Behind the Public Numbness
There is so much hidden behind my public face of numbness. And that's where most people would like my pain to stay.
It's a locked up and caged animal, down in some damp basement somewhere. If I try hard enough, even I can forget it's there. Then the growling starts. Or the whimpering.
It IS the animal side of me, shackled somewhere deep in me. My mama bear, ready to lash out at anyone who will hurt or criticize my babies. Ready to protect me, even.
Sometimes she howls.
Oh, the howling. My baby! My baaaaby! My baby! Noooo, not my baby.
It’s the silent scream that even I don't dare release, alone, not even when I'm all alone.
*
After we lost Clara to an early second trimester termination, my dear friend Laura came to our family home in Mexico City. I was just 48 hours out from my D&C. Laura held my hand, brought me water, and helped me down the stairs to meals. It was so early into my grief. I was still moving between weeping and sleeping, sleeping and weeping, and in between one or the other, Laura asked me if she could tell me a story. I was still so raw and porous, physically healing my womb and getting to know the huge hole in my heart that losing my baby had left. Eagerly I said yes and listened to her, hoping to think about anything but the death grip my pain and fear had on me.
While holding my water bottle towards me, coaxing me to take a sip, Laura told me about a trip she had taken.
“It was a woodsy place, a retreat from the world,” she said. “My friend lived there and I went to visit her. I told her I was going to go out into the woods and to not worry if she heard any noises.”
Laura explained more, “So I walked out through her property. It was huge, no one around for miles. I don't even know how far away her nearest neighbors were.
"I had just gotten divorced, and you know, his family being traditional, that just wasn't done."
"I walked and walked and finally found a place in the middle of some trees, old growth trees."
"Then I let it out; a huge primal scream. I screamed and screamed and when I stopped I thought I had ended the universe. But no. The sun streamed through the trees; it was lovely. The birds just kept on tweeting."
"No one was phased. I realized that nature can hold it all.”
I sure as hell hope that nature can hold the enormity of my grief, I thought to myself. Because our co-workers can't, our kind neighbor can't, maybe not even our sweethearts can. But maybe nature can.
*
Hidden behind my public numbness is a private numbness. It’s not talked about, just like the beast down in the basement, just like my inner mama bear that I work to tame like a circus act, just like Laura’s scream that was not mentioned by her hostess when she walked back into her friend’s house, the screen door creaking and slamming behind her.
Why don’t we talk about these things? It’s easier to pretend it’s all ok than to “go there,” right? But I have taken up the habit of answering the question, “How are you?” with “Good today,” and sometimes, “Not so good today.” It’s a step in the direction of transparency without rocking the boat too much, I suppose.
I had a “not so good today” moment while cooking dinner the other night. My cousin is pregnant as a newlywed and a good friend from San Francisco is pregnant with his wife–they are newlyweds too. Clara was *our* honeymoon baby. I think about those couples, getting what they want, and how I didn’t get what I want, and the howling started. It crept up through the muscles in my legs, making me feel weak. It swept through my body and I wanted to start heaving hot tears all over the rice. I shoved it down unconsciously and let my other animal friend, Anger, pop up instead. With my face hot and my movements fierce, I slammed plates, cursing those happy couples, growling in my head over and over, “Why them, why not me, why them, why not me, WHY THEM, WHY NOT ME!?”
Then I asked Anger, “What is beneath you that I wish you would shield from my eyes?”
Anger answered. My tears leaked out of my eyes, my heart contracted over the Clara-shaped hole Anger showed me. Then I heard, “You miss your baby.”
I just want *my* baby, not someone else’s baby.
The sadness washed over me. My shoulders and back ached, like after the worst kind of exercise. The bile settled, swirling dark and dense in my middle. I continued to cook. I dedicated my meal to Clara, to my love for Clara. As I cooked I imagine I looked like a little old woman with a fallen face.
My husband, my sister-in-law and my four -year-old daughter all told me how delicious the meal was. It did taste good. It was imbued with my love for my baby girl. Maybe nature is big enough to hold it all. My public face of numbness, my private numbness and the infinite love I will always and forever have for my baby.
~Sabrina Fletcher The TFMR Doula
