Mind and Body

It’s been almost two months since we learned that our second pregnancy resulted in a missed miscarriage and more than a month since my D&C. Since this ordeal began I have spoken to many family members, friends and acquaintances who have suffered through their own miscarriages.

It’s not hard to find someone with a miscarriage story to share. Up to 1 in 5 women with known pregnancies may have a miscarriage and as many as 40% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. This, of course, is the first thing the doctor and many other people have pointed out to me:  “You are not alone.” Everyone assumes there is comfort in numbers, but I have found just the opposite. First, it’s hardly comforting to know that your loved ones have experienced such an emotional loss. Sure, generally speaking, misery loves company, but this is one of those things you never wish on even your worst enemy.

Also, you always hear people say, “every pregnancy is different.” Well, so is every miscarriage. Was the miscarriage a day or two after a positive pregnancy test or was it after months of being pregnant? Was it a panicky, painful trip to the ER or weeks of waiting impatiently? Was it a first pregnancy? Was it a first miscarriage? Have you had a child since? Each of these factors changes the experience significantly. All miscarriages are painful, emotional losses for a woman, but that’s not to say that I can relate to every woman who has had a miscarriage. In fact, I have found it very difficult to find someone with an experience that I can relate to. So, despite the fact that I am “not alone,” I have found miscarrying to be one of the most isolating experiences of my life.

For weeks I’ve been trying to connect. With someone. With some experience. I don’t really know why – what exactly I expected to gain from that connection but it just felt like a necessary step for me to move on. So, I had family time, vacation time, date nights, girls’ nights, rowdy nights, quiet nights, long phone calls, spa days, you name it. And when all this failed to fill the void I had nowhere else to look but inward.

So last night I went back to an old friend. One I used to spend a good deal of time with, but haven’t of late. As I’m writing this, it seems the obvious “friend” to whom I refer is me. And I suppose that’s true enough. But I was actually referring to my old friend meditation. In fact, they are one and the same.

For two hours last night I did “transformational breathwork.” In other words, I laid on the floor in a candlelit yoga studio filled with some seriously penetrating music surrounded by mostly strangers. But really the only person I was with was me. Me and my thoughts and my breath. For two hours.

If you’ve never meditated, you wouldn’t believe what that can do to a person. It breaks you down. Thought by thought. Emotion by emotion. And that’s only the mind part of it. It also causes your body to release tension and stress that you’ve been holding onto for so long you’ve simply gotten used to it. Your muscles can spasm, tense, become numb and ultimately relax. As all of these changes occur – mind and body – you realize you haven’t taken a truly deep breath in months, maybe years, maybe ever. Because until you let all that go — ALL of that go — you can’t breathe in a therapeutic way.

In short, it was an intense experience. And one that I needed. I can’t say I’m over the loss of my baby or that I ever will be. Meditation didn’t cure me. I still have grieving to do. But it gave me clarity, a path. You can even call it an epiphany. I am alone. But I am also the only one I need to find peace again.

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