Fly Away Bird

At 19 weeks our baby just died…

That was the whole story. Period. Full stop. No apparent reason. “These things happen.”

Batteries of tests. Countless blood draws. Sonograms. Needle sticks. Lab results. NOTHING. No medical answers. “These things happen.” Three miscarriages in twelve months. Unthinkable.  

Francis Ford Coppoloa said he believed something happened when we died because he couldn’t believe that something as “specific as a person” could just disappear. I like that idea of people being specific. Our specific unborn son was not ready to come any further. He served his purpose and moved on to wherever we go. Not sure where that is. Not worried about it either. I do not fear my own death. I nearly drowned at age 16 and had time to think about it as it was happening. “So this is how it goes down,” I said to myself matter of factly as I fought the raging waters. “I never would have thought I was going to die young on a summer vacation in a river in Vermont.” What saved me was not the fear of my own passing. In fact, that option would have been a relief, given the physical struggle I was engaged in at that moment. No, what kept me fighting was the thought of my brother sitting on the bank unaware and waiting for me. His ultimate realization that I was gone was too much to bear. And his hideous burden of bringing that unspeakable news to our mother was way beyond the pale. So I bucked up with my last bit of strength and lived to fight another day.

I guess Jodi and I were sitting on the bank unaware when that baby died.

What did I learn?

That life is unscripted. Our “charmed life” is vulnerable as anyone’s. The smooth road we foresee can be gutted with potholes. Our reasoning minds need an explanation to soothe our pierced hearts…but that is not how the Fates work when they twist our strings in the cosmic puppet show. That tears do cleanse the soul and a good hard cry massages the heart. That we must spend time with our grief, feel it, let it wash over us, humble us and nurture us.

I embrace sadness. It is a fertile garden in which my inspiration as an artist and poet has found rich soil all my life. I wrote long ago:

sadness is the mother of wisdom

wisdom is the mother of happiness

so sadness is the grandmother of happiness

I kiss you grandmother. You remove my sarcasm, no small feat. And augment my kindness, though that greater kindness is often a tree that falls in an empty forest since sadness lessens my ability to be amidst others.

I learned that people surprise you with empathy and strength when you are weakened and defeated. Loved ones gave us the distance we needed, stood just outside the circle we drew around ourselves, ready to enter at a moment’s notice but not until invited. This allowed us to grieve without mundane interuptions like talking and shopping…or the agony of repeating what happened again and again.

I cried warm luminous tears when friends in the Mission drove across town and over the Golden Gate Bridge with homemade soup, and left it at the doorstep without a word. That little package discovered at the front door said so much. Other friends left full bags of groceries, premade foods, fruit, snacks. Again, no words. And a couple on the dock who were pregnant themselves left brown rice and veggies and other super healthy stuff to fortify our limp bodies. No words. It is often a fine command of language to say nothing. 

I found comfort in the Eastern worldview of Daren and Valencia, in which life is a flow of energy, constantly moving and touching down in our bodies briefly during our mortal existences before it continues on down the pipeline. Contrary to the Western view, this idea has lightness and nonchalance; it is free of platitudes and without sadness. As they saw it, that baby’s energy just flowed along elsewhere. Simple. That made sense to me. To both of us. And felt warm.

Fly on little bird.