Spontaneous Combustion.
Notes on miscarriage.
Dearest Readers,
Since its inception, I’ve used this platform to communicate many things. What started as a way to convey some deep dark truths morphed into an art-focused newsletter cum short story series. Well, this week, I’m throwing a curveball and going back into the depths of grief.
The piece below discusses pregnancy loss and for those of you who don’t want visuals of it, or may find it triggering, I totally get it, so please scroll on and I’ll see you next week.
Following my recent, second miscarriage, a friend sent me a beautiful article on Japan’s miscarriage graveyards, and I thought I’d share it. Linked here. It is such a beautiful tribute to all the lost babies, or water babies, as they are referred to.
An excerpt from this article: Japan’s miscarried (and aborted) embryos, fetuses, stillbirths and neonatal deaths, all have a unique name: ‘mizuko’, which translates as ‘water child’ or ‘water baby’. The rows of baby-like statues, which can be seen at many Buddhist temples in Japan, are called ‘mizuko Jizo’ – water child Buddhas. The Jizo serves a double purpose; the image both represents the soul of the deceased infant or fetus and is also the deity who takes care of children on the other world journey.
For those of you who are paying subscribers and waiting patiently for Chiaroscuro Chapter 8, I’ve paused your payments for this week while I work through this loss. Chapter 8 will be ready for circulation next week. Thank you for being on this journey with me and for your continued support.
Nothing in life is certain, and once you realise that, your perspective on life changes.
Joey x
Spontaneous Combustion.
The edges blur and hum around me. I’m stuck. Frozen. Back here again. The seat still feels warm. The past floods back. I thought I’d left it in my wake. Moved on. The tentacles are never far. Threatening to lure me back in and swallow me up. I look down at my stomach. It’s grown a little. Heavy lumps attached to me like udders. My skin is pallid somehow. Deep purple crevices shadow my eyes. I haven’t been sleeping well. Three pregnancies. One child. I should be grateful. I’m told. Many people can’t even have that. I’m not grateful. I’m angry. I look down at the bloated curve of my belly. I wanted you. I say aloud. Wondering if the little collection of cells can somehow hear me. I love you. I’ll always love you. The wind answers me back.
Patience. Patience waiting all week. Multiple blood tests. More waiting. I’m ringing the doctors in angst. Telling the receptionist each time I can’t wait any longer. I need to know the number. The bloody number. I can hear empathy in her voice. I understand, she says down the phone. Her tone quieter, softer. She can see the results. She knows. Something is wrong. She knows but she can’t tell me. The doctor will text you the results. I don’t hear back. It’s been hours. I can’t do anything. I ask my husband to call the doctor. I can’t bear to call them again and beg for answers. I’m exhausted. A crack within me starts to open up. I know what’s coming. No this can’t be it. This can’t be happening again. Not again. She’s had two miscarriages, I hear a phantom voice say somewhere from the ether. That can’t be me.
I rifle through my bathroom drawers. Empty. The two blue lines flash in my mind. I’m at the grocery store. Beep. Beep. I’m buying pads and a block of chocolate. Will this toilet paper stuffed into my underpants hold up until I get to the park? When can I have a glass of wine?
Are you sure? A friend asks me. Yes, I’m sure, I hear myself say. But I’m not really sure. Not really sure how I feel. Not really sure what the fuck is happening.
I’m floating. I’m at the park. My daughter is on the scooter. I’m in the bathroom. A twinge in my uterus. More pulses try to dispel what was once something growing, forming. Now but tissue. Debris. Liquid. Flush.
I like the name Oliver, I hear my husband’s voice echo from a memory just a few days ago. Just for a moment. For a moment this time, it was real.
My daughter is calling for me. I open the window and cool spring air comes rushing in. It bristles my skin. A flood of liquid. I rush to the bathroom. Feel it pass. It’s smaller this time. Much smaller.
How do you feel? Someone asks. I don’t feel. I’m still floating. I feel nothing. Wine will help. Wine will definitely help. When can I have a wine? It’s 10 am.
My husband is talking about the house. The work that needs to be done. Then he’s asking me if he should stay. His bag is packed. My head is still spinning. Floating. A soft voice tells him I don’t want him to miss the concert. Bad timing, he says. But I’m staring at the sky. I’m not really here. I need him to stay. My daughter is watching me cry. She starts crying too. He’s left now. The sky turns blurry through tears. The dog is next to me. Turning his head from side to side. He knows. He always knows.
I’m having wine with a friend. Our kids are playing. I’m crying about having a huge house and no kids to fill it. She reaches her hand to me, and I take it. We drink more wine. The kids are going feral. It’s time to leave.
My daughter is asleep. My girlfriend arrives with chocolate, ice cream, a wrap around heat pack. I like the company. We watch a movie. I’m distracted. She leaves. I go to bed. My daughter wakes up. She’s hungry. It’s 10 pm. I give her crackers. I’m reading. She’s lying in my arms. Crunch crunch crunch. There are crumbs in the bed. I turn the light off. She can’t sleep now. It’s 11 pm. She’s coughing. Can’t sleep. It’s 12:30 pm. No one is sleeping. I give her honey. It’s 1 am. I think she’s asleep. She coughs on me. Kicks me. Will I ever fall asleep? It’s morning. I must have slept. Nausea creeps in. My daughter is hungry. The pad is soaked. I shower. Change my clothes. Make a coffee. Make her breakfast. A twinge. Another rush of wetness.
I’m prone. Still. Staring out the windows at the trees. They look so green. So full of life. I can hear the neighbours laughing. They are calling their dog. Life is happening around me.
My dad is here. He caught the train. Wanted to check in on me. I tape a smile to my face. We take the dog for a walk. Exchange pleasantries with the neighbours. How are you? Fine. I lie. I’m fine. Everything is fine. Lovely day isn’t it. The remnants of my child are leaking from me as we talk about a game of football I pretend to care about. The weather is lovely. Lovely day for lunch at the bay. Enjoy your day. I’m smiling. The pretending seeped into me and for a moment I forget. Almond latte thanks. Yes, you can take a photo of my dog. My dog. My dog who follows me around everywhere each time I’ve been pregnant. He seems to know before I do. Seems to lie at my feet and look at me. Knowing. Protecting. A twinge reverberates through my uterus. I flinch. I think of bed. Of where I’d rather be. My husband’s due home soon. I’ll get to lie down. Soon. Get to grieve soon. Keep going, a voice whispers in my head. You’ll be okay. It’s the same voice that’s reassured me this whole time. You’ll be okay.
But I’m not okay. I couldn’t protect another child. Another child who I failed. Another child I couldn’t wrap my arms around and keep safe. So, I wrap my arms around the one I can. I reach for her more. Hold her tighter. My head spins. You can’t cry on the street. I pick a flower. Take a breath.
My husband is home. He’s excited. Talks about the concert. My daughter is showing him the new princess dress I bought her. I just wanted to see her smile. Make her happy. It’s all I want. He’s singing the lyrics now. My daughter starts singing too. I’m a statue. He tries to hug me. I flinch. The cramps are back. So is the wrap around heat bag. I lay down. Finally. I lay down. Can I grieve yet? My daughter runs in. Wants to cuddle. I love you, she says. She leaves. I try to sleep. Almost. My mind almost wanders off to the clouds. My uterus pangs. Expulsion. I feel it. I can’t sleep. I need to sleep. It’s too bright in here. My mind ebbs with words. Words I need to write down. I don’t want to forget the words. Forget the feeling. I pick up my phone. I write it all down. Then I throw the phone down.
My body feels heavy. I want to exercise. It’ll help distract me. It did last time. Until the fog lifted. I think of all the things I want to do. The places I would rather be. Italy. Alleyways. Cobblestones. Warm beaches. Aperol Spritz. Escape. Escape this heaviness. I’m lying in bed. Staring out the window. Feeling numb. A fortress. I am a fortress. I can’t do this again. Why would I do this again?
My toddler runs in. Tells me she misses her brother. She hasn’t spoken about him in ages. Months. Children know. Without knowing. I cuddle her tighter. Tell her I love her and that everything will be okay. Mummy and Daddy are trying. But it might just be you. And we’ll love you. Just you. Forever.
Joey Hespe, 2024.