Something About a Poppy

This post started in my head on the morning of the 25th of April. I stood in front of the mirror getting ready for the ANZAC parade and all I could see was the image of the poppy red patch that had confronted me moments before. My mind was filled with nothing at first, just the numbness of disappointment after a couple of days of spotting and hanging on to hope by a thread. Google had told me that ‘mid-cycle spotting’ could be an excellent sign of fertility and I wanted it to be true so so much. I willed it to be true up until the point that I was no longer spotting but instead staring at a poppy in my pants. After a little while of this nothingness my mind filled with everything, everything that I was losing as my body shed its lining and along with it my hopes. If it hadn’t been ANZAC day I may not have felt so solemn, so melancholy. I may have crawled back into bed or distracted myself with washing or cleaning up the breakfast mess. I may not have been in such a contemplative mood and my mind may not have filled with all of the reasons why it was a tragedy, it may not have resorted to admitting defeat. But it was ANZAC Day and as I stood in front of that mirror I felt the loss of a potential future, of an ideal I had set my sights on and at the same time I felt that loss dwarfed by the real loss of so many mothers, fathers, husbands, wives and children of the past. The real, human losses that have allowed my life to be what it is today. My disappointment and sadness could not compare with that of the people we were remembering, the people we were honoring, it did not seem worthy so I tucked it away and carried on with my day.

For the few days after, as I bled, I slowly let the disappointment go as if deflating a balloon I wanted to keep intact. I grieved quietly and internally, I had done everything I could, I had given it our best shot and it hadn’t worked, it just wasn’t meant to be. I thought about the money I had spent on doctors’ visits and supplements, the time and energy I had spent discussing the pros and cons and it all felt like a big waste. I was upset and angry at my body for not doing what it was supposed to do. My plan had been perfect, I had lined everything up and done all of the right things, it was my body that had messed it all up. In the midst of all this I spoke with a friend on the phone and she asked me what had been going on. I contemplated not mentioning it but just couldn’t lie to her and she could tell something was up, so I told her. I told her that instead of ovulating I was having my second period for the month, instead of getting pregnant I was bloody bleeding, I told her that I was pissed about it because this was meant to be the month, this was the perfect month for it to happen and it wasn’t going to happen now so I wasn’t sure if I wanted it to happen at all anymore. She listened in silence and then when she spoke she said, “You’re not very patient are you??” It was a statement not a question and there was no sugar coating on her tone. This friend had known me for more than half of my life. She had been there through it all, the good times, the bad times and the cringe-worthy moments. She knew me, warts and all, and she still picked up the phone when I called. So when this friend told me straight that I was being unreasonable and maybe a bit of an idiot I didn’t take it personally and I didn’t get defensive. Instead I believed her because it was possible for her to know my heart over the phone, 3500 km away even when I didn’t know it myself and in this instance she absolutely did. I had been so caught up in dates and cycles and lining up all of the elements in order to orchestrate the perfect situation that I had totally lost sight of the whole point. I had let myself get so caught up in the particulars that I had decided to stop trying altogether because one element of my plan had now been foiled. I had lost sight of the fact that we were talking about a life, a child, another member of our family and the only question that was important was “Do we want to have another child?”

It wasn’t until a few days later that the funniest part of it all became clear. While chatting by txt to another friend, one who happened to be a few weeks away from giving birth, the word ‘patient’ emerged once again. I was talking about my births, about what I had learned from them, what I regretted, what I wished I had done differently and I found myself typing the words “my impatience at the end of my pregnancies really affected my births”. As I looked at the text staring back at me I realized that I had not acknowledged this simple and obvious (in hindsight) fact until that moment. For five years I had learned to live and deal with the confusion of my first birth, I had known a deep sense of dissatisfaction around it but had not been able to articulate or understand where it had come from. I had eventually learned to let it go and to let it be and in doing so I had subscribed to the “as long as the baby and mother are both healthy then that’s all that matters” theory. Two years later I had accepted the emergency cesarean that my second birth had become with far less internal trauma than I had experienced with my first birth (which happened to be vaginal). I guess I had decided it would be easier that way since exploring my feelings and frustrations the first time round had only created more turmoil. Nobody had any answers for me, nobody could understand why I felt the way I did and it was obvious that nobody thought it was warranted.

Both times I had had such a clear view in my mind of what was going to happen, what was supposed to happen and what I wanted to happen that I was completely detached from what was actually happening. What I had failed to do in both cases was to be in the moment and surrender to the process, surrender to the fact that I was not in control of any of it and that despite my lack of control my body could and would do it’s job. I guess I felt the lack of control as a sense of helplessness and hopelessness and because of that I handed control over to the hospital and its staff so that at least somebody would have some control…and then I regretted it deep down in my soul where I knew I could have done it. I am sure that part of trying for this third pregnancy is about my regrets, it has to be a little bit about wanting another chance at it even though having another child in our family is the main aim. Maybe this little hiccup in the process could actually be a big lesson. I was starting out on exactly the same path as I’ve traveled twice before. If my big plan had worked out just the way I had anticipated and wanted then I may not have learned a thing and I may have made all the same mistakes all over again. If I do get a third chance at this, it won’t be about getting it right or about doing better, it has to be about letting it be what it is. In the same way my past births were not failed in any way shape or form, they were what they were and my only failure was in wanting them to be something else and focusing so much of my energy on what they were not.