16 hours.
16 hours to birth 14 weeks of baby.
And I held her in my hand.
Cold and lifeless and recognisably human.
And asked her forgiveness.
Please forgive me little Robin.
Please forgive me for what I have done.
Her hand was palm to palm with mine.
Her other in my mother's expression of contemplation.
48 hours ago, if I had prodded my tummy, she would have flinched.
Now she is in a box on my bedside waiting for the Earth to envelop her.
From one womb born, to another returned.
I have planted snowdrops and English bluebells and an Iris named George under my mother's cherry tree, and made a pebble out of clay with her name and date on it. The clay, unfired, will melt away gently with the seasons until only the living remain.
And I am aggrieved that she is not living.
And that is the consequence of my decision.
And I somehow think I have no right to cry (which I am), or feel so so sad (which I do), or feel okay (which I did). And my head tells my I have no right to feel anything. Except shame. Shame is acceptable.
Which is nonsense because I'm bleeding heavily after three months of not; my tummy has gone from feeling firm to feeling squodgy again; I'm awash with hormone trying to figure out what's going on. And I'm not carrying life any more. I feel very very empty and very very alone.
The second consciousness is missing. The fuzzy blip that was touching the edge of my consciousness is no longer there. And the missing is greater than the awareness was. And this is how it was with the two miscarriages. My raisin and my kidney bean.
And this was my choice and my choice alone.
And that fuzzy blip touching the edge of my consciousness would not have remained so. It would have become a labour and a birthing story and a baby and a child. One that I am not equipped to look after at the moment.
So I killed it instead.
And now I am going to go away and cry some more. Excuse me please.
3rd February 2012
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