Stillborn Labor- Continued

After my sister arrived moments after birth, I asked for the midwives to bring the baby to me. Trembling on the floor, propped up on pillows in the low light, they passed my still child to me. She was a girl and we named her Arianna Lillian Bellinger Goodale. Arianna was loosely wrapped in a homemade quilt decorated with happy bright suns. It was in that one timeless moment when my hands held her tiny body that my heart literally went soaring into hers; we collided into mother-and-daughterhood. I fell more in love with Ari at that time than I could have ever imagined. I was shocked by her beauty- she was perfect and appeared only to be sleeping. She wore a small white cap and her eyes were closed. Her pudgy cheeks pushed down the corners of her mouth, which had turned deep purple. My shaky hand reached slowly up to touch her nose- so little and round. My vision blurred with tears, as I asked her to wake up- maybe it was just a dream? Just wiggle, or cry, or open your eyes, I thought. Despite my sadness then, I saw such pure beauty that only a mother can understand. I was proud of myself and Brian to have made such a precious being. I scramble to hold onto the picture in my mind's eye as it fades. I wish now in retrospect that I had held her longer- but in reality no amount of time would have satisfied my yearnings.

I laid in bed now, as friends and family came in and out. I was splattered in blood from the waist down. My sister started to clean my body with a warm sponge, but I asked her to leave the blood on my feet. I loved this blood. I felt like a warrior. It made me feel close to Ari. It was some sign of reality. This is real- see? It was all I had left- some mixture of hers and mine. I clung to it and cried as the shower water eventually washed me clean.


The next time I saw Ari, the moment had passed; she had passed. Her body faded and she looked scarily dead. Brian and I knelt next to her in the nursery to say good-bye before a man from the funeral home came to take her body away. The next day my mom, Brian, and I followed her to the funeral home, where we were able to see her body for the last time before cremation. She looked so small, as she lay on a adult sized bed in a huge empty room dressed in a knitted outfit from her great-great grandmother. I walked slowly to her and stopped suddenly when I got close enough to see the death on her face. Brian proceeded to the bed, as I sunk to my knees, weighed down by my grief. It was a physical cry that bent my forehead to the ground, made me gasp for air- it felt like puking or purging out from the deepest part of my body. I did eventually make it to her bedside. We looked at the details of her little hands and feet with purplish nails. I told her over and over how much I loved her and missed her. Her skin was paper thin and powdery from the preparations. We wrote her a little note to be tucked in her shirt for the cremation. I stayed for a long time there, not wanting to go. I just starred and cried. And cried and cried.

No Death, No Fear

Yesterday morning I sat in my small sunroom, watching the day begin, sitting in my new meditation chair, reading a book on holistic healing. I paused to look out the window at the mountains and think of Ari. I talked to her aloud- a sign that I am gradually refinding and reforming my relationship with my daughter. I told her I missed and loved her, and then I asked if some day she could tell me why she died. "It doesn't have to be today or anytime soon, but some day will you help me understand?" I just listened to the silence, not expecting a reply. My ride soon arrived and I was off to work.

That evening we had a family dinner at my brother-in-laws' parents house, Barb and Knowles. After a fresh, organic, home-cooked meal, Barb went to her bedroom to grab a book for me- No Death, No Fear: Comforting Wisdom for Life by Thich Nhat Hanh. This is perfect, I thought and later that night at home I opened the pages. Not but two pages into the text, this is what I read:

"A few weeks later the weather became warm again. As I walked in my garden I saw new buds on the japonica manifesting another generation of flowers. I asked the japonica flowers: "Are you the same as the flowers that died in the frost or are you different flowers?" The flowers replied to me: "Thay, we are not the same and we are not different. When conditions are sufficient we manifest and when conditions are not sufficient we go into hiding. It's as simple as that." / This is what the Buddha taught. When conditions are sufficient things manifest. When conditions are no longer sufficient things withdraw. They wait until the moment is right for them to manifest again. / Before giving birth to me, my mother was pregnant with another baby. She had a miscarriage, and that person wasn't born. When I was young I used to ask the question: was that my brother or was that me? Who was trying to manifest at that time? If a baby has been lost it means that conditions were not enough for him to manifest and the child has decided to withdraw in order to wait for better conditions. "I had better withdraw; I'll come back again soon, my dearest." We have to respect his or her will. If you see the world with eyes like this, you will suffer much less. Was it my brother that my mother lost? Or maybe I was about to come out but instead I said, "It isn't time yet," so I withdrew."

Well if Ari led me to this passage or if I just stumbled upon it, here is an answer. I read this passage to Brian, my boyfriend, last night. Together we realized that the insufficient conditions were not from anything we did or did not do, but rather some mix of things known and unknown to us that just were not right. It is as simple as that. I feel comforted by this and hopeful that Arianna will some day manifest again somewhere, sometime.

Thank you Ari!!

Charlotte's Grace

A particular issue of Mothering Magazine arrived in the mailbox. Usually I would stash the issues away, barely look at the cover, in hopes that some day I could read them with a child in my belly once again. Although there was nothing special about this issue, I decided to take a look. Already longing and sad from the first pages, I was surprised to recognize an image in the table of contents. The style was reminiscant of an artist whose work I had tacked around the house during my pregnancy, Durga Berhnard. Excitedly, I flipped to page 32, to see a full image of the piece...and an article about stillbirth, called Charlotte's Grace: a woman grieves the loss of her stillborn daughter, but forever celebrates the birth of her identity as a mother. Next to the article was an image of a woman nursing one child, while holding a seemingly sleeping baby close to the ground with a teardrop of milk falling.

I decided not to read the article just then but contacted the artist. I told her briefly of my experience and how her art was a part of my pregnancy and Ari's short life. Soon she responded, telling me of the Mothering Magazine article and the story behind the piece. The woman who inspired the piece lost one daughter named Julianna and then had another child named Aria. Both Durga and I were intrigued by the similarity of these names to Arianna's name. The art is titled "Song of sorrow, Song of Joy" because Julianna was the woman's song of sorrow and Aria was her song of joy.

Perhaps I am reaching, but the ever so clear message for me is this:
Because Arianna's name is a combination of Julianna and Aria, who each represent sorrow or joy, Arianna is both my song of sorrow and song of joy. This connected with me very deeply because since Ari's death, I have been working my way through my sorrow to get to my joy. I will always feel sorrow for the loss of my child, but some day I hope to feel true joy for the relationship we are still able to have in the heart and in the spirit. One night I went back to read that article and to my surprise, that mother came to this same place of finding joy in motherhood refound and redefined, but nonetheless motherhood.

This is an important read:
Issue 141 March-April 2007 Mothering Magazine: Natural Family Living
Charlotte's grace: a woman grieves the loss of her stillborn daughter, but forever celebrates the birth of her identity as a mother
http://www.thefreelibrary.com/Charlotte's+grace:+a+woman+grieves+the+loss+of+her+stillborn...-a0161022737

Miscellaneous Art

Art during pregnancy

Art after Ari Died

Stillborn Labor- Continued

We soon decided it was best to head home, back through the snowy night. The contractions in the car were the hardest- I was uncomfortable, cold, scarred, unsure, resistant. I was only 4 cm dilated- I was afraid of the long hours to come and the increasing pain. But I made a promise to myself that as soon as I entered the house, I would start over; I would embrace my contractions and let labor come to me. And this is what I did. As soon as I crossed through the doorway, in a matter of minutes, I felt like I had to push! How could this be, I asked the midwives. They said they would prepare the bed and suggested Brian and I take a hot shower. The shower was intense, steamy, timeless, spaceless. Brian held my weight as I welcomed my contractions. I threw up (mostly on Brian!), as I was warned might happen. My mind was entirely off- I thought nothing of the devastation inside me. I heard myself grunting and groaning- I knew it was soon time to push. Unknown to me, my sister came to the house to check on things. Later should told me that I sounded as if I were in orgasmic ecstasy.

I made my way from the shower to the bedside. I stood at the foot of the bed, where I rocked and swayed, up and down, following the rhythm of the contractions. Brian held my weight at the apex of the pains. Soon I lowered to the floor on all four. My body told me it was time. Brian positioned himself behind me along with Michelle to catch the baby. Kathy crouched in front of me. I pushed there in the low light of dawn at the foot of the bed under my birthing wall- I cried ancient animalistic cries. My face was pure surprise at the pain- indescribable pain. With a push, Brian held part of the baby. We waited for the next contraction to resume pushing- waited, wanting, wishing for a contraction so Brian wouldn't have to hold his lifeless child any longer. I heard two of his voices- one was strong, unwavering, encouraging; the other whimpering, in agony and sorrow- it was as if two Brians were there. In time, a contraction came, and the baby was out. They asked if I wanted to see the baby. With my forehead lowered to the ground, I shook my head, no.

I sat in a daze as the placenta was delivered. After some worry of excessive bleeding, I was instructed to stay put there on the floor, surrounded by a mixture of blood and fluids. Exhausted and in deep shock, tears and sobs cooled my hot face. Our baby was born at 6:32 on the dawn of December 2nd. The morning was still and clear- the fresh snow twinkled on the bare branches. Active labor lasted no more than 3 hours. --More to come on the following minutes and the preciousness of meeting my child--