It was an accidental pregnancy, as I was only ten months postpartum after my third baby. I started feeling the tell-tale signs of morning sickness and aversions to sweet breakfasts that I've felt with nearly all my pregnancies. Only this time, I was cramping almost constantly.
I didn't mention this to my husband. I was afraid to. My previous pregnancy had been difficult, tinged by perinatal depression. My marriage had been under significant strain. Then after the birth, postpartum depression was my constant companion. I thought about killing myself and sparing my family of my pain on a regular basis. After therapy and the comfort and support of many friends, I was doing much better, but I didn't want it to happen again. So I tried to ignore my body.
The cramping and pregnancy symptoms continued for two weeks. And then I started bleeding heavily. I knew immediately what was happening and contacted my midwife. She explained what I should expect and encouraged me to rest and "feel whatever you need to." I was in shock. How could I tell my husband that I'd known I was pregnant and now was losing the baby?
When I told him, his reaction was detached. It wasn't that he didn't care, but he hadn't even known about the baby. He was sorry for me, and he did what he could to comfort me, but he didn't really know how to feel or respond to what I was feeling. I never blamed him; it felt strange even to me, and his support was unwavering.
I was mostly numb, in the beginning. Then guilty. So guilty. I hadn't wanted to be pregnant, and the loss felt like a well-deserved punishment for my unthankfulness. There were times when the sadness would overwhelm me, and I would shut myself in my room and sob, listening to my children playing and wondering how it would have sounded different with another voice joining them.
After a few months, we named the baby: Persephone Ruby Joy. I was confident it had been a girl, and even if I was wrong, it was the symbolism of naming her that mattered to me. She would have been my first spring baby, so naming her after the goddess of spring seemed right.
The next year, I found I was pregnant again. Again, the pregnancy was a surprise. Again, I didn't feel ready for another baby. At around 13 weeks, I had some bleeding. I completely fell apart. Was my body broken? Was I going to lose another baby? Eventually, the bleeding petered out and the pregnancy progressed normally. My midwife was incredibly reassuring and made extra effort to put me at peace when I was anxious.
My emotions felt so mixed as my belly grew and I felt the baby move. I was happy and guilty for feeling happy for this pregnancy when I'd dreaded the last. Then I would feel sad for my previous loss and yet guilty for not appreciating that my current baby was growing normally.
Then she was born, my sweet Phoenix, on winter solstice. It felt fitting and beautiful to give birth: a new baby from the ashes of my womb. She was and is a joy unlike my previous babies, the more precious because she came after so much grief. I don't love her more... just differently.
The pain hasn't gone away. I still can't have a menstrual cycle without my heart aching as I see the blood and remember knowing I was flushing away something precious. I see six stockings hanging on our wall at Christmastime and see an empty space where the seventh should be. I watch my children play (and fight) and wonder. Sometimes weeks go by, and I don't think about her at all.
It can feel a little lonely, sometimes - like no one else sees her absence. I've experienced what so many women have, and I'm thankful that I can look upon their circumstances with a new understanding and greater compassion. I tell them: "I see you. I see your pain. I remember." I write the names of their children in my bible and look at them, commemorating them and their mothers' loss. And I look forward to the day I will see my Persephone and hold her for the first time.
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