Chicken Soup For The Soul – Lauren’s Story
I was 25 years old, a full-time primary school teacher and 20 weeks pregnant with our little ‘surprise’ package. It just happened to be our 2nd wedding anniversary when the morphology ultrasound was booked. Lying on that ultrasound table I felt sick. I was no longer ill from morning sickness, just sick from the quiet joy, which was bouncing from wall to wall. The young man who seemed to be scanning forever examined intently. I convince myself; “Stop worrying. Everything will be ok! It’s all in your crazy head.” In my mind, I play out the scene: he turns the monitor and says, “Congratulations it’s a….” But instead he pauses, gathers himself and utters, “I’m really sorry.”
The sick feeling returns, but this time it’s an echoing silence of disbelief and confusion. I can already feel my skin thickening. I’m reduced to a showcase in the gallery. The sad feature hanging in the broken frame. My mind is numb but racing at the same time. I had hope. I had faith. I had a deal with God. I had knowledge. I had read all the books. I believed in modern medicine. I believed in time and treatment. I believed in positive prognosis. I’m the head, not the tail. I’m not a victim. I won’t accept your pity. I’m scared. I’m confused. This isn’t how my tale was supposed to be written.
Our baby girl, Sienna Jade was born the 5th May 2012 at 10:29am after an eleven and a half hour labour. No perinatal management viable.
“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear” – C.S. Lewis
Through the deep valley’s we were now facing, the isolation, grief, self-loathing and confusion, I make the decision to return to work early, after only 5 weeks. I’d come to the realisation that I was tired of being alone, of having nothing to do, of being swallowed up by this relentless grief. I’m in desperate need of the distraction, routine and the company.
So… Hi-Ho… it’s back to work I go. I can feel my soul trembling within my skin. It’s first day nerves. First day back to school, without the shiny shoes and new lunch box. Everything still looks the same… no wonder! It has only been 5 weeks, yet everything is now so different.
It was refreshing returning to class. To see them, to speak to them, to hear them. Gosh, they were a tough mix of kids, but how they would make me forget, just for a few moments, what had happened. The cards, the hugs, the demands to never leave again, oh, and the drawings. Drawings of hubby and I holding hands with a little winged baby looking down on us that said, “Baby Sienna”. The conversations that followed; “Your baby died. That’s really sad, we missed you”. It seemed that once they had acknowledged what had happened and shared how it made them feel, then everything else in the world could continue as normal. That simple. Oh, kids. Why do we ever grow up? How children can be chicken soup for the soul.
I know some colleagues (even friends and family) are uncomfortable to be near me, but it’s ok. I don’t notice. I’m extremely busy, you see. I don’t have time to chat. I’ve got an unchanged pigeonhole I need to check for the 5th time this recess. I’m busy making this cup of tea that I don’t even want to drink. I have a meeting with this wall of mugs for the next 5 minutes as my tea is being made. I’m busy making more work for myself on a computer, just so I can stare at the screen for a little while. I’m busy hiding my tears in the bathroom, washing my face, blowing my nose, and avoiding eye contact. I’m busy being ‘out of the way’. I’m busy trying to ‘keep it together’. I’m busy not thinking.
There’s a big, fat elephant in the room. It’s me. I know it’s hard to know what to say. What can you say, really? It’s easier to say nothing. But those strong women who said something, “We missed you”, “ we’re glad you’re back”. The ones who confessed, “I don’t know what to say.” You said something. The ones who hugged or squealed with joy “you’re here!” Thank you, strong women. You made this elephant feel momentarily at ease. Where you swallowed your reservations and let me take a breath by piercing a hole in this prison of the unspoken. Silence is heavy. Silence is suffocating. Silence hurts. When out of consideration conversations stop. When out of awkwardness people go quiet. Thank you, friends, for your words, your distraction, your nod, your smile, and your eye contact. Thank you for your bravery.
I hate that I make people uncomfortable. I hate that people are conscious of me. Every afternoon driving home I would cry; mourning the old self I’m still trying to find, annoyed at my weakness, at my awkwardness, at my continued stalemate, but even more so, for the fear that I have to do this all again tomorrow. I think I’m going to need a bit more of that chicken soup.
“What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others” – Pericles
To read more of Lauren’s story visit The Mummy Wagon
