The Parisian Victorian Tomb

This post is part of a blog series on pregnancy loss from a miscarriage I had in August 2021. Thank you always for reading. – Jesse

July 2021 Pregnancy: Week 9

The evening: I saw you today, on an ultrasound screen. You were still. The doctor said your heart stopped at 8 weeks. I know there is more grief and words to come, but tonight, I am holding tight to the thought of you — still and always a gift.

The next morning: I’m 9 weeks pregnant with a baby whose heart stopped at 8 weeks. My body hasn’t moved towards miscarriage on its own, and I still feel nauseous and pregnant, which ultimately seems cruel, and strongly illustrates the concept of “silent,” or “missed” miscarriage. My current plan, developed under the skilled care of an OBYGN, whom I hardly know, but seems attentive and accommodating to essentially any and all courses of action and non-action, is currently as follows: expectant management. In other words, I am allowing this miscarriage to evolve naturally. Unless I reach 12 weeks, the end of the first trimester, with no signs of miscarriage. In this case a D & C (surgical procedure) will be scheduled.

So I wait, with my baby inside me, for my body to progress to active miscarriage. I described this feeling, my current reality, via a comic-absurd-realism text message to Annaliese:

“I’m a tomb. A baby tomb.”

Well versed in such realism, she quickly replied, “But you’re a beautiful one. Like the Victorian ones in Paris with moss growing on their facades and lovers headstones leaning towards one another. Aren’t we all our own tomb anyway? I feel the poets are experts in this field. We should do some digging.” She followed her text with a series of photos of serene statues and beautiful tombs in European graveyards.

Thank God for Annaliese.

When I found out I was pregnant, I felt full of life. It was like I was radiating fertility, femininity, and sacred purpose. Now, I feel like a shell- shocked graveyard. Initially, when I spoke to the OBYGN about navigating my miscarriage options, he explained that many women opt for medical intervention to progress through miscarriage as quickly as possible, because, “They just want to move on.” I can deeply feel now, how, and why women gravitate to medical intervention: the wait is agonizing. How can I be at peace as my baby is waiting, still and patiently, to be put to rest? How can I move on, when my body continues as a safe haven for the life that was growing inside?

And yet, waiting has always defined my motherhood. I’ve waited for hundreds of Nora’s seizures to slow and finish, for her lungs to heal, or for anti-convulsant medications to work (or not work). I’ve waited in emergency rooms by her bedside, for doctors to round or call me back, for test results, and for healing to come to my family in all its forms: physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual.

Waiting for a little one to heal can be exhausting and even excruciating. Waiting to lay a little one to rest, from womb to the earth, is insufferable. Oh, how I wish I had taken an ultrasound picture with me when I left the doctor’s office.

What I want my children to know is this: as their mother, I’m here for the wait. I’m here for unbearable timelines. I’m here when enduring is agonizing. I’m here forever and in this moment as their safe haven.

And so to survive the wait, I will adopt life as a Parisian Victorian graveyard — a tomb and sanctuary for my Still- Heart.

Photo Credit: Jessica Rice Photography