LET THEM
NOVEMBER 2023
The month of November and the beginning of December delivered one of the hardest times of my entire life. Nothing could ever have prepared me for this feeling of loss. At my 13-week ultrasound last Thursday there was no heartbeat. Besides the lady looking at the screen and giving me the worst news possible, there were no signs of miscarriage. No bleeding, no pain. Just the most intense feeling of my heart breaking into a million pieces. Could she check again? Could this just be a bad dream? Is the machine broken? I mean, I still feel nauseous! I’m tired all the time and I just want to eat watermelon and cashew nuts! Are there any more tests I can do? ‘Not really’, she said, ‘the ultrasound is pretty conclusive. There is no heartbeat. Your baby stopped growing 5 weeks ago. We’re very sorry, you can take as long as you need. You don’t have to talk to anybody at reception, you may just leave. Please let us know if there is anything we can do for you.’
I was on my own. Sam had to stay home with Zaki because we don’t have any family in Melbourne. Oh my God, my family. I haven’t even told them about this pregnancy. It was supposed to be a big Christmas surprise when we went to Western Australia in a couple of weeks. What do I do now? What do I say? I had a bad feeling since last night when I dreamt about being bitten by a snake. And I had to step over a dead rat in the parking lot at the ultrasound clinic. But I put it down to paranoia. A mother’s instinct, I guess. But not even that can overtake hope.
My GP called me a couple of hours after I got home, after he got word and advised me to go to emergency in order to discuss the next steps. I was unsure about a lot, but what I did know is that I had to physically experience the loss in order to even start thinking about healing because for now, I could only take someones word that my little girl had flown away. I can’t even type or think or say that without crying. I think I’m fine, then I’m not. Then I am. Then I’m not. And so it goes. But I know I will be. Eventually. And I am even more certain that I will never be the same again. Something has changed inside me forever. I knowing and a perspective that can only be born when something dies.
I was checked in at the hospital on Sunday morning. Put to sleep by 4:30pm. I woke up 45 minutes later with no pain other than a dull cramp in my lower abdomen and a searing pain in my heart. The nurses and doctors were lovely. Absolutely out of this world and I am so, so grateful that I had medical staff taking care of me that have a degree in both medicine and compassion. And tact.
I’m home now and starting to feel a tiny bit better. I’ve taken the week off and kept my little boy close and in all his two year old wisdom, he knows that his mama needs him. He is like my little shadow, making me laugh and never leaving my side. We’ve been playing in the garden, reading books and dancing. Mommy’s sunrise. I see him slightly differently now. I knew he was a miracle when he was born, feeling the fragility of the moment and vulnerability of this little life and couldn’t survive without me. But it’s even more obvious now. These children, these tiny souls. They are so fresh from the other side. They remember more where they came from than where they are, which is why they soak up every moment. Full of wonder. Full of dreams and joy. They are our teachers. No matter how fleeting our interactions. Just let them show us. Let them.
#freepalestine
