“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scares.” – Khalil Gibran

It’s New Years Eve. It’s party central at Liverpool Hospital (or shall I call it, ghost town?) Waiting rooms that are usually buzzing with impatient patients are silent. Many of the hallways are bare. I’m taken back by the apparent desertion of the pathology arena. Lucky me… no queue! We should be right in and right out. Wait, there’s no one at the counter. The lights are off. A small sign is stuck to the glassed counter: CLOSED. Closed? Closed?! You would think that all these clues together would have convinced me. But it can’t be. The receptionist said it would be open. I feel panicked. Should I bang on the window and yell? Will someone come? Breathe. As it turns out, pathology was in fact closed to outpatients for a whole 7 days! With this news, I walk upstairs to the Feto-Maternal Unit hoping that this is just a terrible mistake and I’ve been sent to the wrong place. The doors are sealed shut. Maybe it’s closed for lunch? I’ll just wait. Is this what we call denial? I pace up and down the hall. There’s got to be an explanation. Doesn’t this facility understand what’s at stake here. 

After an hour, I’m defeated. No ones coming. It was emphasised how important this blood test was and in 3 days I’ll return for my appointment with nothing. It’s a sign. Nothing is going to go right. This is just setting me up for what’s to come, but I can’t leave. I just stand there. Like an idiot. A standing, anxious, idiot…

A nurse walks past from the back entrance of the maternity unit. She can evidently see the defeat in my eyes and the fear on my face. She asks if she could be of help. In my quivering, uneven voice I explain the situation. Don’t cry, don’t cry. She invites us into the maternity ward to a congregation of  welcoming and reassuring nurses who take my paper work and try to work out what to do. You could still sense the excitement from Christmas, with tinsel draped over the counters, joyful chatter and the echoes of the newly born voicing throughout the ward. I flick through the newborn brochures on the wall trying to hide my angst. I fear if I don’t stop flicking and pretending to read I’ll burst out crying. My lips haven’t stopped quivering. My eyes better not follow. Husband has that look. It’s his first time back here. After many attempts on the phone, it’s suggested that we may need to go through emergency, but they warn it will take hours! Another suggested that we may need to go to another hospital, but wasn’t too sure, so we continue to wait, out of place, for a solution.

Eventually a gentle looking young doctor came sweeping through with stickers and vials with my name on them. He escorted us to the maternity assessment room explaining that there was no one here to do it, but that he will as “we’ve got to look after our own”. I profusely thank him. I imagine that he must had just finished up delivering a baby, and now he’s here helping poor little insignificant me. He joked about the obvious confusion and consoled us with his gracious professionalism. He filled the time with distracting small talk about his work, holidays and his apparent phobia and reaction to needles. He made us feel like we weren’t a burden, that we weren’t wasting his time, that we weren’t an inconvenience. You can truly find kindness in the most unexpected places. Who would have though that an understaffed, underfunded, overworked, slandered placed like Liverpool Public Hospital in south-west Sydney was where I’d discover my first sense of mercy for a long time.

We were at the hospital for 4 hours for a 4-minute blood test. I’m exhausted. I’m emotional. I’m ready to farewell the worst year of my life.

3 … 2 … 1 … Happy New Year and welcome 2013! I really do hope you hold greater things for us.

“Every experience, no matter how bad it seems, holds within it a blessing of some kind. The goal is to find it.” -Buddha

Welcome 2013

“Never miss a good chance to shut up.” -Will Rogers

The Genetic Counsellors, who I only saw 6 months earlier, are sitting across from me. I’m at my first Genetic Counselling appointment, with the same doctors who gave me the detailed autopsy findings last time. What a horrendous meeting that was. This time, they gaze at me with eyes of delight. “Congratulations! Are you feeling excited?” Ah… no. They assure me that my response was to be expected. Ok, I’m normal. The professionals say so. “So… where is your husband?” Ah, not invited. I now feel a little less ‘normal’ but I plea my case for his absence. At the conclusion of my defence, they are convinced. Why didn’t I study law? I could be rich, I say! Rich! They give me the low down on how I will be looked after, the gist of their ‘role’ and that I was not to worry myself too much, as ‘statistically’ this pregnancy should have no issues. I can tell you where you can put your statics! Now, now… be nice.

I quiz them regarding my evidently popped belly. It’s huge! Someone has already asked me if I was pregnant, which I persuasively denied. While another someone cornered me until I confessed (never, ever ask… It’s the rules!) In light of this, I’ve resorted to wearing hessian sacks and moo-moos (well, just loose fitting tops really) as a disguise. The docs explain this phenomenon called ‘uterine muscle memory’. You get bigger quicker because your body already knows that it needs to ‘make room’ or something like that. Hmm… Interesting. It’s just not good for my efforts in keeping this all hush-hush though and I know there are already lots of suspicious people – the polite kind – the ones that keep their mouths shut.

After this meeting, I’m sent upstairs to book my first appointment with the Feto-Maternal Unit for my nuchal translucency scan (a.k.a. Facebook ultrasound). I’m greeted with a huge smile from the receptionist, “Oh, I remember you! Nice to see you back”. I’m told to have a blood test at the hospital three days prior to my appointment. She assures me that pathology will still be open at the hospital, despite the fact that my blood will need to be taken on New Years Eve.

Ok, all I need to do now is get through Christmas! No wine, no hot tub, no salads, cold meats or seafood. No vomiting on the dining table. No sitting with belly poking out. No bringing attention to my 5kg weight gain (did I tell you I can eat… no, I mean EAT-hungry-all-the-time-there’s-a-famine-coming-EAT, despite my nausea and vomiting… gross, hey!)

It’s Christmas Day. A friend announces her pregnancy on Facebook with a cute poem. We’re due 1 day apart. I’m imagining her celebrating this wonderful news with her family on this momentous day. How she must have been busting to shout the news from the roof tops. Christmas must seem extra special and I’m genuinely delighted in the baby news. I look at my family in all their wonderful Christmas craziness chaos. How I love them. How I’d like to share this with them…but I just can’t do it. To me, this news is not yet joyful or special. I want to write my news on a note and toss it down a well. A deep one… where no one will find it (Wow, that’s a bit ‘dark’, don’t you think?… snap out of it crazy lady!) But Christmas day is not for wells or the thoughts of the fragility of life. It’s not about dwelling on what was or what may be. So with my moo-moo and bread roll, here’s to my favourite season of celebration, without any thoughts of babies… well, besides the Jesus kind, that is. Merry Christmas.

“Some women are lost in the fire. Some women are built from it.”

“Ultimately it is not the grief that stops us from starting life over. But the fear of losing it all again” – Christina Rasmussen

Secretly, I’ve downloaded another ‘track my baby’ app for my iPhone. Good idea? Hmm, not sure yet. Even though I don’t want to ‘talk about it’, I still would like to be informed as to what is actually happening in there. So far my daily updates have reinformed me that my ‘blastocyst’ has now transformed into an ‘embryo’ and my cervix is now well and truly ‘plugged up’.  How delightful! According to this week, the umbilical cord is in formation and the abdominal cavity, limbs and many of the organs are ‘sprouting roots’. So scientific. So clinical. It’s just what I need! The word ‘baby’ has been banned in our house. If one must refer to that which is ‘growing’ in thee, thou shall refer to it as its ‘scientific’ title; embryo. I know, I must seem crazy, but my craziness is the only thing keeping me sane.

The day has arrived for my first ultrasound; 7 weeks and 4 days. Dread. I attend the ultrasound alone. I told hubby he doesn’t need to come along, “You’ve seen it all before. It’s just a blob with a flicker…”. I know if he tagged along, the look of unease he’ll show as he watches me in my state of worry will only exacerbate the situation, and instead of being able to ‘act cool’, I’d probably just cry. I don’t want to do this, but there’s no choice. I’m the woman. I bear the children. If something’s wrong then I’m the hero saving him from enduring something he doesn’t have to. I tell myself that anyway. Yes, I’m some awesome type of superhero!

I feel as if I’ve been sitting for hours in the waiting room and plea with the receptionist to use the bathroom, as the 1 litres of water I’m forced to drink pains me. She instructs to go “only a little bit!” Oh Lord, a little bit? What a task that was (yeah, try it one time!) After my hours of waiting (ok, more like 20 minutes) and just before it’s time for my scan, the fire alarm sirens blare through the clinic. Practise fire drill. Are you kidding? I’m forced out, along with the elderly, infirm and the physicians onto the street. Should I just run? It’s a sign! Ah, toughen up princess… Or should I say, awesome superhero…!

It’s finally my turn. I rest in silence on the table while the sonographer reads through my ‘referral’. She exits and seems to have an impromptu discussion with her colleagues about what she’s read. It must be interesting, or puzzling, or…? Everything is so quiet, but my body is roaring… no, not like a lioness roar… but more like an ear-piercing, head-splitting shrieking roar. The echoing of my breath is deafening… my heartbeat is blasting through my ears. I feel my sweat pooling on my palms. My lips quiver and the veins in my neck bulge as I hold my breath. My eyes won’t blink. Just breathe… breathe would you!!

I stare at the roof. I can’t look at the screen until she says with glee, “there’s your baby and there’s the heart beat”. A sweeping breathe of relief fills me. The blood starts pumping again at the rate it should. Hello, little one… oops, I mean… there’s my embryo! Anticipated arrival: 13^th July 2013.

Oh, how people long for this moment. To see that screen. To see that flicker. But pathetically, I can’t wait for the screen to be turned off. It’s just another thing on the checklist.

Obstacle 2: heartbeat = complete.

7 week & 4 days

“Every day is a new beginning. Take a deep breath and start again”.

“Maturing is realising how many things don’t require your comment” -Rachel Wolchin

I’ve seen my GP who has scheduled a dating scan and has written my referral to revisit the Genetic Counsellors at Liverpool Hospital. It’s all becoming very real now, but I’m still in complete denial, doing a good job at pretending that nothing has changed. The consistent nausea and daily vomiting, however, is hard to ignore. All of the ‘remedies’ I tried last time still don’t work; Ginger? Crackers? Please don’t get me started! The sick also makes me a little more paranoid this time due to the passing comments made a few months earlier by well-meaning, self-instated, non-doctor doctors; “Maybe the reason you were so sick before was because your body was trying to tell you something was wrong?” I know it’s nonsense, but that doesn’t stop me from freaking out. I feel exactly the same as last time and I’m convinced something must be wrong. What’s wrong with people? Haven’t you heard that if you don’t have anything nice to say, then don’t say anything at all? 

At the work front, my employment saga has continued. Of late, I have accepted the fact that my chances of gaining a permanent position have dwindled. Did someone say canned beans? This time, I don’t care that my future income prospects are hazy. ‘Life’ is so much more than ‘money’, so I say goodbye future house, goodbye stable career… disappointing, but accepted…

That was until a permanent position at my work was suddenly advertised. Great timing… *insert eye roll here*.

Over the past 3 years, I have applied for hundreds (ok, slight exaggeration) of permanent positions within the Department and have been invited to 6 interviews. No one can say I wasn’t ‘putting myself out there’. I so badly wanted… no… needed ‘security’. I disliked the idea that I could potentially be branded ‘dispensable’ and replaced at anytime on my current temporary contract. With each new rejection and each generic call;  “unfortunately you were not successful {as we have found that the teacher who has already been working collaboratively in our school for the last 8 year was better suited for the position}” … blah, blah, Duh! (I may have added that last bit in, but you get the idea)… I’ve become a little more defeated. I question whether to even go for this job. Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do and I know I work hard, but I just don’t think I could endure anymore disappointment this year.

With a fair bit of encouragement, I apply and am invited to an interview. Wow, interview number 7! How can you not take it personally? I know everyone goes through stages of self doubt and inadequacy, but in my current vulnerable state, my self talk at this point is disgusting, thinking that I’ve only been given this opportunity out of ‘sympathy’. How everything I now do is ‘tarnished’. Feeling like I’m being ‘tricky’ or ‘deceitful’ by applying knowing that I’m pregnant. Wondering if others will think I’m worthy or deserving. All stupid talk, I know. Luckily, I’ve become overly distracted in being inconspicuous, trying not to vomit all the time or to wee my pants; another of those lovely pregnancy symptom I’ve been graced with. I nearly call in ‘sick’ the day of the interview as I curl up in a ball at home with my face in a spew bucket. But I see this as my ‘last chance’…. really, it is my last chance!

I give it everything I’ve got in the interview, holding nothing back. All things have led me to this point. All those applications, all those rejections, all my doubt… this whole year, has brought me here. While answering the panel’s questions, I experience an epiphanic moment (is that even a word?). I realise how invested I actually am as a teacher… how much I actually do care about what I do… How I really don’t want to give this away.

When it’s all over, I’m utterly spent. I take a few moments and cry in the bathroom knowing that this opportunity is only viable because of our ‘loss’. In this sliding doors moment, I conclude that I would give all this up in a second to not have gone through this year. Everything else now appears so insignificant. I imagine where I would be if things were different. I would be at home with a 2-month-old, probably kicking myself that I’ve missed this ‘job opportunity’, but instead, I’m here… pathetic… in a bathroom cubicle… questioning everything I am… perplexed at the ‘timing’ of this all… secretly harbouring a new Little One that I won’t even acknowledge.

I got the job.

As I celebrate with those who had been cheering me on this whole time… While others shed tears of joy… as I declare my utter relief at job security,  I actually feel nothing. No overwhelming sense of gladness… no uplighting sighs of relief … No internal sense of accomplishment. I feel absolutely nothing. I’m confused. I’m lucky. I’m grateful.

I quietly thank her, thinking maybe she’s not here so we could be blessed with so much more. This ‘more’ that I don’t think I want or need. With that thought, I curl back into my ball and reach again for the spew bucket. Here we go again…

“Sometimes memories sneak out of my eyes and roll down my cheeks.”

“You told me I look sad today. I am sad most days. Today I haven’t the energy to hide it.”

It’s been 5-ish weeks since we arrived back from Samoa. I’m not even due yet and I already ‘know.’ I have this oh so familiar feeling. I tell myself to stop being ridiculous, it’s too soon to know, but my curiosity gets the better of me. I use one of the tests that was left over from earlier in the year. Two pink lines; ‘pregnant.’

So when’s the celebratory confetti supposed to fall? I guess this time I have the luxury of finding out in the comfort of my own home, a tad more ‘traditional‘ than last time.  I immediately experience an overwhelming sense that I can only explain as a big fist pumping “YES!”

Obstacle one = complete. 

I’m overcome with relief. Relief that falling pregnant hasn’t posed an issue, as it unfortunately does for so many, and for that I’m so extremely grateful... but with this said, I’m terrified… terrified as to what happens next? There’s no going back now.

Oh Lord! What have I done? Can I really do this again…?!

I had warned hubby of this moment. If, or when, we fall pregnant again, there is to be no fuss… no talk of it… and definitely no confetti. Life continues as if nothing has changed, until I say. I know that sounds cruel, but I still consider myself ‘damaged goods.’ Still, in saying that, I leave hubby a little congratulatory gesture for when he arrives home from work. I can’t drink now, but he sure might need one, or a few, for both of us.

Sharing the news with hubby

It turns out, he was evidently elated with the news, but is ‘party-pooped‘ with my stern reminder to not make a fuss. This doesn’t stop him from grinning foolishly when he thinks I’m not looking. Oh, why did I even bother… Hold on tight, this is actually happening.

“When your past calls, don’t answer it. It has nothing new to say”.

“Better to light a candle than curse the darkness” -Chinese Proverb

Five months have passed and we are on our way to the tropical escape that we previously cancelled when we found out I was pregnant. We have re-booked and are on our way to Samoa! The holiday is more than just a vacation. It’s the marking of a new beginning… for recovery and moving on with things. You see, hubby and I had that dreaded conversation that I’m sure we both wanted to avoid… you know… the one that’s goes a little like… “soooo…when do you think we’ll have children?” The very thought made me shudder. Purposely trying to have children? The concept seems so foreign. Now this wasn’t part of our ‘5 year plan’… but I guess nothing this year has been. I know the longer we leave ‘it’ the harder ‘it’ will be. I already know too much… every possible negative outcome…too many statistics dancing through my head… I know that the younger you have children, the lower your risk of everything is… maybe we should have started younger?… and I know the longer I dwell, the less likely I’ll come to terms with the possibility of growing a human. So we decide, on return from our trip, we’ll conceive, regardless of how scared or sad or uncertain I am, it’s going to happen… and it’s our secret. My only clause is: if anything goes ‘wrong’ again, then that’s it… no more chances. I don’t think I’d have anything left.

Paradise

Oh, Samoa, untainted beauty… A way of life I envy. All I’ll say is, if food and pandering is what you’re after in a tropical holiday, then Samoa is not for you. Samoa won’t indulge your sense of entitlement. It won’t gratify your wealth or status. Instead, it is our privilege to step foot on their land, regardless of who you are.

One of the many Samoan Churches

It’s a place made up of villages that seemly look as if they have nothing, but really have everything. With respect for their elders, a devotion to their family unit and a pure reverence for God like no other. A culture built on the pillars of mutual respect and support. Amazing majestic churches periodically invade the landscape, which appear as a vast contradiction to the simplistic housing of the Samoans, however, speaks a testament when you realise that the villager’s themselves constructed these grand sanctuaries… a marker, a symbol, a safe haven for their whole community. I felt chills down my spine when I heard the bells or the blowing of the conche shell that indicated united prayer time each night. Hearing the assemblies of Samoans singing with perfect pitch and tone resounded in my being and made my eyes swell with tears. Being taken back by the shrines and tombs positioned at the front of each home dedicated to their dearly departed loved ones… placed there so that they will forever be seen, acknowledged and present.

A lot of this happening… nothing!

Samoa made me realise how many freedoms and luxuries we luckily possess in our ‘western’ lives, but at the same time how much we have lost. These westernised ‘norms’, that should have never been made ‘normal’. Our normal in which we live in societies of self-promotion. We spend so much time and money building our own homes, but we don’t build our communities. We have compartmentalised our families and built walls of ‘yours’ and ‘mine’. We have our own things, our own rooms, our own houses. Where our elderly grow old without dignity. Where we are taught to seek space from others. Where our departed are lying alone and are now unspeakable. When did we ever confuse independence for isolation? We’ve lost our villages…

Samoa, you have renewed me just that little bit. You helped us forget for just that little bit. You gave us something else to talk about for just that little bit… oh, and you gave me a nice tan, for just that little bit too…

Now, I’ve got my own village to build… hopefully.

“There are better things ahead than any we leave behind”- C.S. Lewis

“My enemy and I are one and the same”

When I was pregnant, every morning and every night, I would place my hands on my growing belly and I would pray. I’d pray for health, for wholeness, and for whomever this little person would be, that they would be much greater than I.

For some unknown reason, God didn’t answer my prayer.

The feelings of sadness and disappointment still haven’t gone away and it makes me angry. I was initially angry with that midwife and my doctor to start with, for not granting me ‘that’ scan. Thinking maybe something could have been done earlier, looking for someone to blame. That reasoning is shut down with the fact that detection is only possible in the second trimester. Ok… I’m still angry… but with who now?

I’m angry and I blame you. Yes you, fellow humans. Complaining about your lives. You, who take happiness for granted. Who looks for objections. Who seeks out negativity. With your self-promoting agenda. With your insensitivities and pettiness. I’m angry that there is no hierarchy of grievance! That an essay deadline or a stained dress carries the same weight for some, as it does for another’s cancer diagnoses or loss.

I keep singing a song to myself that I remembered. It has been replayed in my mind for months now. I sing it over and over in my head. I find myself unconsciously humming the tune.

“They let him go / they had no sudden healing. / To think that providence would / take a child from his mother while she prays, / is appalling. / But who told us we’d be rescued? / What has changed and why should we be saved from nightmares? / We’re asking why this happens / to us who have died to live, / it’s unfair…”

It is appalling. It is unfair. Not just what happened to us, but what happens to millions of people around the world! Providence? Huh! Some ‘provider’! These lyrics make me angry… well, they make me angrier then what I already am. I read a quote by Max Lucado that pops up on my Facebook newsfeed; “During tough times, emotions are not reliable. Scripture trumps feelings. God is near whether you sense his presence or not.” I want to jump through the screen and choke it. My whole life I’ve heard the scripture, “For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.” (Psalms 139:13) That scripture didn’t trump my feelings now, did it?! So what God? Did you make a mistake this time?! I am angry, not at you, but at this so-called ‘God’.

My faith has been moved…

… and not in the way you might think. I was so angry with God… and even questioned his very existence. But how can I be so angry with someone who isn’t real? I realised that I have never believed in God more than I do in these moments. The moments of ‘why me?’ Why us? Why like this? Why anything that happens to anyone? Why the injustices in the world…? It is coming through these moments that I realised I’ve been asking the wrong question this whole time… Instead of asking the “why”, what I should really be asking is “why not”?

That song had made me so angry because it’s absolute truth. Why should we be rescued? Why should we be spared? We are never promised a life without the storms. We are not even promised anything beyond today.

So why have I fallen in this trap that nothing bad should ever happen to those who believe? It makes me think of all the verses that are quoted again and again… including the one I tried to ‘throw in God’s face”, and how out of context we try to use them. The problem is that all the words in the Bible are not written for you or about you, as we so blindly think at times. We rehearse scriptures of God’s love… but skim over the bits of God’s wrath, anger and might. We declare God’s mercy and grace… but fail to delve into God’s vengeance. We quote scriptures about us… about me… about my wonderful unique creation and individualism… but fail to recognise who scriptures were initially written to and for. We’ve missed the whole point… the greater good, the greater cause. How life is about not what I can gain, but what I can give to others. It’s about our neighbours, our families, our fellow humans. Valuing the valuable and embracing the struggles… the burdens… the tragedies… life… and maybe for once we should focus on the meekest of scriptures; “Jesus wept.”

The truth is, there would be no victories if there were no struggles. We’d never know joy, if we didn’t know mourning. They’d be no compassion without tragedy. As C.S. Lewis explains, “Tragedy is more important than love. Out of all human events, it is tragedy alone that brings people out of their own petty desires and into awareness of other humans’ suffering. Tragedy occurs in human lives so that we will learn to reach out and comfort others.”

I’m not angry with you. I’m not angry with God. This whole time I’ve really been angry with the one starring back at me. I am that selfish, petty person. I had become the centre of my universe. Even though I’ve been raised to know the truths of God, to know better, I have somehow deceived myself as to who God is… picking the parts I wanted… thinking that somehow I was the exception to the rules of life. Life doesn’t discriminate. Life happens… the good and the bad.

It is true, scripture, in its correct context, will always trump emotions. I know I’ll feel sad and angry. I will feel complete and then broken again. I will advance and then regress. This dance I’m sure to do for a while. But behind all this, my belief will not waiver… and instead of continuing to ask “why”… the only answer I’ll need is, “well… why not?”

…and to remember to sing the rest of the song.

“This is what it means / to be held, / how it feels / when the sacred is torn from your life / and you survive. / This is what it means / to be loved / and to know / that the promise was when everything fell, we’d be held.”

“Come, ye disconsolate, where’er you languish,

come at the shrine of God fervently kneel;

here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish-

earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.”

-Thomas Moore, c. 1813 ‘Sacred Songs’.

*(John 11:35)

“Even if happiness forgets you a little bit, never completely forget about it.” – Jacques Prévert

The weeks pass by and nothing changes. It’s the same pattern… the same rituals… the same pitiful story. My supposed thick exterior is protecting my brittle insides. I know that, however, in these few weeks I’ve had many opportunities to develop my tact and poise. Tact, while smiling at that student who hunts me down during playground duty just to tell me, “your baby died”… as if I didn’t know… every single time. Calmly, with a smile replying “yes, dear, I know”… every single time. Poise, to not punch the woman who went on to describe with glee how her cousin continued to smoke and binge drink throughout all her pregnancies and how, “they all turned out fine.” But really… have they? Are you really having this conversation with me? You do know what just happened, right? 

I know some people just don’t think, but oh, the things I could write… you have no idea.

Tact and poise, tact and poise…

My dreaded appointment has finally arrived at the Pregnancy and Infant Loss Clinic and I take the first session off work to attend. My parents are away celebrating their 35^th wedding anniversary and husband is again told not to come. Why drag us both through the mud, right? I sit in the desolate waiting room, flicking through magazines, flexing my jaw, widening my eyes, trying not to cry. This hospital makes me feel feeble and pathetic. The appointment’s running late, as the head Feto-Maternal obstetrician has been called away. My imagination runs wild thinking of the poor couple that may be upstairs right now receiving their sad news. My heart hurts for them. With apologies I’m eventually invited into another clinical room. A nurse, a social worker and the sweet obstetrician with the old blue eyes, the one that rubbed my arm all those months ago, are sitting informally, welcoming and warm. I’m alone, but they look at ease as I convincingly justify my solitude. We talk for over an hour… where I cry and cry at the injustice of it all, at being here, at having to relive it all again and at the fact that this isn’t going away anytime soon. Lots of questions are unable to be answered. The sweet man revealed that it was only the second case he’d come across in his whole 46 year career and that most of the staff would have only read about it in medical journals. She really should have been a ‘miscarriage’. Her little organs were too weak, too damaged. She should never have been, but she was. Again, I’m not too sure how to take it. I’m relieved, but angered at the same time, that nothing is “at fault.” It’s unfair. I’m warned to not even try to work out ‘why’ and the meeting ends with the advice to take a pregnancy multi at least 3 months before falling pregnant again. Lucky for me, I bought in bulk as soon as I found out I was pregnant and have continued to take my pills for the pink tub every morning. It’s just another daily reminder that I refuse to throw away. I’ve still got two tubs to go…

Gosh, I feel this story’s getting old. I want a new one…

I drive back to school thinking how am I going to get through the rest of the day. I’m a mess. I was so fortunate that the first person I saw was just the person I needed. She has always been able to make me feel vulnerable, safe and normal all at the same time. Who knew that “I’m fine” or “I’m ok”, wasn’t ‘fine’ or ‘ok’. Who would sit with me and have a laugh. Who made me feel like I always had someone looking out for me. Who understood in a way that not many others could. Who I will forever call friend.

With all this in mind… I compose myself. I’ve 32 kids and a Maths lesson waiting for me.

“Friend pick us up when we fall down, and if they can’t pick us up, they lie down and listen for a while.”

“ Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o’er wrought heart and bids it to break” – William Shakespeare

Hi-Ho… it’s back to work we go. I can feel my soul trembling within my skin. It’s first day nerves. First day back to school, without the shiny shoes and new lunch box. Everything still looks the same… derr, its only been 5 weeks!… but everything is now so different. It was refreshing returning to class… to see them… to speak to them… to hear them. Gosh, they were a tough mix, but how they would make me forget, just for a few moments, what had happened. The cards, the hugs, the demands to never leave again… oh, and the drawings. Drawings of hubby and I holding hands with a little winged baby looking down on us that said, “baby Sienna.” I heavy-heartedly threw every single one of them away. The conversations that followed; “Your baby died. It’s really sad. We missed you.” It seems that once they had acknowledged what had happened and shared how it made them feel, then everything else in the world could continue as normal. That simple. Oh, kids. Why do we ever grow up? How children can be chicken soup for the soul.

I know some colleagues are uncomfortable to be near me, but it’s ok. I don’t notice. I’m extremely busy, you see. I don’t have time to chat. I’ve got an unchanged pigeonhole I need to check for the 5^th time this recess. I’m busy making this cup of tea that I don’t even want to drink. I have a meeting with this wall of mugs for the next 5 minutes as my tea is being made. I’m busy making more work for myself on a computer, just so I can stare at the screen for a little while. I’m busy hiding my tears in the bathroom, washing my face… blowing my nose… avoiding eye contact. I’m busy being ‘out of the way’. I’m busy trying to ‘keep it together’. I’m busy not thinking.

There’s a big, fat elephant in the room. It’s me. I know it’s hard to know what to say… what can you say, really? It’s easier to say nothing. But those strong women who said something; “We missed you, we’re glad your back.” The ones who confessed; “I don’t know what to say.” 

You said something.

The ones who hugged or squealed with joy, “you’re here!”  Thank you, strong women. You made this elephant feel momentarily at ease. Where you swallowed your reservations and let me take a breath by piercing a hole in this prison of the unspoken. Silence hurts. Silence is heavy. Silence is suffocating. When out of consideration conversations stop. When out of awkwardness people go quiet. Thank you, friends for your words, your distraction, your nod, your smile, your eye contact.

I hate that I make people uncomfortable. I hate that people are conscious of me. Every afternoon driving home I would cry… mourning the old self I’m still trying to find. Annoyed at my weakness, at my awkwardness, at my continued stalemate which has already lasted too long. Fearful that I have to do this all again tomorrow.

I think I’m going to need some more of that chicken soup.

“What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others” – Pericles

‘Time is a physician that heals every grief’ – Diphilus

It’s been a whole 5 weeks and I’m scheduled for my first appointment back at the hospital with the Genetic Counsellors. We are hoping for some ‘answers’. I don’t let hubby come. I feel he’s already been through enough, and I make out that the appointment is just a ‘check up’. He fights it, but realises quickly that it’s not up for discussion. My mum on the other hand… well… she doesn’t take no for an answer, and I realise quickly that it’s not up for discussion. Touché. Walking back through the hospital again felt surreal… all my sense are heightened as if I’m dreaming, but I feel completely disconnected. This didn’t happen. The two doctors give their condolences with those haunting sad eyes that seem to follow me everywhere. They explained their concern regarding this appointment being “too soon” after everything that had happened. I’ve been waiting 5 weeks to know! It’s not soon enough! They then went on to ask questions about family medical history and revealed the results from the amniocentesis and autopsy. We find out that she had a ‘severe form of a rare and complex anomaly’. Medically, there are no genetic or environmental reasons how or why. No rhyme. No reason. No explanation. “Just because.” I don’t cry. I just nod and say ‘ok’. It hurts. It hurts really bad. “You’re taking this very well.” Well, how else am I supposed to take it? Tear my clothes to express my deep sorrow? I’m sure if mum wasn’t there I would be a puddle, but I have someone to be brave for. They go on to explain that the likelihood of anything happening in future pregnancy is the same as everyone else. We all get put back into the lotto, but nevertheless, I’m told to contact them when we’re ready to have another baby (no thanks) and they’ll ‘look after me’. I’m booked in for a subsequent appointment in a few weeks to see a ‘panel’ at the Infancy and Pregnancy Loss Clinic and to have ‘questions ready’. My head is already flooded with questions as I digest this new insight. No reason? No one? Nothing to blame? Not even the cheeseburger?  I don’t want to go. Enough already.

With all this information and no-answer answers, I return to work the next day. Get your smile ready… lights, camera… who am I kidding. This sucks.