« Across the Universe | Main | And 18 Weeks, 126 Days, 3024 Hours 0r 181,440 Minutes Later »

Mourning Sickness

Just after Nick and Nora were born I read Alice Hoffman's novel Fortune's Daughter. The book, in typical Alice Hoffman style, was haunting and mystical. It's about a woman about to give birth and a woman mourning the loss of the infant she was forced to adopt out. Only it has a twist - the woman searches out who adopted her infant only to find that the infant - her daughter - passed away before she turned 1.

I had to restrain myself from flinging the book from me when I got to that part of the book.

Moreso, when the woman re-connects to her daugher's ghost by imagining that she's alive, that she's real, that she's in the room, in the bed, in the house with her, it was impossible for me to disconnect. The woman invites her daughter in, and she does so, sleeping in a dresser drawer, nestling against the woman in sleep, a shadow of a belief in Buddhism that you invite your beloved dead relatives to a feast in order to be with them and honor them. The baby she lost is real in every sense of the word, until the point comes when the woman lets her go. Hoffman writes how the baby crawles through the tall grass and disappears. That image almost broke me. I got the book out of the house and into the donation bin as fast as I could, in case the storyline leached out and took my daughter away from me.

Forward to now. A publisher at MotherTalk asked for people who'd be willing to review a new book. I agreed. I'm always happy to review books - it means I get a free book of out it to review, and I never feel beholden to review something favorably - if I didn't like it, I'd say it (a part of me looks forward to getting a book I can't stand. I picture myself as a book critic to be feared, although I know that's not the case). I wasn't sure how I would feel about this one, I only knew I would relate.

When it arrived I flipped it open, like any kid in a candy shop unscrewing the lid and inhaling the lemon drop dust. I love books. A bookshop to me is like the motherlode. On reading the first page, however, I snapped the cover shut. This book, I felt, needed my undivided attention.

I wanted a quiet space where I could just be alone with the book, to read, to absorb. I couldn't believe something like this has been put into writing. It should have been done so long ago. And as I read the stories I personally was familiar with, I pulled my own ghosts close to me and loved them as I read.

The book is called Mourning Sickness. It's 49 pieces of work by writers - mothers, fathers, grandparents, siblings - who have been touched by miscarriage, early pregnancy loss, late pregnancy loss, stillbirth, and the death of an infant. The pain in the book is crippling. I have never, in my many years of addictive reading, read a more honest and compelling book.

As I read the stories I reached inside and held on to my miscarriages. I read about women needing to leave restaurants as they couldn't handle anything. I read a poem by a woman who saw the same thing I did - something on the ultrasound monitor. Then nothing the next time. I felt the women's pain as keenly as my own. I felt the small blobs that were my children, I felt the feeling of being pregnant and then not. I was taken back to screaming in an ultrasound room, to bleeding all over a hardware store toilet.

The story that broke me was the story of Liam, a boy born severely hypoxic with the medical diagnosis of "futile". He died after living 45 days. The way his mother wrote about him, how dearly she loved him even knowing that every day was an unexpected one, another day she got to have with him.

I couldn't find that pain. I couldn't, I've never experienced anything like that. In my mind I thought of Hoffman's book. I sat there, still. I thought of B, who died so young, too young. I invited B in, to join me, to visit. I imagined him sitting on my lap, sleeping, his mouth moving in a silent gummy gassy smile. I inhaled lavender and baby spit-up. I smoothed his head and let his hand curl over my finger. I read the story of Liam over again, B on my lap.

And I cried.

I cannot review a book like this in the traditional sense, a book which is composed of stories of people who have experienced losses they never should have. What I can say is that I have never before been so profoundly affected by a book. It's a raw, moving, incredible piece of work and my heart goes out to each and every author, and to those of us who have lost. In every page you get a whisper of "What if" and "You were robbed".

I recommend this book to anyone who has lost and is grieving and feels isolated in their grief. I recommend this to anyone who knows someone who's lost a child. Mostly, I recommend this book because I have never come across a more honest piece of writing in my life, and the ability to look into the hearts of another is a remarkable gift. I realize I'm going on about the book, but few works have affected me as much as this one has.

I will be thinking about these people for a very long time, and although the old cliches spring to mind: Where they are they are happy, I'm so sorry for your loss, Your child lives through the memory you've written for them the only thing I can come up with is "What a moving tribute. I'm so sorry."

And at the end, I wished B goodbye. I imagined him again, holding the teddy bear I sent him. I spared us both the image of him crawling away, I couldn't do that, and instead closed my eyes and imagined light.

-H.

Comments are closed because I borrowed B without asking, and I want a moment to think about how pure and beautiful he was.

If you feel very strongly affected by anything I've written, please do email me.

PS-I have joined a group of women as a contributing editor on a website called Bridges. I am covering the area of mental health. There are many amazing and supportive people there covering many topics, so if you get a chance come by and say hi.