The experience of misscarriage

Three years ago, in the blossom of Spring, my other little boy-to-be died. If he had lived, he would now be two and a half years old. He would be running after his sisters and no doubt, would be creating mischief with our neighbour's boy, who alas, at the moment is the only boy amongst the wild crowd of girls. And I don't know if our now-oh-so-fully present baby boy would have ever come to us had the first one not died. 

Here is what I wrote to Valentin three months after he ceased to be. 


My dear Valentin


I hold you close to me, close to my belly, close to my heart. I hug you and hold you – I don’t want to let you go. It’s now three months and nine days since you have left my body. My body is still expectant, a hollow cave, empty and confused – what role am I to play now that you are gone? I am lost for words.

You were such a delicate and beautiful creature, fully formed yet still very small, almost the size of my hand. You couldn’t live without me. What is that bond between you and me? How is it that one creature is so dependant on the nourishment of an other?  What nourishment did you give me?

Carrying you was a special time. I felt connected to the world, as if the umbilical cord that connected us was also connecting us to the universe. We were larger than life, as we know it. The miracle of growth within me in preparation of the world is a gift to carry.

Your conception was a special time. It was a creative time. You coincided with me allowing my creativity to reach others – to be seen and to be heard – together with your father. We were creative together, and you were created in the process. One day before my birthday. You were my creativity baby.

You responded to me calling you. From day one your presence was so powerful, other people sensed your miniscule existence. Whenever I put my sacred music on you fluttered, as if in recognition. When I started bleeding and called you you came swimming towards me saying ‘it’s ok, I’m here, I’m ok’.

And when it was time to let go, to surrender as your daddy said, I said to you “it’s ok, we can stop the battle now, it’s ok you can go now”. And you did. You slipped out of me, effortlessly. You even took a last breath and then you smiled. 

Despite your size and tender age you were such an individual already, so uniquely you. And there was something about you that we recognized. You were at peace, you looked as if you had fallen from the sky into a deep deep sleep. You were beautiful. And you looked like your daddy looks when he sleeps.

What have I lost? Why does it hurt so much? What hurts so much? The loss of a creation? The loss of being heard and seen? The invisibility of pain? The emptiness? The loneliness? Through you I felt connected -  I was connected. Without you, with the separation of the baby from the womb………

I struggle to be.

I struggle to meet.

I struggle.

It is Life on Earth.