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

and reverence. And within these practices exists a gratefulness to God for allowing those who have passed to continue existing in connectedness with those they have left behind.

Religion can also be an important source of guidance, since spiritual leaders may act as grief counselors, consoling loss parents via scripture and providing another layer of support, especially essential for those who may not be able to afford or have access to other mental health services. In a congregation, there often exists a deep sense of community, and in times of trauma that community can provide meals, perhaps even child care if necessary, or simply distraction and a chance at reprieve. Religion and spirituality can and do provide another avenue to assist us in becoming reunited with our former, pre-loss selves, and better acquainted with the people we’ve become in the wake of pregnancy and infant loss.

• • •

Outside religion, I continued my search for concrete ways to memorialize my loss, looking to individuals in my life, scouring social media, and listening intently to patients as they spoke of theirs. People seemed to honor their losses in such meaningful, sometimes elaborate ways. But I wondered, Am I allowed to do the same? I straddled the line between an early and late loss, so what should this mean about the way I ritualized this experience (or did not)? Is this something that suits me? Honors her, me, us? Jewishly, does this feel resonant? If so, how? If not, why? I was pummeled by the options and by my thoughts on the matter. I wasn’t yet sure.

I gave myself time to marinate. There was no need to rush. And since I got pregnant again so quickly, there wasn’t much space to dig into these ideas. My head was trying its best to wrap itself around this next pregnancy and the hope I could muster that it would, in fact, last.

I was inspired by things I’d read online—Instagram posts, essays—about practices like naming. I seemed to gravitate toward basic, gentle acknowledgments most of all. Giving a name to a lost baby as a way to legitimize the dream of them, the time spent with them in utero, and the burgeoning attachment to the idea of their very existence seemed compelling. This idea grew more and more appealing in time. It seemed like such a profound way to acknowledge in a small way something so major. Through this simple act, there is a powerful way in which we capture and concretize the fact that they were there, even if ever so briefly. This not only seemed beautiful; it felt necessary.

So, three and a half years after my loss, and another pregnancy later, I named my would-be daughter. Liev had voiced wanting a sister before I had even become pregnant at all, and proclaimed that her name should be Olive. As I turned this idea over in my mind, it eventually crystallized: his would-be sibling would, in fact, be named Olive. I loved that Liev came up with it. And it seemed a perfect name for her, in its symbolism and its meaning. The olive branch is a symbol of peace. Of reconciliation. Olive trees thrive under duress, bear fruit for thousands of years, and as a result, have come to represent resilience.

All of this felt fitting, like another important step in my grieving and healing process. Such reparation I found in this eventual naming—in being able to actually call her something. In my writing about loss, I could now not only talk about my loss, but also refer to the being who spurred this fierce, nascent passion in me: to change the cultural conversation surrounding pregnancy loss.

This emblematic gesture became a profound acknowledgment of the family member who never made it (in body) to our family tree, but whose brief existence deftly required the best parts of me. My fortitude. My vulnerability. My idealism. My hardiness was tough to locate at times, but my ability to adapt was with me through it all. It is with me, still. She is with me, still. My Olive.

This was a concrete step in memorializing my miscarriage, though technically not the first. Every year, on the anniversary of my loss, I light a candle. I light a candle in memory of her—a meditation on the recognition of that life-changing event, and the woman I became as a result. With pointed attention, I think about that day and reflect on all that’s transpired since. I think about whether or not she felt anything when her heart stopped beating; when she fell from my body. Did she feel pain?

On October 15 of each year, in honor of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day, I also light a candle. In communion with the countless women living in every corner of the world who have felt some variation of pregnancy and infant loss. I think of us all. It’s astounding to consider the millions of candles lit on that particular day, and for the same particular reason. It’s an opportunity to memorialize globally, in unity. We remember. A deep ache we all have in common.

• • •

Sage began to detail the ways in which she honored her daughter, who was stillborn. My body heated up with envy. As the rain pounded the pavement outside, we sat across from each other in my hazily lit office, talking about death.

Sage had ceramic footprint moldings, hair clippings, and a headstone. She had a place to visit her baby and a ceremony to honor her short existence. She’d gotten several photographs with her daughter. Her family had the chance to hold her. They got handprints too. She’d go to the cemetery almost weekly, bringing flowers and books to read aloud. One day she brought a chocolate cupcake with sprinkles and sparklers. These rituals felt like the most compelling ways she could think of to mother her daughter, she told me.

My body gave me all sorts of information—most notably in my chest, ever so slightly affecting the cadence of