Miscarriage

Have you ever found out that you were pregnant and not pregnant at the same moment? Miscarriages are more common than you’d think. 

It happened at a festival near Glastonbury in England. I was called in as a last minute volunteer when a large number of people decided not to show up. Crops Not Shops is a non-profit organization that owns some land and grows organic food that they sell on donation or give away. Every year, they host the Sacred Earth Gathering where people gather to sing, dance, make music, and pray for peace to celebrate the summer solstice. I was cleaning the toilets when the amount of moisture between my legs became noticeable. I thought it was a combination of sweat and menstrual blood. My period started that morning and between toilets, I slipped into my tent for reinforcement. My pad was surprisingly saturated and blood leaked through my underwear. Slipping them off, I walked awkwardly to the nearest water tap. Holding my skirt up, my butt was exposed and blood ran down to my heels and dripped into the grass. The tap was next to the toilets mostly blending in with the greenery behind it. I turned the spicket expecting a burst of water and received nothing. It was off (a common occurrence on sustainable land not designed to support a large number of people).

Frozen by the fountain, other festival goers approached asking if the water was running. After noticing the blood between my legs, they’d often respond with something like, “Guess not,” and walk away with a chuckle. I felt trapped. The amount of blood had tripled and I wasn’t sure what to do. 

A mom and her child came by with empty bottles and dirty dishes. When they discovered me, the mom offered some baby wipes, but her child was reluctant to share. He or she feared that I would use them all. Mindful of the child’s concern and not wanting to be excessive, I used 2 to clean up enough to get a new pair of underwear on. With blood soaked cloth in my hand, I ran to the next nearest tap. This one was less private and people walked by frequently. A line formed as I neglected cleaning my body to focus on ringing out the soiled clothes. The water was bright red and I could see the obvious discomfort of the next woman waiting to fill her bottle. Impatient to get back to finishing my shift and feeling hopeless at the red water that wouldn’t lighten up, I hung the underwear, skirt, and reusable pad to dry knowing they would likely stain.

“Is the water on?!” I yelled to the other side of the toilets near my tent. 

“Yup!” A man responded triumphantly, lifting his bottle high enough for me to see.

Back at the more private fountain, I helped a child with their bottle before putting one leg under the gentle stream. I scrubbed the skin with my hands and watched the dried blood liquefy and flow down into the grass. The cleaning process wasn’t going so well, but the showers were far away and there was always a queue and I didn’t want to explain (though looking back now, I think everyone would’ve understood.)

“What happened to you?” Ben asked, walking up with an empty jug. His almost black hair hung at either side of his consistently sarcastic face. We met at a reggae party last weekend where a group of us sat close to the fire laughing at his various attempts at different American accents. Observing my foot, I realized how the crimson color made it appear like I’d been fatally wounded. I answered by glancing back at the remaining dried blood on my legs.

“Oh. It’s just menstrual blood. Do you want this?” He handed me the container, “I’m going for a wee.”

The jug helped. I emptied the water on my body and washed away the remaining visible blood. 

“Can you just pour some on my butt?” I asked Ben when he came back. I couldn’t angle myself properly to get the blotches on my backside. 

“I can do it!” a woman who just finished filling her bottle interjected.

“It’s fine,” Ben responded casually, pouring the remaining water onto my body. 

With a new pad in place, I continued working on the toilets. There was a sharp pain in my glutes and around my hips. I noticed it, but assumed it was from trekking. Acknowledging the intensity with love, I finished my job. But in the 40 minutes it took to complete my shift, my underwear was soaked with blood again.

The door to the compost toilet closest to my tent slammed behind me. The toilet wobbled as people from outside went up and down relieving themselves. Doors slamming every so often. I let out a heavy sigh. Take all the time you need. There’s no rush, I reassured myself. Pulling off my underwear, there was a clump of blood on my pad. I slipped everything off and let the new set of soiled clothes rest on the floor. Using a squirt bottle filled with water, I washed myself and put on another set of underwear with another new pad. Luckily, my flow was softening. Outside, the tap was still working. I ran the used pad under the water and noticed that the clump wasn’t washing away easily. I was about to flick it into the bushes when my intuition prompted me to take a closer look in private.

With the pad folded in my hand, I returned to my tent. I laid it open in the trash bag with the bloody baby wipes inside it. Shifting the pad in my hands, I examined the clot closely. The tissue was sticky and had some texture to it. The fluid looked different than normal vaginal discharge. It was shiny and transparent whereas my discharge is usually opaque. There was a noticeable round shape at the top of the clump and a curved shape connected to that… and the smallest white limbs poking out…

 No… I thought to myself. My jaw dropped open and I cupped a hand to my mouth holding back tears. No, is this? No.

A mix of emotions pummeled through my body. After weeping, gasping for air, looking up pictures, shaking my head “no,” and multiple failed attempts at reaching my boyfriend-

“Hey bestie! Just 5 more days until I see you!”

Cue the emotional collapse. Sobbing, speechless, trying to catch my breath and explain at the same time, Victoria waited and consoled. I didn’t even know why I was crying. We weren’t trying to have a child, but the shock... I can’t even put it into words.

I got off the phone with Victoria in search of a hug. Stepping out of my tent, my hood blocked the wind from caressing my face and a shiver shook the remaining parts of me. At that moment, Kate walked by in her gray hoodie. She greeted me and I let her pass, considering my options. Though we’d shared a few moments at the volunteer hub, we’d only just met. 

“Umm… Kate?” I whimpered, “I’m having a bit of a moment, can you help?”

She stopped and faced me with a questioning look of care and concern.

“I think I just had a miscarriage,” I said, the tears coming up again.

“Do you want a hug?”

After nodding my head yes, she embraced me immediately. Closing the space, she whispered soft words about her own experiences and that I didn’t do anything wrong and I wasn’t alone. While other festival goers passed with their trolleys and light conversation, we stood in the lane embracing and sharing. Kate continued on her way in the opposite direction as me and assured me that we’d see each other tomorrow. I wandered the festival like a ghost, not really sure what I was supposed to do with myself. I landed in the Elders’ Teepee. The teepee was huge and the floor was covered by beautifully designed carpets. There were different couches and chairs scattered around making it cozy. The fire at the center invited a warm glow to the space that bounced off the decorations hanging on the walls and the flowers scattered on the exposed earth surrounding the flames. The music from the rest of the festival bled into the space and people chatted casually, coming and going with ease. I sat down on the opposite side of the door and watched the fire with a light awareness of the man tending it. A familiar face approached me with a hug and an enthusiastic smile. “Maybe we can finally sing together tonight!” she commented before stepping away to light some sage. I started to sing despite the fact that no one could hear me. I don’t remember what I was singing, but then I stopped to ask the man tending the fire for a drum.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“A hand drum or a djembe,” I responded.

His eyes went large.

“I have my hand drum…” he said slowly, “But I use it for healing… But you seem trustworthy.” He disappeared and reappeared in a flash holding the hand drum backwards.

“You can adjust the sound like this,” he said, tightening some beads along the skin on the back. He handed over the heavy oak instrument and then took a seat. I started tapping the instrument with my hand then he handed me a drumstick.

Grandmother Song

I hear the voice of my grandmother calling me

I hear the voice of my grandmother’s song

She says stand in your power

She says stand in your power

Listen listen

Listen listen

I hear the voice of my grandmother calling me

I hear the voice of my grandmother’s song

She says be love, be light

She says be love, be light

Listen listen

Listen listen

Around me, a chorus of women's voices chimed in. They followed even when I sang the wrong words. Shakers and other instruments joined, too, but didn’t overpower. I was numb and a little lost. They wanted to follow me, but I could hardly keep track of my rhythm or voice. Regardless of the logistics, a cocoon of sound bubbled around us causing the festival outside to disappear. I felt unraveled, confused, yet completely held and at home. 

---

The next morning, my phone was filled with messages from Johan. We kept missing each other’s calls. Venturing back to the Elder’s teepee for a sharing circle, the fire was extinguished, but the fire keeper was still there. He greeted me warmly and thanked me for my songs before stepping out of the space for some much needed self-care. The facilitator was an older woman with long gray hair (some loose, some locked, some braided). She wore orange and had an openness to her. She opened the circle and invited everyone to share their name and how they were feeling in the present moment. The talking stick sauntered around the circle. Everyone expressed gratitude and emitted lightness. I was the second to last to share. Before the stick even fell into my hand, I started crying. It took a lot of effort not to hide my face, but I sat there - waiting for the words. Adjusting my hat, I stared down at Johan’s t-shirt hanging from my frame. It was impossible to look at the faces around me. A majority of the circle were women in their 50s or above. Beside me was another young woman and across from me, an older man.

“I’m Jaye…” I managed to slip in with tears flowing down my cheeks, “Umm… I’m feeling a mix of emotions. Yesterday, during my volunteer shift, I had a miscarriage and… it’s not that I want a child right now, but I’ve never been pregnant before. This was my first time and I don’t really know how to feel. I don’t really have words for how I feel, but I would just really like a hot bath and to hug my partner right now.”

I tossed the talking stick to my left and the young woman next to me offered a hug. She held me tight for an eternal second while the next person introduced herself. When the woman released me, the facilitator approached with another hug and whispered that we could do something to honor the life that chose not to be born. Kate had also mentioned doing something.

After that, I felt much lighter. The sharing continued and we talked about various things. At the end of the session, the facilitator circled back to my first share and proposed that I go to a secluded spot by the creek. She offered to go with me, but sensed that I wanted to be alone. 

I did want to be alone. The embryo was still back at my tent waiting. I retrieved the remains, put them in a container, and after working another volunteer shift, went to the creek. My feet tapped along a narrow wooden bridge as I crossed into the tree line. Standing alone, my eyes darted to the ground searching for an answer. The volume of the festival distracted me, blasting, full power, in the field next door. But finally, my eyes landed on a crack in the earth. Shovel-less, I opened the pad to reveal my body’s first attempt at creating life. 

“I’m sorry little one, I’m not so good at these types of things,” I commented, squatting to the ground and grabbing a stick. I was afraid to touch it. I used the stick to move the remains, about the size of my thumb, into the earth. The stick didn’t work well, so I used my hands with an audible sigh.

At that moment, a bee flew by and went into the hole. I couldn’t help but wonder if the bee would eat him or if I just put the embryo in the bee’s home. I concealed part of the hole, but left some space for the bee to breathe.

Home, I am home in my body.

Home, I am home in my body.

Home, I am home in my body.

I sang quietly with drums and reggae music ringing behind me. When I stopped singing, I let the festival’s version of silence fill the air.

“Not yet,” I said to the ground, “Not yet, but when it’s time… I’ll be so happy to be your mom.”

I smiled a sad smile, then turned around to wash the blood off my hands in the creek. I felt the presence of a lifetime of women doing the same thing - burying embryos, fetuses, and babies. One by one, they might have been seemingly alone in their grief, confusion, and heartache, but all together, they were united by the care and responsibility of having a womb- of being the bearers of life.

I find it so interesting that while I’m walking around numbed out on a nameless emotion, a festival in full swing flurries around me. Life just goes on, doesn’t it? When we’re grieving or feeling or having these quiet, agonizing experiences, life just goes on and we’re left to recover ourselves. Our friends and family might support us, might walk beside us, but the ache is all our own.

The days following the miscarriage, I continued to carry the nameless emotion with me. I went through the motions of life: calling the bank, interviewing for a new job, accepting the help of others, but didn’t really feel like I was in it. Occasionally, my eyes would tear up, unprompted, and I’d feel an emptiness inside. He’s gone. You had a miscarriage. He’s gone. You knew he was there. These thoughts kept ringing in my ears. Three moon cycles ago, I took a pregnancy test that came back negative… Maybe it was too soon.

“What do you want to name him?” Johan joked when I came out of the bathroom with the negative results.

“Don’t say things like that! Your words have power!” I responded, wacking him on the arm. 

But even with the negative test, I felt his presence and I convinced myself that I was wrong. That I’d made a mistake. That my periods were weird as a lingering side effect of the high altitude we ventured to in Nepal.

In the days before the festival, I was camping in the forest by the river and waiting for my period. She was late. Last time, she was awkward. This time, she was late. Rubbing my womb to the ambiance of crickets and the cascading water, I whispered, “No, I’m not pregnant. It’s not time. No, I’m not pregnant. I’m not pregnant because it’s not the right time.”

…

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