All practice is the practice of making a turn in a different direction. Toward one thing and away from another: the particulars in any situation don’t matter, because we always know the right way. A different way. With practice, you get better at turning.

Fulfillment derives not from lofty achievements, but from ordinary feats. It arrives not once in a lifetime, but every moment of the livelong day.
– Karen Maezen Miller. Hand Wash Cold

I finished this book today, reading a couple of chapters every night before sleep. I found comfort in its simplicity, its humanity. It made me feel better on the days, like today, when I wonder if I’m doing this all wrong. It helped me to remember that this is my practice right now, this turning toward grief, toward myself, toward life in all its fullness, toward every moment of the livelong day.

I have finally stopped bleeding. It’s been six weeks since the last round started. I have mixed feelings about it. There’s relief but also a sadness, knowing that every time I bleed from now on, it will be a reminder that I am not pregnant and will never be pregnant again.

Steve and I decided that if Benjamin didn’t live, we couldn’t go through another pregnancy. We’ve got the getting pregnant down, it’s the staying pregnant that we don’t seem to do well – that I don’t seem to do well. I am like my maternal grandmother, though she did manage to have two live babies. She also lost three – one early, one at 8 months, one 24 hours after birth. I’d been having thoughts about changing my mind, about being unwilling to commit to the finality of “never again”. I’ve been grieving for Benjamin and also for any others I might have had, had things (i.e. my uterus) been different. Through the grief, a little flickering flame of “maybe” lit in my heart.

Last night I began to read other blogs by mamas who have lost babies and my heart broke again and again. Each of us has our own journey, our own gifts, our own lessons, yet the pain is so familiar and I realized that no, I can’t go through it again. I don’t want to risk another baby’s death. I don’t want to risk my life. I will talk with the doctor when I see him in two weeks but it seems clear that I need to continue to grieve all of these losses. Benjamin, my two miscarriages (funny how I’ve dismissed them in all this, but that’s a topic for another day), and the children my future self might have had.

I can see why some people try again quickly after a second or third trimester loss. I ache so badly for a child to hold, for my daughter to be a big sister, for a way to ease this sense of everything being upside down. Part of me wants to start looking into adoption possibilities. Not to take action – I know I’m not ready for that – simply to see what’s out there. I recognize it as a distraction, a form of denial, a way for me to avoid what’s right in front of me. My fear about Ada is a similar distraction, a more powerful one.

I sat with the woman who ran my pregnancy group last night. We have the same Master’s degree in Psychology. She teaches Birthing from Within classes among many other things. I asked her to help me process some of what’s been coming up for me. She agreed. Not only was it a huge relief to sit with someone who could hold space for the hugeness of my feelings, she was able to help me see my fear with new eyes.

She asked me what my fear would say if she were sitting next to me on the couch. It took me a moment, but I finally heard my fear’s voice. She told me she would sit with me as long as I needed her, and that the more I allowed myself to grieve, the smaller she would get. She told me it was okay to need her for a while – it was normal, human. She told me I was strong enough to handle anything life put in my path.

My head still gets in the way. Fear is tricky and there’s a monster on my left shoulder that says nasty things. Scary things. But when I look at that monster closely I realize she’s just a scared little girl who’s in a lot of pain. She’s a piece of me. The piece that doesn’t believe I deserve to be happy, healthy, abundant, joyful, at peace.

So I put my little girl next to my mama’s fear and I thanked them. I know they’re just trying to keep me safe but I think I can take it from here. With a whole lot of love and compassion, and support from my family and friends, I think I can take it from here.

There is a man in dirty jeans and sweat stained shirt, talking on the phone and holding a stop sign. He is balanced on one leg, his heavy work boot planted firmly in the center of my chest. His name is Grief.

*****

I realized today that I expect myself to do this whole grieving thing gracefully. Puffy eyes and snotty nose are acceptable but anger and jealousy are not. Once again I am holding myself to impossible standards. I am afraid that being wholly human – i.e. having ugly parts, ugly feelings – will make me unlovable. That is an old fear and I have a feeling that letting go of it will be one of Benjamin’s gifts to me. One of my gifts to myself. Which means I have to risk being ugly and unlovable and out of control. I have to risk being me.

*****

Sending my love and gratitude to Mynde and Laurel for holding space for my grief with compassion today, for helping me see fear in a different light, and for reminding me to trust the process.

I’ve been wondering about a few things. I try not to. I can’t go back and change what happened. I can’t bring Benjamin back. So I work to stay in a place of trust that I did all I could. It’s certainly what the doctor believed.

And still…

What if I’d had Reiki three times a week instead of just once? The bleeding always seemed to stop afterward. Could I have made it to week 25? or 27? or 30?

What if I’d taken better care of myself? Had more baths, meditated twice a day, written as much as I wanted to? Would it have helped get rid of the chronic stress that I’ve been told is part of my body’s problem?

I stopped in to see my acupuncturist on Monday to schedule an appointment. She helped me with my miscarriage in January. I thought about seeing her during the pregnancy but I didn’t want anything to blame. I didn’t want to say in even a tiny little piece of my heart “it was the acupuncture that did it”. When I told her the news she said “oh, I wish you’d kept coming”. Which I heard as “maybe we could have saved your baby”. Then today I read an article on getting pregnant and both women used acupuncture and Chinese herbs to overcome huge difficulties and give birth to their children. I felt sick to my stomach afterward. Did my fear of acupuncture hurting keep me from something that might have helped?

These are not trains of thought I want to ride for long. They are painful and pointless. Still I can’t help but wonder, for a moment or two, what if…? Would anything be different? Was this really what was supposed to happen? If I don’t get my s**t together and start taking baths and meditating and getting regular acupuncture and chiropractic treatments and chanting and clearing my clutter and living my purpose is there just more pain and loss ahead?

For split seconds I think “What did I do wrong?” and my heart breaks.

Then I cry, breathe, pick myself up and move forward. I got a second chance with my marriage. I don’t get a do-over on this one.

But every now and then, I wonder.