I Had a Miscarriage by Jessica Zucker (classic books to read .TXT) 📗

details of that day, abbreviated though they were, ended up being surprisingly cathartic. There was a peace that accompanied being able to reach out to those around me who needed to know what had transpired in a way that was contained. I also found relief in the ability to protect myself from the possibility that I would have to share my story before I was ready; that a well-meaning friend or family member, innocently asking about my pregnancy or how I was feeling, would blindside me. In dispersing the details of my miscarriage in a way that best suited me, I was discovering new parts of myself in real time as I made my way through this written reflection on my brief pregnancy.

Midway through the second paragraph of my email-turned-novella, I wrote:

I know this may sound unexpected—weird, even—but somehow I have this deep-seated feeling that I trust my body now more than ever before. How can this even be? Surviving the birth process at home alone brought out this uncanny, almost animalistic ferocity in me, both psychologically and physically. It’s what was required. What this inexplicable experience has driven home is that this now bleeding, empty body of mine—a body pregnant only hours ago—works. I inherently believe this. I’m not sure if this feeling will morph or be maintained, but right now I feel a sense of categorial trust. My body did not fail; it did its job, as painful as this dissolution may be.

Looking back, I think my writerly inclination that evening was powered purely by adrenaline. Once I got started, it was hard to stop. Writing has that way about it for me. In an attempt at fending off dreaded questions by preemptively addressing the intricate details, I was not only acknowledging and attempting to assuage people’s fears—I was acknowledging and fortifying myself from my own. But borne out of necessity was a reprieve I didn’t realize I needed until it overcame me. This email, in essence, acted as a temporary lifeline as I sifted through the horror of my pregnancy gone wrong; getting it all out on paper and intimately evaluating the range of emotion flooding my weary body rang powerful.

This email also served as a kind of invitation for my loved ones—an invitation into this enervated chapter of my life. A chapter on death, and life after.

And so, the writing continued. I just couldn’t seem to steal myself from the page once I got going.

There are these wild, fleeting moments when my heart seems to literally expand—perhaps a dogged appreciation for my own survival and for the shape of my life; backed up against moments of irreparable shatter, my own heart still technically beating whilst feeling anything but viable, convinced emotional resuscitation will never be. Trauma seems to provoke this dichotomy, this corporeal confusion, as it were. It’s both: gratitude for what is and utter despair for what isn’t (and what could have been).

I clicked Send.

With the tap of a key, off went my accidental sermon—about life, death, the liminal spaces in between—to those who didn’t yet know. Straightaway, the love rushed in. Expressions of shock and compassion in equal measure. I was awed by the benevolent responses to this requiem on the loss of my pregnancy as I lay there bleeding, reading their words as my phone lit up with each reply, thanking my lucky stars for the privilege of having such a tender cadre of loved ones who would see me through what would no doubt be a dark, if not the darkest, period of my life.

• • •

One of the early responses that made my heart swell was from my wise-beyond-his-years younger brother, writing from Tel Aviv, where he was barreling through medical school:

Dear Jess,

Let me start by saying that I have so much love and admiration for you. I hope you remember through the most trying times that you have so many people that love you and care for you.

I can’t imagine what you have gone through these past many hours and what you continue to experience now. I am so sorry that you had to go through such trauma. I don’t know how anyone could stay calm through such an ordeal.

Since there is no advice or consolation I can give that will make things better, I’ll just tell you that I’m glad you are okay. I hope you are recovering physically and that you are comfortable now.

Please know that I am here for you. Such a silly, trite expression, but I really am. You can call me any time, and I mean that. If you even slightly want to talk, don’t be shy. I’ll be a willing ear. And don’t feel pressured to talk to me, either. When you feel ready.

I wish more than anything that I could just give you a big, long hug. You and Jason. Please share this with him, if you like. My words apply to both of you. I love you both.

Always look forward to the future. It’s going to be great.

Tons of love,

David

If only these initial life preservers of support were enough to buoy me through the future waves of grief and mourning. If only the timeline of grief adhered to society’s limited understanding of it, lasting a short period then vanishing under a sea of lovingly premade meals and kind sympathy cards and a few whispered tales of solidarity. If only my brother’s words were enough. If only it could have continued on this way.

• • •

Within a matter of days, it was time to leave the house; to drop off Liev at school, take him to swim class, go on play-dates. What choice did I have? My head was topsy-turvy and I felt anything but poised for these meetups, but I wanted to keep Liev’s life running as usual, so I showered, dressed, threw on lipstick, even, and headed out into the world.

I braved it. A world that had spinned madly on as I endured the worst trauma of my life. A world