On the last Friday in February at a music class/open play session with my son Mylo came a rush of something moist between my legs. I knew almost immediately what was happening but did not go to the bathroom. When open play ended we were one of the last to leave. Afterwards, we paid a visit to a neighborhood bakery and shared an over-sized vegan chocolate chip cookie. Even the cold February rain outside did not beckon us home. I was in no rush to discover what I was certain awaited me.
Not long after we got home the cramps started. I called my midwife on the phone who sounded less than optimistic, “Shit, why does this always happen on a Friday,” she asked, rhetorically. Gulp.
Weeks after the miscarriage I had a disturbing dream. A moving boat. An accident. Someone in the dream called for women and children to get off the boat first. I was toward the front helping someone, indifferent to the fact that the order applied to me. Then someone held a baby upside down in the air, asking “who’s child is this?” She was wearing fuchsia-colored pajama bottoms and I gathered that she was being held upside down because she did not survive the crash. The baby had blondish hair, like my son, but it was not curly. After a few moments when no one stepped forward to claim her, they lowered her down a conveyor-like pole. The older women on board looked at me knowingly, and shamefully, as I continued helping the injured.
I’ve interpreted this dream in ways that has brought some closure and helped to make some sense of the loss. For a multitude of reasons I feel confident and sure that it was just not our time to have another child. At times I still feel sad, but I have also made my peace with it.