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I was clearing out old notes in my Evernote app on my phone this morning when I came across a gut wrenching piece of writing I did just after my second miscarriage.

I remember just needing to write to help express my feelings as I felt like I had completely shut down. I gave it to Toku to read to help explain where I had disappeared to.

It’s when I started to think that perhaps blogging might help. But instead of starting my own, for a long while I just left long sad comments on other people’s blogs. (Sorry if you were one of those bloggers!)

I sunk into a few long miserable months of depression and lethargy.

It’s a relief to look back now and know that I got through this. It is also a bit sad to know that nearly 18mths later we are no closer to holding a live baby.

Here it is, in its unedited state.

Untitled note 18/03/2012 3.13pm

‘This grief has both hands inside my stomach cavity. I feel it squeezing my kidneys, fingers tightening down on my womb. It’s settled in there for the long haul. I walk around with it, it’s letting me function, but then it grabs me again, both hands squeezing with intent. “Feel that? Do ya? Remember you lost a baby. Remember you lost two babies. Whats wrong with you eh?”

It’s there to remind me that something’s not quite right down there. It hurts deeply. It makes me want to be sick, it makes me want to sleep and sleep so I won’t hear it, feel it, remember. But then it doesn’t let me sleep. It’s with me in the night especially, any time my love is asleep or absent.

Last time it had me with both its hands round my throat. I couldn’t breathe. It forced me to make high pitched noises, screams, gurgling noises of unbridled grief. I felt like I’d been stabbed, the unexpected blood, loss, shock.

This time the grief is bridled, managed, understood. It’s there and it’s not going away. The shock isn’t the same. I think I liked the shock better. If its unfathomable then you can’t understand it, and maybe sometimes you can pretend its not real.
But I can fathom this, I know this grief. I’ve done this before, just months ago. It’s a familiarity I’m not happy about.

I want to scratch my self and bang my head hard against the walls, lie on the cold floor unable to breathe heaving with sobs, I want to bite my lips till they bleed. But instead I am just numb. The tears don’t come often and are easily stifled, I shut them down before they possess me.

My love says she feels the agony in my eyes. I guess that is what it is this time. It’s an agony. A slow deep agony that won’t heal, that I know won’t fade away.

Last time the pain was shocking, vibrant, bright red blood and screaming noises, being strangled to death. this time is agony, being poisoned, some one disemboweling me, very slowly and painstakingly. With care and attention to detail.

We buried our second baby yesterday, laid her to rest on top of what was probably her sister. Laid her to rest sounds nicer, but the reality is that we buried them in the cold dank clay, and as many flowers and ferns and healing leaves we placed tenderly around them, it won’t keep them warm. It won’t stop their beautiful flax boxes from rotting. It won’t stop the earth from turning so cold as winter sets in.

Our first baby would have been nearly due now.

I’ve carried two babies. But I’ve never heard a heart beat, I’ve never felt them move inside my body. I’ve never seen them or even felt their bodies in my hands, skin to skin. I’ve touched the sac that they are inside and their placenta, I’ve tenderly cradled their harakeke caskets in my hands, crying onto it, whispering to them and stroking it as though it was their small bodies.

I’m so very sad. I just want a baby that lives, one that I can hold.’

 

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