The tastes you never forget.

A friend has suffered a miscarriage.  My heart aches for her.

My tongue, always tripping with flavors imbued in memory,  tastes of pumpkin butter, butternut squash ravioli, and lobster risotto.  Those were some of the dishes I ate in Charleston two years ago when I was hanging out with Sweetpea.

Before Puggle, there was Sweetpea.  Sweetpea was the first swipe at joy, a  wispy, sweet little dream that eventually became a wistful, ephemeral memory.  I wrote this after Sweetpea quietly exited my life at not-quite-14-weeks:

Every pregnancy is a hope, a moment of joy, of things that can be, of things that might be; an unformed, untouched representation of the possible.

This one had a name: Sweetpea.

Sweetpea's daddy thought Sweetpea was a girl; and so Sweetpea's mommy kept calling it a her, too. And maybe she was; we won't know because Sweetpea decided to exit stage left last Friday. It seems she was a temperamental diva: she simply refused to show up for work one day.

Last Friday, Sweetpea's heartbeat didn't show up on the fetal monitor although two weeks earlier it had been visible.

Sweetpea was our momentary bliss and likewise, our temporary heartbreak. She wasn't a missed abortion, which is what the doctors call it in the second trimester; she was a lost child. We saw her as a child long before anyone else might have considered her so; she was our baby from the day we knew of her existence. Yes, a fetus; a pair of gametes fused together; but in our hearts, our minds, and our actions, a baby to be loved, to be protected, to look forward to.

Mommy knew on Wednesday when they couldn’t find Sweetpea’s heartbeat with the Doppler that something was wrong but she wasn’t ready to acknowledge it. On Friday when they couldn’t see Sweetpea’s heartbeat on the fetal monitor, Mommy already knew, not just by looking at the technician’s face, but only because moments before coming in, she had been reading an article about miscarriages. You could say such things are coincidental and of course they are; but Mommy doesn’t believe in coincidence: she believes in predestined evolutions.

Miscarriages are odd things. Miscarriages are births not meant to be. We know so much earlier now when we are pregnant and so we know too about how exquisitely common miscarriages can be. Every miscarriage is different. They carry unique markers, identifiers like dates, moments, songs, things that associate and align themselves to that miscarriage: …the sunshine pouring through my car, warming me as I text-messaged Annie to tell her I lost Sweetpea...the spontaneous reaction of crying to assuage my grief…that strange, antiseptic smell of the hospital where I filled out pre-op paperwork.

And yesterday, I found that Sweetpea has a theme song: The second movement of the Rach 2 (Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto No. 2, Adagio Sostenudo). I think its sweep and poignancy are perfectly apt for how I feel. I could not find another piece of music that would explain the things going on in my head and my heart.

Let us say this was the body's test run, that Sweetpea, contrary to our hopes, was a stage rehearsal. There are things you see in an unpolished, unrefined rehearsal that you don't see in the finessed opening night. Unpracticed, occasionally gaffe-ridden, and tentative, sometimes tenuous and fearful. There are things you learn the first time that you didn’t know before. Moments of hilarity. Instances of discovery. I know now, for instance, that when I am pregnant, I feel queasy the first two months. I am dreadfully sleepy and will go to bed before 9:00. I get tired around 6:00 pm after a full day. I crave tuna and pickle sandwiches. I am deliriously happy and filled with hope.

How could I regret then, for one moment, any of that? How can I regret knowing early even if I lost early? How can you put a limit on joy? We should always risk ourselves, over and over. Why just a piece of ourselves? No no, there’s too much inside to be half assed about this. Life and love are sacred arts: we should not be dilettantes. I could tell you over and over this isn’t a tragedy and that it isn’t tragic and it would be true, as true as my smiles (always real) and my laughter (always ready), and my outlook (always optimistic).

But this is also true:

I am deeply sad.

Two weeks ago, we sat in my living room sharing scones and tea as she delightedly told me about her pregnancy.  I haven't eaten pumpkin butter, butternut squash ravioli or lobster risotto in several years.  I wonder when she will want to have scone and tea again? 

Comments

[beastmomma]

I am glad that you are able to be there for your friend. Thank you for sharing your story with us.

[breadchick]

That was the best story of summing up a miscarriage I have ever seen. You are right, each one is different and we deal with them in our own ways. I'm sorry for both you and your friend.

[barbara]

Beautifully written Cath. I remember some years ago when a friend suffered a miscarriage and everyone was fussing over the mother. The father was suffering just as much but no one noticed.

[MyKitchenInHalfCups]

How wonderfully you talk of the fullness of life. Loss is part of the glory of living.
this isn’t a tragedy and that it isn’t tragic and it would be true, as true as my smiles (always real) and my laughter (always ready), and my outlook (always optimistic).

But this is also true:

I am deeply sad.
Sad does have a place in the happy life.
So sorry for your friend.

[jasmine]

Beautifully written.

Even though every loss is different, It's good that you can be there for your friend--others who've not been through it, although well-intentioned, won't know what she's really going through.

j

[cath]

Thank you all for your lovely words.

Jaspreet, Mary - I'm glad I was able to be there for her too;

Barbara - understood; her husband was able to turn to several (male) friends who have experienced similar...

Tanna: sad always has a place in happy; you can't appreciate the latter without the former...

Oh Jasmine...absolutely...

One of the best parts of friendship is being surrounded by the exquisite tenderness of friends during a loss; and so I know how to ache for and comfort my heartbroken friend now.

[Snehal]

What an amazing outlook on life .. its love and its losses you have! I am so sad for your friend's loss, but life is a circle and it will go on for her as for the rest of us and she will have a baby she will love and grow with everyday. Thnx for sharing:)

[Nan]

That was really beautiful, and I'm so sorry for your friend. I know exactly what you mean about Rachmaninoff's 2nd...it's one of my favorite concertos and so so moving.

[Sherry]

Isn't it amazing how songs, scents and flavors remind us of so many different times and events? The song from the movie 'Titanic' brings the same thoughts of losing my own little angel in 1998. It was playing in the car on the way to the emergency room and then constantly for weeks afterward. I don't like that song now.

You're a wonderful friend, and a beautiful writer. Thank you so much for sharing.

[Tartelette]

What a wonderful piece. I am sorry that you and your friend had to go through this. I had mine at 12 weeks, almost 1 year ago. I was very fortunate to be showered by the kind words and affection of a lot of blogging friends out there.