Bismillah ir Rahman ir Raheem
I’m not even sure it was a child. All I know is that it was a blighted ovum – a child that could have been, had those cells decided to multiply.
The easiest kind of miscarriage, from what I’ve heard.
So what did I lose exactly?
A chance to start again.
I lost and then I lost again.
Month after month.
It’s been a year almost since we lost our baby.
There’s a part of me that knows that I am being shackled by social mores. The only way to be isn’t as a mother. The only way to love children isn’t just to give birth to them. There’s a whole world of children that I could love. If that is indeed my calling. And it is.
There’s also a part of me that is gaping, empty. Wounded beyond recognition.
One year later I still feel grief. My body convulses in pain and anguish and refuses to get pregnant again. For fear I will cling to this small piece of flesh and then die over and over when what was never mine is taken from me again.
This is the opposite of peace. This is the quintessential attachment.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it. Other than to allow myself to feel it. I loved that little empty thing. That little empty white sac that passed out of me took a piece of me with it. No, not just me. Me and the man I’m going to love till the end of time.
Maybe my kid is playing with my mother in heaven. Maybe my mother felt lonely and asked God to send her someone to talk to. Mama and I used to have the most hilarious conversations. Mostly because I would never agree with her. Then she would get mad and she was funniest when she was angry.
And God said, “It’s not Sabina’s time yet, but here’s her child.” I hope you’re not giving your grandma too much trouble. Scratch that – give her trouble, she enjoys it. If she’s not tearing her hair out, she’s not alive.
But then neither of you are alive.
This isn’t one of those miscarriage articles with a soaring ending. “Two months after, I was pregnant again.” I’m not. I may never be. Who knows? I don’t.
I hate those blasted gloating articles. Everything doesn’t have a happy ending. This is not a goddamn Disney movie. Sometimes it’s shit and we need to sit in it. #pottytraining #ongoing
I’m learning to be okay with that. Like humans adjust to all situations, however intolerable they might seem.
Do you have a child I could borrow? I promise I’ll give them back in the same condition.
But some days I also need a break. I feel like it was my fault. And I find myself pleading with God. “Please. Give me another shot. I’ll have more vitamin D. I’ll eat more fruit and vegetables. I won’t bathe my child in my own trauma. Please. Give me one more chance to get this right.”
It’s amazing to me how well I can beat myself up. Guantanamo wouldn’t do as good a job.
There has been a little upside to the loss of my child. Just a tiny one.
I’m paying much more attention to my general well-being. I’m much more aware that if Mama isn’t well, baby isn’t well. I’ve spent so much time and energy trying to make peace with anxiety, depression and fatigue as a part of my life. When I should be kicking it to the curb as quickly as possible. A more joyous life is possible for me. With a few changes.
I stumbled onto a functional medicine practitioner. She diagnosed me with leaky gut. To my astonishment, she said there could have been a link between leaky gut and my mother’s ALS.
I have an autistic five year old. The last thing I want to do is die. At least for his sake if not for mine.
So I’ve started an anti inflammation diet. I’m taking every vitamin under the sun. I’m working on getting my five servings of veggies a day. A cultural bias towards meat isn’t helping but I’m working on it.
I’m fighting anxiety. I’m not killing myself like my mother did. I’m letting things go.
Some days I feel better. Some days I slip into my old bad ways and feel much much much worse.
I’m grateful to my body to waking me up. To love. And to me.
I alternate between compassion and self-loathing, sometimes in the same moment. It’s painful to be so alive.
Why am I telling you all of this? Am I using you as my garbage bin or what?
In my usual fashion, insha Allah (God willing) I’ll be making a web series on this very topic. Trying to turn my frowns into smiles.
It’ll be full of muck like Just Food. The way I like it. We’ll really get in there. Watch this space, lovely.