As I debated whether or not to turn on the light in the bathroom in the middle of the night, it hit me with absolute certainty that I can never be pregnant again. To spend 9 months, or 6 weeks, or 5 1/2 months, wondering when I will see blood again? The memory of those feelings – of the bleeding – makes my body want to crumble in on itself. I can’t do it.
The magician chiropractor I see found a belief in the middle of my spine today that he wanted me to release. Turns out that’s where I was holding on to, It’s my fault that Benjamin died. We worked on it. I sobbed. My body told him I’d let it go. I’m not so sure.
It is my fault. Not in the traditional blaming sense. I didn’t actively do anything to cause it although I sometimes wonder if I could have done more to prevent it. I didn’t snort cocaine, have hypertension or get kicked in the stomach – all possible reasons for a placental abruption. I can forgive myself for the fact that I had a little coffee, didn’t get quite enough sleep, picked my daughter up and ate sugar occasionally. Maybe if I’d seen my acupuncturist, or had more Reiki, or waited longer between miscarriage and pregnancy I would be 32 weeks and 1 day today. Maybe not.
But it’s my misshapen uterus that might have caused it. Or if you want to get all spiritual, there are a number of possible reasons for Benjamin’s death. It was my body that couldn’t carry him, therefore, I am somehow, at least partly, responsible. Otherwise I’d be nothing more than a victim in this situation and I refuse to feel that way. The whole things sucks and at the same time, this has been one of the most beautiful, empowering, life-changing experiences. Somehow I have to make room for both of those to be okay.
How did I get here?
November 25th is looming large.
We will have a new home by then. We’ll go away for a few days. We will stay at a hotel so I can spend Thanksgiving in bed and tell housekeeping, Not today, if I want to. We can say goodbye to Ben’s ashes if that feels right and eat $38 ‘smores by the Ritz-Carlton fire pit if that sounds fun. We can do whatever we want, anything we want, except hold our son in our arms again.