All is not lost - musings on grief

I’ve lost a lot of things these past few years. Loss. Losing. It’s a strange concept. I don’t really buy into it. Loss suggests absence. But these things are still present and I still feel them deeply.

Heritage. Mum died on Christmas Day 2018. I have no child and I have no mother. People say: “So sorry you lost your mum.” “Sorry for your loss.” As if we’re just playing an elaborate game of hide and seek. She’s not lost. I know where she is. Six feet under. Pushing up daisies. I picture her there. Not a day goes by without me thinking about her there. Any time I’m alone. In the bathroom. Just before falling asleep. Replaying those last difficult moments before she drifted away. Every day. Replaying the cascade of dirt and rocks crashing down on the coffin.  Every day. Replaying her laugh, her dancing, her crazy voicemails. Every day. Being grateful for all she gave me and all she taught me. Every day.

Being a childless woman without a mother has left me feeling disconnected to both the future and the past. I struggle to remember the details of my childhood. What was that recipe? Where was that holiday? I think about the stories I cannot pass on to my child. Who will care about my family photo album? My first party dress? My traditions? Who will receive my wisdom?

Miscarriage. Otherwise known as early pregnancy loss. It’s not lost. I know where that pregnancy is. Hope flushed away. Dreams soaked up. Wishes cried away in hot tears. I still feel it now - years later. The enduring cramps and twinges trying to set things right, weeks after the main event. Afterwards, the pregnancy books I bought, too soon, glowing red behind a locked cupboard door; still wrapped in their packaging. There was no need to open them. I am used to the disappointment and frustration of infertility. It’s been almost 6 years. It feels like a never ending rollercoaster with no ups, only downs. But we got one “up”. Once. Those two pink lines. That time, when the blood came, it was devastating. The pink lines symbolised the future. A fresh start. High expectations for a small cluster of cells. Perhaps they couldn’t handle that. Perhaps it was all too much.

Dis-ease. My body doesn’t work how she’s supposed to. Her joints ache all the time. She can’t run like she used to. The only thing her womb delivers is searing pain, at regular intervals, like clockwork. She gets tired. So tired.  Lost mobility. Lost energy. But again, it’s not lost. I have the memory of the 400km cycle tour. I have the medals from so many running races. I have pictures of a radiant young woman with shining eyes and a big smile. I had to say goodbye to her.

And there is no reason. No one can explain it. All the specialists just shrug their shoulders. They don’t know. And I wonder to myself, what kind of specialist only has shrugs and no answers? I just have to accept it. To accept the body I knew and understood has changed. But no one can see the changes. The silent, invisible changes. So to the outside world, everything is the same.

Grief. They say grief comes in waves. To me it’s more like random and unexpected spurts. Like a cartoon pipe that keeps springing a new leak in a different place. They say trust the process but process implies order and sense and best practice. None of those things apply here. It’s messy and suffocating and chaotic. It’s tiring. A process implies there will eventually be an end point. I can’t imagine that point will ever show itself. There will always be a cartoon pipe surprising me with new leaks. Perhaps less frequently or less forcefully but it will always be there.

Hope. He wants me to set it all aside. “But we’re going on holiday!”, he says. He doesn’t want to talk about it on holiday. He says we should have fun. He wants a break from it. But for me, there is no break. Loss and lacking surrounds us. Infertility. Pregnancy loss. Childlessness. It’s a part of me now. I can’t take a break from the body that couldn’t do what I wanted it to do. I can’t unfeel the pain. Physical. Emotional. This experience inflicted great sadness. But it also taught me great compassion. And love. So much of it. And I will be ok. I’ll continue to grieve but I’ll also experience joy and fun and laughter. Laughter is my favourite thing. Infertility couldn’t rob me of that, at least. But I cannot set childlessness aside. I don’t want to take a break from it. Even if I wanted to, I cannot pick and choose when I am childless. When I feel its effects. It is omnipresent. It is part of me. And I will be ok. We will be ok.

'By letting go of what you thought was going to happen in your life, you can enjoy what is actually happening.'

Taylor Negron

Natalie Mazhindu Sandock

Photo by Sincerely Media on Unsplash