I once read this
quote about how you know that you are over something when you can finally talk
about it and not cry. It flashed past my Facebook newsfeed on one of those
million zombified moments when you click the blue F icon on your mobile screen
almost on auto-pilot, rather than the need to know what is up with the world. I
remember scrolling back up after my brain had half-registered the sentence.
I hate it when I
find relatable meaningful posts online. “Oh great!” is usually how I greet such
memes and quotes and what not, before I continue scrolling. Not this time.
I felt
conflicted. I felt a weird sense of catharsis and a heavy feeling of guilt at
the same time. Which does not make the slightest sense without me going into
details. So here I am, years after my last blog post, to pour my heart out. I
felt catharsis because I can finally let go of my pain, and guilt for doing so.
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September 12,
2014. This day two years ago, my life was near-perfect. Deep and I were all
packed up and ready to return home in Assam for good the next day, I was all of
16 weeks pregnant, and we could not wait to begin a new chapter in Guwahati –
with his new job, my family, and a baby on the way. I knew I had opportunities
galore as far as my job scene was concerned.
I did not have
an ultrasound scan scheduled before 18 weeks, but my gynaecologist still
suggested I go for a routine one before I travelled by flight, seeing that I
was already a high-risk pregnancy with a previous ectopic one (a sob story for
another day). It was a nuisance, to go for the scan in the midst of last-moment
packing and cleaning, but the prospect of seeing the little one on the screen
and hearing its tiny heart beating excited me.
So, I happily
left home on a sultry September morning in Delhi, took an auto, and reached the
hospital. My sister met me there, and for some reason that I cannot recall right
now, she had her guitar with her. She was also pretty kicked, to be seeing the
tiny one on the screen. The radiologist met us outside the ultrasound room and
ushered us in.
As I prepped for
the scan, lying on the bed, raising my kurti up, and letting the doctor smear the
cool gel on my slight bump, she kept up a cheerful chat with my sister –
talking about music and playing in college bands.
She then turned
to me with some routine questions, while she kept moving around the ultrasound
wand over my tummy for quite some time, her eyes glued to the screen, before turning
to me and saying, “Priyankee, there is something wrong. I am very sorry, but
there is no fetal heartbeat.”
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Most of what
followed after is a hazy blur, but I remember pleading the doctor to do
something, crying non-stop at the waiting lounge till Deep came. Calls were
made to our families, second opinions advised, another hospital visited,
another scan done, reasons looked into, guesses made, tests done, advice given –
with me coming to terms with the fact that the life that was growing inside me
for over four months had suddenly was gone.
Having not slept
well that night, the next day’s flight had me thinking delirious thoughts. I
realised that I was carrying a dead foetus inside me to Guwahati. Would the
airlines have charged extra if it was outside me? Would they have allowed me to
carry it at all?
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I got admitted
into the hospital in Guwahati that very day after landing, and the D&E was
carried out the next day. When people today tell me that I do not know the
pains of labour as I have had a caesarean, I stop myself before I could blurt
out, “Oh, but I do know.” Even if it was an induced labour to evacuate my
uterus, it was one I grunted through the entire night – the waves of pain
rolling over me intermittently like they would rather I drowned in them than
put up a fight.
When the tiny
angel did leave me, it was all too soon and all too painless. The doctor
scooped me out with clinical precision while the nurses, with all their
training, couldn’t help but give me looks of half-pity, half-curiosity – while I
lay there in a messy pool of death and despair. Not for long, though. They
cleaned me up, gave me fresh clothes, and after a round of scans and blood
tests, pronounced me fit to go home.
Given my
annoying Spartan reaction to all things sad, I seemingly bounced back soon
enough – while dying every night. The hardest part was informing friends about
the news – not because I had difficulty bringing up the matter, but because I
just could not deal with all the sympathy. Not right then. No fucking way.
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I don’t remember
when Deep and I were ready enough again to get back to being intimate, but an
act of love and passion before now turned into a deliberate attempt to convince
ourselves that we are healing, while an air of guilt and despair hung heavy in
the bedroom.
But like all
things, this too passed. I slowly stopped being sad on the 12th of
every month, I mentally checked out on February 15, 2015 – the due date that
would have been, I slowly stopped blaming myself for what happened. The doctors
could not foresee it, I could not prevent it. I stated accepting it. Just like
I had accepted my previous loss, after which I lost my right Fallopian tube
and, thanks to my doctor’s words, any hope I had of conceiving naturally.
The talks of IVF
still continued sometimes, drunken weekend nights still turned into shouting
matches, the two of us still licked our wounds in private sometimes. However,
the sun would come up the next day – and all the monsters of the dark were laid
to rest.
I was too raw to
take all the hurt out of myself and hurl it on blank pages – something that
always used to calm me. But this too passed when my rainbow baby came along.
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No woman needs
to measure her self-worth by society’s standards – it is something she sets for
herself. For me, I had always been fascinated with the power of a woman’s body
to create new life, even when I was famously expressing my hatred of kids in
all their bawling glory during my younger years. So when I was finally ready to
experience that power for myself and my own body failed me – not once, but
twice – I could not help but feel a virtual hole inside me.
And this too
passed when my Zoe came along.
It is never easy
to share one’s experiences of miscarriage and loss – and more so in a society
where I am from. Such tragedies are kept quiet, swept under the rug, and dealt
with behind closed doors. You are lucky if you find actual support groups. But
this is my catharsis, clumsy words tip-tapping out of my fingertips into my
screen, after years of picking up the proverbial pen. I am finally letting go
of my pain, and even while I hug Zoe to sleep every night, I know there are two
other unborn angels out there who I will always cherish in my thoughts.
