Common Place


The first miscarriage felt like the practical fulfillment of statistics.

The second felt senseless.

My reserves were used up in processing the first one with grace—such grace. Grace that sapped my energy, because it carried the weight of all of my pride in it.

My heart had nothing left when the second one hit. It turned immediately to violence and beat itself to a pulp in my chest, one sucker-punch at a time, pangs of unexpected breathless pain randomly for weeks.

It still happens.

On the one hand—the graceful hand—I am genuinely more grateful than I was before for the two chances I had to so easily, quickly, seamlessly conceive, carry and deliver two children, to nurse them, to have a body that cooperated.

I didn’t know I was lucky. Not really.

And on the uglier hand, I am angry at the wastefulness of it all. And confused at what to do next, staring down the barrel of another year, wondering how to move on.

Yes, but how?

And how do I quiet the voices in my head? The ones that say to deal with these questions privately. And the ones that say I shouldn’t even be writing this until I’ve had three miscarriages—yes, at least three before you can even talk about the subject. Especially since you already have two kids. You don’t even know.

I don’t even know.

All I know is that those statistics make the waste sound overwhelming. So much wasted time, wasted nausea, wasted hopes, preparations, daydreams. Those statistics make it all sound so commonplace, but the pain can be blinding, so where is it? Where is the common place? Where is the waste transformed into connection?

I don’t even know.

But maybe it could be here.

1 comment :

  • Crystalee

    Oh sam, I am so sorry for your losses and pain. I had two mini miscarriages before my first baby and it is such a hard grief because, as you so eloquently said here, it feels there is no place for that grief. Oh, your gift with words is stunning. And I’m sorry. Double sorry.

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