A New Poem: How Beauty Saved Me

When I thought

there was nothing left,

she showed up.

Not to teach me

a lesson, no,

not to reprimand

or preach,

but to lead me

to the door.

She didn't say, 

"Get your butt outside,"

the way I might have.

She wrapped a red shawl

around my shoulders

against the chill

of the wintry wind

on the spring day.

The sun was so bright,

I wanted to close

my eyes, but she

demanded in her

soft voice - "Look." 

And I looked.

And my eyes and heart

were flooded with spring's 

flowering renewal.

Still here.

Beauty and I.

Still here.

Womb Talk, Conclusion

Here is the last piece of my musings on the loss of my womb. 

Hysteria 

To the ancient Egyptians,

it was caused by a displaced

or wandering womb.

To the Greeks,

it also stemmed from

the inability to bear children,

or the unwillingness to marry

(for surely, if you refused to marry,

you must have been hysterical).

They named it for the word

for womb, hystera.

Augustine called it

satanic possession.

Later, its definition mutated

into any mental disturbance 

in women. Men? 

No womb, no hysteria.

When psychology arrived,

diagnoses of anxiety and depression.

eclipsed those of hysteria.

Hmm...

Perhaps women were always

anxious and depressed.

Now, women are called

hysterical when they express

"out of control" emotion.

 

Is it time that we reclaim

the word, the way we did

with "witch" and "crone"?

Let's stop letting them

demean us.

Do we not, in this world,

have so much to

get riled about?

If a woman expresses big feelings,

she is either "shrill" at best,

or "hysterical" at worst.

 

My sisters, we have the right

to our righteous hysteria.

Do our hysterics scare them?

Let's stop apologizing for

our fury, our fear, and distress.

Let's let tears flow in our rage.

Then let us move on to do

what we know how to do -

Caretake the earth, the children,

and each other.

SoulCollage card

Facing the Unknown

Womb Talk, Part 5

I tried several times to listen for a message from my uterus.  I wanted to give it a voice. After all, I called this writing Womb Talk. I attempted to write a poem or two in its voice, but they felt contrived, forced.  The only aspect that resonated was the sense of my womb as an integral, integrated part of a whole working system.  It had a part to play, and it did its job.

Suddenly, while writing one morning, I heard the words, Make of me an offering.

 

Without my striving or forcing the conversation, I understood that my womb had finally spoken to me.  I had asked, and a message came, in its own way and time.

 

Womb Talk

 

Make of me an offering.

Find something round -

         a pomegranate,

         a grapefruit,

         a gourd.

Hollow it out, and fill it

         with berries,

         with seeds,

         with tiny flowers.

Take it in both hands,

and bless it, bless me.

Let it stand for what you cannot hold,

what you willingly surrender.

Place it in the receiving earth.

Cover it gently but firmly.

Say - I release you now,

with my thanks and my sadness.

May Persephone welcome you

into Her underworld home.

 

I have served you well,

filled and emptied,

all in the proper times.

I have rested.

Now I will go into

a deeper rest, knowing

that my work is done,

that I will no longer be knit

into the fabric of

my body's community.

You will go on without me,

and I will leave you

with my blessing.

Farewell.

Fare well.

I followed the directions of the poem, and with the help of some friends, I made my offering. Tomorrow I go to Stanford for my surgery.

SoulCollage® card of an offering

after my first surgery

Womb Talk, Part 4

 Throughout reproductive life, my periods were mostly regular and normal, if crampy.  At least menstrual products had improved.  No more belts! In my early twenties I went on birth control pills, as much for the cramp relief as for protection.  They worked well, but too much information came out about possible long-term effects, so I used a diaphragm after that.  What an awkward and messy little device that was.  But it worked.  Fortunately, the only times I got pregnant were when I wanted to be.

 

When I got older I had fibroids (and heavier periods), but they were not bad enough to remove.  I got my first hot flash at 44.  I was at work, and it took me a while to figure out what was happening.  I was 51 when I had my last period.  I felt a sense of poignancy about it.  All those years of fertility were over, and a new phase of life was beginning.  If we lived in a supportive culture for women, I might have appreciated those times of the month more.  I imagine being surrounded by other women, curled up on couches, resting, talking, and having our time apart.  Not so for modern women who are expected to soldier on as though nothing was happening in our bodies.

 

But menopause mostly brought relief.  I have now had 24 years of it, free of the discomfort and the hassles.  My hot flashes, however, never abated.  Some women are fortunate to never get them.  Those that do usually get over them when menopause is complete.  Me?  Usually two or three a night, occasionally more, occasionally less.  Rarely none.  And almost always during the night, not during the day.  Years ago, I tried bioidentical hormones, but the amount I needed to prevent the flashes made me bleed.  When you have breakthrough bleeding after menopause, doctors want you to get endometrial biopsies.  I had a few of them, and they are fast but incredibly painful.  So, I've learned to live with the flashes. The worst part is never getting an uninterrupted night's sleep.  I know I'm not alone in having long-term hot flashes, but I do think I could possibly break a world's record!

 

*********

 

Now that the story of my womb's life is complete, I want to address her directly.

 

To my uterus:

 

I am so sorry!  You have done nothing but serve me as best you could, and here I am, getting rid of you.  Not only that, but I have been eager to do so.  It isn't your fault. 

 

Not that you and I have always had an easy time of it.  I've never blamed you for my cramps.  Nor did I blame you for my miscarriage.  In fact, you held on to the fetus, even after it had

died.  They had to scrape it out of me because you wouldn't release it.  My doctor couldn't even tell me if it was a boy or a girl.  It's probably better that I didn't know. 

 

You did have some issues, such as fibroids that made for heavy periods.  They tell me there is still a calcified one inside you.  It will finally leave when you do.

 

You fulfilled your purpose, holding and growing two babies. I find that miraculous, actually.  Either you didn't want to let Max go, or he didn't want to emerge, but you held him safely until they brought him into the world.  Interestingly, with Alex, it was the opposite experience.  My waters never broke; a bulge of the bag of waters was the first thing that came out, and so he was born in a caul.  I just read that this only happens in less than 1 in 80,000 births.  The old stories say that being born in a caul means the child will be lucky or will achieve greatness, and that he or she will be immune to drowning.  I can't say if that is true for Alex, but the good fortune has been mine, in being his mother.

 

As I prepare to go into this surgery, I want to thank you. Even though we have had some hard times and experiences, you gave me my sons, and through them, my granddaughters.  How could I not be grateful to you for that?  I apologize if I slighted you in my eagerness to get this tumor out of me, and you along with it.  I will prepare a ritual in your honor as I prepare to surrender my female organs. 

 

I release you not because I can't use you anymore, but because this tumor could be malignant, and I don't want it to continue to grow on or in you. 

Me and the girls in 2015

Womb Talk, Part 3

When Max was two, we decided to have another child.  It didn't take longer than a few months for me to get pregnant.  We liked the potential spacing of three years between kids.

This pregnancy became problematic .  I had been taking dance classes with April Saas in her home studio.  One day, she informed us that her daughter had contracted German measles.  I got very scared, as this disease can cause some nasty birth defects in a developing fetus. We kept on, hoping that I hadn't been close enough to be exposed.  But then, just before Christmas 1977, my obstetrician could not detect a heartbeat.  I was four months along, late for a miscarriage, but it became clear that that was what was happening.  I did not spontaneously abort and so I was sent to Stanford to get a D&C.  Things went badly from the get-go; the resident in the ER assigned to put in an IV could not get it placed and repeatedly poked me until he finally had to call for someone else to do it.

 

I was conscious for the procedure, getting a local anesthetic.  It did not do what it was supposed to do, and I was in excruciating pain.  Don Creevy, my doctor. kept offering me Demerol, but I remembered how badly that went when I was in labor with Max, and so I kept refusing.  Finally, in desperation, I had to agree, and thankfully, this time it worked for me.  Don felt so bad about the whole thing that he stayed with me the entire time I was in recovery.

 

That was a hard Christmas.  The physical pain I had suffered was nothing compared to the emotional pain.  I'd failed once again. People kept saying that it probably happened because something was wrong with the baby, and it was better to lose it now.  Maybe they were right, but that was not comforting.  I looked for books to read about miscarriage, but I found very little.  My mother and sister wanted to be supportive, but one had lost a baby closer to term, and the other had given birth to a baby that only lived a day or two.  My experience wasn't "as bad" as theirs.  That didn't help, either.

 

I went to Wilbur Hot Springs with friends over new year's to work on healing myself. Wilbur has always been a healing place for me, and going there was a good decision.  It was there that I realized that I wanted to work with a psychic teacher some of my friends had been seeing.  My loss and grief led me to a teacher that I needed in my life.

 

**********

 

It took me some time to heal from the miscarriage and feel ready to try again.  When Max was four, we decided that it was time.  This pregnancy went smoothly.  I didn't love being pregnant the way I had the first time.  Of course, I was nervous about carrying it to term, and I had a young, active child. I was also now over 30.  I felt the difference in my body, being five years older.

 

One traumatic event did occur during my pregnancy.  I was picking Max up at daycare when he climbed up on a bench and suddenly leaped off, expecting me to catch him.  Instinctively, I covered my belly with both arms to protect the baby, and Max fell hard, breaking his leg.  I felt so terrible!  I didn't decide to prioritize the baby over Max; I just spontaneously acted.  Poor kid.

Pregnant me and Max with a broken leg

 

We were working with Dr. Don Creevy again, but now a birth center had opened.  I believe he was the only MD who agreed to work there, and we were one of the first families to use it.  Unfortunately, the center didn't last for more than a few years, but it was wonderful for us.  I couldn't have tried a home birth again, but this was a great alternative.  The Birth Place was housed in a residential home in Menlo Park.

 

I went into labor in earnest on a Sunday night.  Don was out of town for the weekend and had told me earlier to drink some alcohol to slow things down when I suspected I was going in labor. He fortunately made it back, and I think I was in hard labor for about 12 hours altogether.  I remember when the contractions came fast and furious that I told the nurse, "I can't do this."  Her response?  "You don't have a choice."

 

Max was there with our friend Janis.  Towards the end, he got scared by the noises I was making, and Janis took him into the living room, so they missed the birth.  Alex was perfect.  We only stayed for a short time in order to avoid there needing to be a shift change.  Our friend Richard took pictures.  We have one that I love of Don sitting in a rocking chair, calmly drinking tea and reading The Bhagavad Gita.

 

Having a normal birth experience and a healthy baby helped assuage my guilt over Max's birth, but it didn't completely heal it.  At least, I did feel less like a failure.  We hadn't made any stupid decisions and we had a doctor we trusted.

Womb Talk, Part 2

I got my period for the first time soon after my 13th birthday.  We were in the throes of preparing to move from Baltimore to Miami due to my father taking a new job. I was so eager to begin menstruating; my best friend had gotten her period early.  Not that when girls got their periods was a competition, but it did smack of one. It was akin to attaining a badge of honor; you were now a woman. 

 

That was the feeling before I began to menstruate.  Afterwards, there were the debilitating cramps and the mess of it to contend with.  And, for sure, when a girl had her period, she was obligated to hide it from everyone, as if it was something to be ashamed of.  The ultimate humiliation was to have to run to the nurse's office at school with a blood stain blooming on the back of your skirt. 

 

When I bled this first time, my mother sat next to me on my bed and slapped my face.  I was stunned.  I knew I hadn't done anything wrong! She explained that in the old days, girls were not told about menstruation, and so the first time was so distressing that they could go into shock.  Mothers would slap their faces to bring them out of it.  Why this tradition continued to be passed down was a mystery to me, as we now knew all about periods.  If I had had a daughter, she certainly wouldn't have received the slap.  What my granddaughter got was a big hug.

 

With my sister being 6 1/2 years older, we had supplies on hand.  In those days, we used a white elastic belt that had attachments hanging down in the front and back to clip to a pad.  It was awkward and uncomfortable. Of course, many things women had to wear in those days were not made for comfort - like girdles and garter belts to hold up stockings.  Pads with adhesive didn't exist, nor did pantyhose. I wasn't told about tampons until years later.  They weren't seen to be appropriate for young girls.

 

My mother was actually very happy to see me get my period.  She had an aunt who had never menstruated; her female organs never developed properly, and the family was worried that this might be a genetic trait that could get passed down.  My sister was the oldest of the cousins, and I imagine the women in the extended family all held their breath until she menstruated.  But all turned out well; all the female cousins matured normally.

 

My periods were irregular for a while, which was not uncommon. But throughout my teenage years, I suffered with extremely painful cramps.  I remember times that I could only lie down on the bathroom floor because it hurt so much.  I became a regular consumer of Midol, the advertised pain relief for menstrual cramps.  It didn't help a huge amount.  People told me that things would get better once I had children.  That proved to be true to an extent, but not entirely.

 

Pregnant me, 1974

 

I had just turned 26 when I got pregnant with Max.  We had lived for a short time with some friends who had a baby, and I fell in love with her. And so, baby lust kicked in. 

 

Fortunately, it did not take long for me to get pregnant, and once past the fatigue and vague nausea of the first trimester, I loved being pregnant.  We found some local midwives and planned a home birth.  Unfortunately, when my waters broke, I didn't go into labor.  I should have gone to the hospital after a day or two of waiting, but my midwives were inexperienced and didn't send me.  I was also so committed to having my baby at home that I didn't want to consider it.  When I finally went into labor after about four days, it didn't progress much.  The midwives finally thought I was fully dilated, but I wasn't, and it wasn’t even close.  They had me pushing all night.  It became clear that I needed to go to the hospital.  The doctors freaked out, sure that the baby was in trouble.  They jacked me up on Pitocin to speed things up, and in my pain and exhaustion, I accepted a shot of Demerol to ease the pain.  It didn't work as expected, but instead made me woozy and less able to cope with everything.  I then got an epidural, which was a relief.  They pulled Max out with forceps and whisked him off to the intensive care nursery.  I was an exhausted mess.  I had to be ferried across the hospital every few hours to see and nurse him.  He was so lucky to not have gotten an infection, but they kept him on antibiotics for several days.  When my milk came in, I ran a fever.  I was later told this was not uncommon.  But they wouldn't let me see Max, and I spent one whole day crying.  Finally, he was released, and we got to take him home.  

 

Writing this, forty-nine years later, I still feel sad and sorry.  All the painful memories flood back in, and along with them, the realization of how we, I, jeopardized his life.  We were young and stupid, dedicated to the "natural" way of doing things.  When that didn't work out, we didn't easily let go of what we thought was right.  As much as I have issues with our allopathic medical system, I admit that it has saved my life more than once.  This was the first time - my life and Max’s, too.

 

I carried a lot of guilt about Max's birth for a long time.  Maybe I still do.  I felt like a failure because I did not have a natural birth, that I should have refused pain meds.  I'm just thankful that, in the end, despite our bad decisions and rigidity, despite all the pain and grief, my beautiful son was fine.