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

room relaxing and getting ready to go out for a night of sushi and sake, I posted to the @IHadaMiscarriage account with a recap of my day. In lieu of one of the many photographs I took, I posted a piece of art of the Jizo statues, which I commissioned before my departure, and another with an illustration and the phrase “Empty arms, full heart” written in both English and Japanese. I wrote about the enormity of my experience and how much I wished we all had access to a culture where grief exists out in the open—amid the fresh air, accessible to all—not just gnawing and eagerly scratching within the confines of our bodies. And although I don’t know this online community in real life, I know their pain intimately, and I brought it there with me and wished they could all gather there too. Despite the sixteen-hour time difference, I saw comments populate immediately and found so much connection in the reactions as I read through them. I was moved all over again. The people of Japan may have this spectacular garden to connect and recharge themselves, but those responses were a beautiful reminder that I have a place I can always go, too: my Instagram community.

Next was Kyoto, otherwise known as the city of ten thousand shrines. In Kyoto, at every turn, you’re met with calm-faced Jizo statues—some cuddling up together, others surrounded by handwritten messages, most accompanied by mini flower bouquets. Death is honored, almost celebrated there, by incorporating it into daily life. Can we aim to achieve this at home? I wondered as I zigzagged through throngs of Jizos meant to maintain remembrance. I carried Olive’s spirit through the meandering, historic roads chock-full of temples and shrines, honoring heritage and tradition. I felt her.

• • •

Upon my return from East Asia, it became abundantly clear that my trip had marked a turning point in my post-loss life; namely, in the post-traumatic stress I experienced after my miscarriage. Those symptoms were alive and well during my subsequent pregnancy and flowed disruptively into the initial months of mothering 2.0. Though I had every reason to experience these feelings as I barreled through the next pregnancy, I just didn’t understand how much I was struggling … until I wasn’t.

The fact that I boarded a flight to Tokyo, left my children safely at home with Jason, explored for just over a week, and enjoyed every second of it felt like a profound victory over PTSD and the trauma that birthed it. It was an emblematic turning point. As I sat among the embellished Jizo statues in a culture comfortable with acknowledging loss, I had the chance to bid farewell to any remaining bits of hypervigilance, releasing the proverbial monkey on my back. I found unparalleled comfort in being surrounded by symbols of loss out in an open space, watching as people came and went, lighting incense sticks and closing their eyes in reverence. Outside in nature, surrounded by others who presumably knew a similar ache. The ultimate embodiment of serenity. This was rites, rituals, and representation of pregnancy loss in action—it all seemed so natural and revitalizing. To actually witness people honoring their losses in real life—not online or in print, but in real time—made a lasting impression.

• • •

Back in America, I opened up a dialogue with the community about their loss rituals. Through these conversations, I met Zoe, whose son was stillborn at thirty-two weeks. After naming him, she began getting tattoos in his honor, to concretize this loss—to make real someone who had only been ephemeral, a life that wasn’t lived, but which nonetheless existed acutely for her.

“The process of getting the tattoos was healing for me. The adrenaline felt during the process of getting them numbed the pain,” she told me. She now has seven of them. “They became an invitation for people to ask about me and about my son. It meant that I could share my story. I have a strong desire to keep him alive, though he was born dead—for people to recognize his existence,” she explained.

Another follower, Sivon, did not know she was pregnant until she miscarried. “A big chunk came out of my vagina while I was at home alone. I had to scoop it out and questioned, ‘Do I flush it? Do I bury it?’ We have no blueprint. How can we know?” And so Sivon flushed, feeling a wash of guilt sweep over her, one that periodically still does. “Months later, I realized that my baby’s womb life needed to be honored. My body was feeling those emotions too. It was a journey that needed to be had. I got a mini statue of a woman holding a baby with a rose quartz where the heart is. I keep it by my bed. Since I was so newly pregnant, I didn’t get to experience the joys of pregnancy before losing it. But I memorialize my pregnancy by acknowledging I was pregnant.” Sivon told me she now has a five-week-old daughter. “I never want to pretend this pregnancy was my first.”

Inspired by my trip to Japan and conversations like the ones I had with Zoe and Sivon, I decided to focus my efforts on memorialization for Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month in 2018. I wanted to dedicate my efforts to loss-related rites and rituals and invite others to consider ritualizing, no matter how long ago their loss may have been. We deserve ways to honor who we were previous to the loss, who we are after, and the babies we have lost.

And as my own journey proved, it is never too late to consecrate these feelings. I used the campaign to encourage women and families to find their own way of memorializing their losses, one that feels meaningful and personal to them. While there may not be a cultural standard or template for a ritual, there are touchstones that we can find familiarity and comfort in: Take photos.