The Keys To the Stages Of Sorrow

How miscarriage led to divorce and grief

In the stage of denial, my dream eyes witness her pumping legs in the pie shaped backyard. I move to clarify my view but cannot see through the spaces between the back porch slats. A black pit bull is chasing her, nipping at her calves. Her ring of laughter floats in the air with her blonde hair blowing behind her as she dashes along the fence and then her skirts her slim body around the trampoline. Her little feet in the tall grass are too white for summer. Why has her Dad not mowed? The face I desperately want to gaze upon is blurry.

Guinevere has come to visit on her fifth birthday. Kindergarten, books, coloring is what she should be doing. My internal sensor alarms when important moments are due but do not come to term.

Her first smile.

Her first word.

Her first plate of scrambled eggs.

In the stage of anger, down the hall I stomp like an elephant unaware of its size. The questions people ask are never the right ones. In fact, I hear no words from people I love or do not even though I do not want to talk about losing Guinevere. Others have lost their children too but small headstones are not cocktail party topics. It is a secret club with keys of sorrow and blood, slippery like eels from behind a stone. Ideas slip away wrapped in heartache and slither through the sweaty aching fingers of a life lived with the notion of something missing. Brought to attention only when a slip of the tongue or a catch of phrase alerts the would be mother of a common experience.

Eyes open in the dark, I believe at first I wet the bed. I creep out into the hall to not wake her father. The bathroom light reveals the red stickiness. The toilet takes the blood gush with the remains, 10 weeks old.

The light wakes him and he sits at my knees sobbing. No tears for me. Instead, I am concerned about the mattress and the integrity of the plastic protective cover similar to my grandmother’s couch in the fake living room. There is so much wrong. I didn’t know then I was in a fake marriage.

The day before I lost her I sat at a conference table rereading the same grant words five times for kids she will never meet. It is my fault. The next day I went to work to turn in the paperwork. Pain moved aside because to not go would mean failure in 2 areas of life within 24 hours.

In the stage of bargaining, I wake at 2:17 am. I attempt breathing exercises in a comfortable position. The time ticks closer to my waking requirement of work and life to be lived in the light. I reframe and compartmentalize.

What if there had been no stress? What if I had eaten more? What if I had drank more water? What if I was excited and not upset when I saw the line on the test 10 weeks before? What if I could go back? What if my favorite flowers were not delivered?

“Why no name?” he kept asking.

“How should I know?” was my answer even though I did.

Secrets were delivered to my door even after I made a deal with the universe. The flowers came up at marriage counseling as well as the miscarriage. All of it was my fault so I was to choose a therapist within a 24 hour window per his insistence. An appointment confirmation email arrived 2 hours later. I had sat on her two cushion couch where no love was anymore and played their game.

My game was calculating what words to choose carefully as I sat on the ugly brown and pink flowers. In my mind, high school sweethearts have resilience. How did it get so bad?

She told me I cared too much about what he thought. She was wrong. I didn’t care enough now. I didn’t want him to touch me, let alone talk to me. Everything about him annoyed me — his choice of music and the fact he only ate plain meat and potatoes. It was so much more than the baby being lost. Pretending to have a life with someone is exhausting.

She chose his side and called two days later with her syrupy voice oozing with persuasion to come back. The sessions only accomplished a hate of the therapist and him.

There is still no forgiveness for his choice to take the therapist’s words over mine. There is no forgiveness for his continued years of therapy with her in spite of my hate and therefore yielding no reward. There is no forgiveness for HER words coming out of his mouth in my car last year in regard to boundaries. Pushing him into the street beyond the boundary of the car door would have been satisfying. I do wonder what would have happened if I had been honest on the ugly loveseat?

In the stage of depression, the alarm sings and snooze is hit four times. My body wakes balled up in the sheets damp and sticky. A stream of apologetic calls are required but I can hardly get out of bed to relieve my bladder. The weights that tie me to the striped sheets win.

Circles of light reflect back at me within the black and red in my eyes. The paint peels from the ornate frame.

What if I took all the pills in the cabinet?

I move to another room and open the refrigerator door and the light and cold fall on my bare feet. I experience a time seize. I was looking for something. In my hand is a pen and a knife. My solution is to inhale a shot of Jack. I chase it with black coffee and another shot. Shoes on, bag packed and I drop the bottle into the recycling bin on my way to my car along with the pen and the knife.

If only that bottle really held the pain.

In the stage of acceptance, I sign papers and fork over $3000 dollars and sign my rights away to the house deed. I will regret this action and do it anyway. He asks me for the money when we are driving. I do not hesitate to tell him yes. He asks if living with him is really that bad. I stare out the window.

More denial. I call in sick. I sleep, read, and drink in various orders. I have to figure out what to do next but am too tired.

The final stage of acceptance. Without him and her I am better now, right? Less money; less belongings, but more happiness? I have accepted what is. I am not stuck in a relationship that is for show. We rid our lives of the things which no longer nourish us like spoiled apples in the fruit bowl but accidentally or on purpose can be hard to determine.

I dream of Guinevere again on her 8th birthday. Same backyard but with mowed grass and the dog is fatter. A key hangs on the gate and I unlock the exit from the backyard. The scent of roses follows me as I walk into the season of life I am in now.