True stories about birth and giving birth

Day 713. The first loss – at home

Posted on 2012. Sep. 17.

I made the test exactly on the 6th birthday of Simon, on a Thursday which was the same sunny, warm May as he was born. So, the test: the two lines are there. I knew it anyway but still. It’s good to see those two lines. I show them to T. in the evening when he comes home. We are happy.

Next afternoon I start bleeding. Those who have gone through this know what it feels like. The advice is: stay in bed, have rest and we will see, there’s nothing else to do.

Saturday starts with bleeding as well, and it increases all through the morning. The sun is shining beautifully in the living room, the boys are pushing the matchboxes on the carpet, and I’m lying on the sofa, but I know, more and more certainly, that it’s in vain. The bleeding is accompanied by soft, then stronger cramps. Ági calls me regularly, or I call her, we pretty much know what is going on already, but we keep hoping. Maybe it’s not that.

I cry in the phone once: “So now I’m going to flush my baby down the toilet?” – and she says: “I wouldn’t say things like that in front of my children” – “No, they are not here…” “Well, I can hear them in the background, they can’t be too far.” “But they can’t hear it, they aren’t listening.” “Of course they are! They are only small, not stupid.” She is right again, of course, I should pull myself together!”

I start to bake waffles, I feel like having a normal, bit stronger period, I’m cramping and bleeding, going to the toilet often, changing my pads.

One of these occasions I feel some big piece, something “else” falling out. And I can see it: there it is, in the toilet, in the middle of a lot of clotted blood, the small sea-barrow. I’m sobbing and crying, loud: “It has fallen out!! My little baby has fallen out of me!!” T. would come in to me but the two children are crowding at the bathroom door, too: “What has fallen out of Mum? What has fallen out???” Poor them!

I’m calling Ági, right there, sitting in the toilet, I can’t but cry in the phone, but she understands why and asks: “Do you want me to go over there?” – even in such situation she asks first and tells only after: “I’m going there”. She is here in a moment, hugs me and doesn’t comfort me. She knows it’s not possible. Not now.

We are sitting together in the bathroom, she on the edge of the tub, me on the top of the linen pin, next to my miscarried embryo. We are talking. She is talking about her own losses. Because she has some, too, she also had to suffer this to know what we are going through. We are crying together, then I’m going out to the children, T. is coming in to Ági. She is taking out the small sea-barrow from the toilet, examining it and putting it into T’s palm in a tissue.

T. went out with it to the woods (which begin in a few houses away), for lack of a better one he took the kids’ sand shovel. He said it had taken a serious physical effort to dig a hole with it into the hard ground of the woods – it did him good. He chose a young, five-pronged tree, and buried it under it.

And I was talking to the boys at home, we lit a candle and we were being sad.

Next day – on Sunday – the wider family came to celebrate our oldest, 6-year-old child. I also tried hard to be happy with what I’ve been given to be happy with.

Sz. J.

Eliza > > >
as told by Eliza’s Dad > > >

Véletlenül kiválasztott mesék.

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