Humpty Dumpty

“Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

All the king's horses and all the king's men

Couldn't put Humpty together again.”

It's been 18 hours and 40 minutes since I had a miscarriage.

18 hours and 40 minutes since nature ripped my developing baby from my body. 

I stare at the computer screen unsure what to write. The corners of my eyes sting because I used sand paper  (inexpensive Kleenex) to dry them. There are dishes in my sink, and guacamole on my kitchen table. There are bills waiting to be opened, e-mails returned, and a toddler to be fed. And yet here I sit, a pile of grief, a soppy mess, paralyzed by loss.

We were going to the name the baby either Amelia or Jack

With a little Amelia or Jack, our family was going to be complete. 

I stare at my belly and curse it's flatness, my breasts are no longer near as tender. My body is, like the world, continuing to spin, seemingly unaware that my heart has shattered. It is repairing itself, moving on. And though my flesh and bones are together as one, part of me has been left behind. My heart cannot catch up; it's drowning in sea of grief, the swell sweeping it further away from feeling whole.

I've never believed in the soul. I've always been a person of logic, not faith. Last night, however, I suddenly felt a deep sense of loss. I lost my breath, my back having sharp pains. I inhaled, as I did so, I felt the soul of Amelia or Jack leaving my body. I felt the sense of disconnection as the baby's ears ceased to know only my heartbeat. And I knew - before I even thought the word "miscarriage", I knew. I felt it in my bones, my flesh, and my heart. I felt the life leave me when nature decided my pregnancy was no longer part of this world.

As unsure of what I am to write here, in the solitude of my office, I am even more unsure what to say to friends and family. How do I tell them? How do I get through the day? What do I say when they comfort me? What do I say when they ask, "Are you alright?" What do I say when others are embarrassed by the honesty of the situation?

Loss is such an asshole. Logically, I know the miscarriage happened for a reason - a spontaneous abortion is a body's way telling you something was....wrong. Despite knowing this, I am broken. I am angry at myself for caring so much about a 9 week old fetus - something the size of a blueberry.

It is occurring to me that my grief I feel, my sense of violation, is something I will have to work through. Nobody can do this for me. I cannot help but think of the nursery rhyme, "Humpty Dumpty" in which he falls, breaking into a million pieces. All the kings horses and all the kings men try to put him back together again, and yet they fail. 

How will I do this? How will I stop feeling so deeply affected? 

I don't know. For the first time in my life, logic is trumped by faith - faith that whatever presence I felt with me as I lost my baby will return, helping to guide me through the fog I feel. 

Faith that my heart will heel. Faith that things will be okay. Faith that I, Sarah, will rise above the fate of Humpty Dumpty and be able to put myself back together again. This is not faith, however, in the sense of religion. This is faith to trust my body. Faith to trust myself. Religion does not have a place in my life, so do not confuse faith for a religious context.

I've truly entered a personal hell.