I wrote An Artist’s Guide for Goodbyes about two months ago. I had been miscarrying for about a month at that point and I felt I needed to write about what was going on and how art was helping make sense of it and other recent losses. I was writing about moving on, but honestly, it was incredibly difficult even after I made the step to share what I was going through. Don’t get me wrong. Writing that post was like breathing for the first time in a month. I gave words to my pain and opened up about it, and being brave in that way, in a painful way, began the healing process. However, I wasn’t done miscarrying. Every week I had to go back to the doctor, give blood and get the call a couple days later that it still wasn’t done. 

In a way, part of me felt like posting meant it should’ve been the end of my grieving. It wasn’t. It just put me in touch with my grief in a more articulate way. I grew more despondent every week that I had to go back to the nurse, get patted on the shoulder by the sweet nurse who I came to know over the 2+ months who would always say “I hope this is the end for you” as I left the office. And every following week I’d show back up in her doorway, she’d smile sadly, show me to the chair, and repeat the same sad and comforting words as I left.

Vasant and I were struggling to not suppress, and yet not get swallowed by our grief. A few wonderful people emailed after my post. Fewer still followed up with us to see how we were getting along. I read in most of the pregnancy books that miscarriage is really difficult for people because you don’t understand it unless you’ve been through it. It’s a death, but people minimize it because the child was never out in the real world. And yet, this doesn’t really matter to the mother. The child was a promise of new life. Not just A new life, but new life for the parents. The grandparents. The prospective aunts and uncles. On top of a miscarriage being the death of promise, it’s also death within a woman. If someone dies outside of you, it’s hard enough. But if someone dies within you, and that death lingers over 10+ weeks, until all residue of what could’ve been your child cease to exist within you, it can be tortuous.

Not even the few people who grieve with you can understand. And even the few women who miscarry who had quick miscarriages have a hard time understanding. The loss of the child is trauma enough. But for the remainder of that loss to continue to exist within you, lacking definition and yet full of unsettling meaning. For me, my grief was transfigured into torture because of the waiting period. 

So I didn’t write like my March post said I would. I got my website back up. I returned to revising the novel I’d finished last year, which is still seeking an agent. I read and returned to poetry. I made lists of agents and small presses. But I did not start my second novel, the one about the couple who loses a child, like I said I would. I just couldn’t. I felt haunted by the loss of my own. And yes, I could’ve channeled that into my work. But I tried that. I ended up weeping as I wrote so violently that I couldn’t type. It may make me weak, but I knew I wasn’t ready to enter into that art. I knew I couldn’t until I was past my miscarriage. There would still be enough grief and pain to draw upon once I’d finished that leg of the journey.

Two weeks ago, on May 4, Vasant and I went on a trip together, paid for by family who wanted us to get some healing. We needed to reconnect and be refreshed. On the first day of our trip, I received a call from my nurse. She told me that I was finally back to normal. My body was through with the process of miscarrying. I was my own again. 

The trip, suddenly, was not just about healing. It was about celebrating being in a new phase. One season of loss and grief was over. We could focus on just each other and what our future held. And we did. It was a wonderful, restorative trip. We realized that we hadn’t laughed as hard or as heartily as we did on that trip in over 4 months. We wrote new stories, talked about our future, created art and I begun work on Reclamation. Finally. I didn’t feel overwhelmed. I didn’t cry. I wrote and it felt free and fierce and fiery. 

So I’m back now.

Back from the trip.

Back from my sojourn through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

I’m back and I’m working on my second novel. Vasant and I feel amazing. We haven’t felt this refreshed in over a year. And while this time is still difficult, and we still need to finish the last stages of our grieving, we’re on firm ground again. We wouldn’t be there without each other, and it also needs to be said that we wouldn’t have gotten through this without my family, without Matt and Danielle Harris, without Will Conrardy. Many others blessed us during this time but these people carried us through, but emotionally and physically. They brought meals, provided late, late, LATE night support, called and texted constantly and without provocation, and overwhelmed us with their love. 

Thank you. You really helped Vasant and I get through this. And thank you to everyone who replied to the last post, and to those who privately message me. Your thoughts and prayers meant a lot to us. 

I wanted this post to update anyone who was interested that we’ve finally gotten closure. We’re on firm ground. And while this book hasn’t been closed quite yet, another one has officially begun being written. That’s a wonderful thing. Over the next couple months, I’ll begin writing about the new book, along with continuing the “Stories Save My Life” series. I want to thank those who’ve been reading for the good thoughts and prayers and comments. I also want to thank those who’ve commented on the Stories series and to those who’ve contributed. You make me feel less alone when you come here and talk about good stories. Whether you’re posting or commenting. Thank you Vasant, Jules, Kevin and Rae and thank you to those whose posts are coming. And if you have a post you want to contribute, let me know. I’m loving this series and I hope you love it too.

So there’s the update. Somethings are finished, somethings are beginning, and Vasant and I are grateful for those who’ve been there throughout, from the hardcore, middle of the night supporters to the people we meet and interact with online. Thanks to all.