people that want me to be in a different place, and I know they only want to help and are trying to do what they think would be best. Sometimes though we need to trust our own whispers in the darkness. 

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18 thoughts on “The teal of my tale

  1. The loss of a dream. I think that’s the crux of the matter . . . and like the loss of hope, it is something so tragic that the resulting grief can be overwhelming. Please take care, be of strong heart and know somewhere deep inside your Self that a new dream will one day take shape.

  2. My darling girl, you have laid bare your heart and mine aches for you. Of course you are grieving, and will always grieve, for your sweet Constance – it has only been 3 months, a mere moment in time. She will always be the empty place at the table, the school place not taken, the birthday party not enjoyed – and that is as it should be. She was here and she mattered.

    You MUST listen to yourself and those whispers in the dark if you are to bring yourself to a workable new reality. You and your husband will always be different, you are not the same 2 people you were before her loss and – given time – you will both find your way.

    xxx

  3. Natasha as mentioned grief is a very personal journey and there is no time frame. The ones that I love dearly told me at 6 month mark of the loss of my beautiful girl who was 7 years old when she passed that I should move on, that I should be over her already etc. etc. Like you my world was rocked to it’s core. Lucky for me I had a beautiful woman in my life, who also happened to be my mother-in-law and she graced me with some sage words ‘Allow the first year to grieve in whatever form it takes, don’t listen to those nearest and dearest (their journey is different especially if it is a male) find a friend who will allow you to talk/cry/wallow in the deepest despair without fear or judgement and then on the anniversary, have a celebration or ceremony to honour their existence and the end of your journey and then give yourself permission to move on’ – I have now lived through those word for other losses in my life since then. Hugs to you Natasha as you continue along the path of finding solace and understanding. xxxx

  4. oh, Natasha. i can’t even possibly imagine. my heart aches for you….so deeply. thank you for sharing your story…you’re so right to do so. and no, grief has no timeline….i imagine it like some skulking beast that lurks around dark corners…..even when you think you’re okay again, it leaps out at you and it starts anew. bless you, dearest one. xoxo

  5. Sweetheart! The anger screaming from your words makes me weep for you. To start with , 3 months is no where near long enough to recover from such a traumatic event. As a “veteran” of more than a few such events…with only 2 children to show for it all, I still have moments when I shed tears for the daughters I never birthed. The last of which was over 16 years ago now. At the time hubby went straight into the surgeon and asked to be sterilised, not because he didn’t want another child, but because he couldn’t cope with seeing me go through that trauma anymore. Our then only child(aged 8) asked me to have one more try, and 1 year later he had a brother. Then I agreed to let hubby have his op.
    Maybe having watched you suffer so on the road side has frightened your hubby in the same way? People often forget that the father can suffer just as deeply, just in a different way. They can blame themselves for our suffering(they got us pregnant), and that guilt can hurt them deeply. And just because they weren’t carrying the child, they still have their dreams of things to come…playing with their child, teaching them to read etc.
    Maybe you should just stop “trying”….and just keep loving each other…and let what will be be. Love you XXX

    • Gina.

      Gina. Your words. I can never say thank you enough for your sharing. It is such a loss of knowing. Thank you for being one of my threads in my weaving of this journey. And for sharing your losses so gracefully.

      He indeed suffered the loss. I witness all he felt as we journeyed that together. And perhaps that is influencing him as well. I do think the answer is to not try for right now and let it be God’s will for a while and not mine…as hard as that is for me to do as well. I have so much love for you. Thank you. xx

  6. One of the most painful parts of miscarrying for me was the enforced silence; it seemed like no one wanted to hear about it, I felt like I wasn’t allowed to talk about it, and I was always worried about all the stupid hurtful things people could say if I did talk about it. (A thread on mothering.com about stupid things people say about miscarriage helped me write them off easier.)

    I’m so sorry you’re struggling, and impressed and grateful for your bravery. You’re exactly right; it will definitely help someone somewhere in the future, and hopefully telling your story as many times as you need to will help you too. There is no “right” way to grieve, or even not grieve. There is no correct timetable. I’m so grateful to hear your voice added to women talking about this shared but suppressed human experience.

    I don’t write at this blog anymore, but here is my story, if it helps you feel less alone:

    my first miscarriage: https://threedecadeslater.wordpress.com/2012/09/18/almost-not-quite-summer-2012-part-2/

    my second: https://threedecadeslater.wordpress.com/2012/12/29/new-years-resolution-85/
    https://threedecadeslater.wordpress.com/2012/12/31/my-new-years-eve-looking-forward-and-looking-around-right-now/

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