Those who know me know that I have a deep and profound appreciation for music, and that The Beatles are one of my favourite bands, ever. Their songs have been playing in the background of my life for years; many of them take me back to specific periods in my life. Because reminds me of my mother, of a moment I shared with her weeks before she died; Something is the first song Dave and I danced to as husband and wife. Whenever I hear Blackbird, I think of breaking down in tears in front of a packed waiting room at the blood lab, during one of the darkest periods of my life to date.
I was registering at the front counter when I heard it on the radio – Paul’s soft voice and his delicate, gentle guitar. It was too much for me, the song, too familiar, too beautiful. I didn’t want to hear it. I put my face in my hands and quietly dissolved in to tears. Beside me, I could hear my mother exchanging whispers with the receptionist – miscarriage…very upset…turn the volume down – and then suddenly, the only sounds in the room were my sharp, jagged breaths.
I knew I was going to lose the baby. I knew the minute the technician had slid the wand across my bloated, gooey stomach that something was wrong. The way she immediately jerked the monitor out of my view when the image splashed up on the screen, coupled with her expressionless face, gave her away. I knew the blood test I’d been sent for was to see what my hormone numbers were doing. Although the results wouldn’t be in until after the holidays, I could feel it in my bones, in the deepest, darkest pit of my stomach: it wasn’t meant to be.
It was Christmas, and I’d just lost my job. My mother had been given a timeline before the holidays, six months. It was the Christmas that Dave popped the question.
All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise…
I crawled in to bed that Boxing Day and snapped awake sometime in the middle of the night. I knew right off that something wasn’t right. I lay in bed, completely still, and traced circles on my stomach. I silently willed my body not to miscarry while hot, heavy tears slid down the sides of my face. I stayed like that for a bit, and then I rolled over and woke Dave up.
It was snowing when we pushed through our building’s heavy oak doors and stepped out in to the moonlight. The flakes fell softly, steadily around us; it was so quiet, so still, that I could hear them settling on the snow. Gingerly, Dave helped me in to the truck; he drove slowly, carefully. We were quiet; the only sound was the tires crunching loudly on top of the snow. I sat still and straight, not wanting to move, watched the snowflakes smash pulpy against the windshield, and the wipers, pushing them away. Smash and wipe, smash and wipe. I wished I could wipe this awful mess up, wipe the last few months of my life away.
Being inside the hospital was jarring, exposing; it was bright lights and visibility, facing reality and having to say the words I think I am having a miscarriage out loud. I sat in a hard, plastic chair at the triage desk and detailed my condition to the deadpan nurse perched behind a wall of Plexiglas. The words tumbled out of my mouth and hung in the air in front of me like weights, such heavy, awful words. I felt like my chest might explode, right then and there, with sadness and fear. I wanted to fold myself up in a cocoon and hide from everyone, hide from the world, so I didn’t have to deal with all the goddamn loss.
From the triage desk, we were shuffled down the hall to a cramped, dingy room boasting an examining table, a small sink and badly decaying walls. A doctor came eventually, a youngish doctor with no bedside manner who spoke to me abruptly, coldly. After a hasty internal exam, he snapped off his soiled gloves and tossed them, along with the used speculum, in to the sink behind him, very casually, very nonchalantly, completely ignorant of how the sight of something like that might affect a woman in the throes of a miscarriage. How an image like that might, you know, fuck with her head a little bit.
What I remember next is my mother standing beside me in her black fur coat, smelling of cigarettes and Shalimar. Her presence struck me as painfully bittersweet – I wanted her there with me, desperately; I wanted my Mummy, so bad I could taste it. But when I saw her sitting in a chair beside me, I was taken aback – she looked so sunken, so tired – and in that moment, it was as though I came face to face with the fact that I had no control over any of what was happening. I couldn’t stop my declining pregnancy, nor could I control the fate of my mother. It was a realization that scared me half to death.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night…take these broken wings and learn to fly…
Dave and I waited in that tiny hospital room for hours until my OB finally showed up, all clasped hands and a bright smile, apologizing for her tardiness. She’d been busy upstairs, see, delivering not one, but two healthy babies. She actually said that to us – I’ve been busy delivering two healthy babies! – before she cut to the chase and confirmed what our hearts already knew: the pregnancy was not viable. We were going to the baby.
That was eight years ago this Christmas. Even now, my kneejerk reaction is, still, to turn off the radio when I hear the first few chords of Blackbird.
27 Comments, Comment or Ping
This was beautifully written.
Blackbird is one of those beautiful songs that makes me feel sadness (and tears) whenever I hear it as well, it’s beautiful and horrible at the same time.
October 13th, 2009
you are such an elegant writer. I so admire your ability to paint the picture and tell the story, to make your reader understand so clearly. Exquisite.
October 13th, 2009
*hug* Lovely, poignant post – thanks for sharing that with us.
October 13th, 2009
your ob was a bit callous, i have to say. that song is incredibly powerful, and i can understand how it would now be so painful
October 13th, 2009
I am so sorry for your losses, K. It is an art to construct so beautiful a telling of a story so painful.
Love and blessings to you.
October 13th, 2009
I’ve been reading for a while, and had to post. I admire your ability to write about that time in your life with such emotional clarity and courage. I also have a very deep and emotional connection to that song, and many Beatles songs too. Thank you for sharing that.
October 13th, 2009
Thank you for sharing your story…it was so well written. I am so very sorry for your loss. Isn’t it amazing how certain songs just take you right back to significant moments in time.
October 13th, 2009
This was achingly beautiful. Thank you for sharing it.
October 13th, 2009
Oh, my. I’m so sorry for your loss.
Your OB needed a serious lesson on bedside manner. Wow.
October 13th, 2009
The song Blackbird is another one that I have to turn off, immediately. Such a heartbreaking song.
You, my friend, are inspiring. Your words, your writing. I’m so sorry you went through this.
October 13th, 2009
I’m sorry such a beautiful song is so sad. I would have the same reaction – I would have to turn it off.
October 13th, 2009
This is so beautiful and connects me to you, yet again. I used to sing this to my birthdaughter when I was pregnant
October 13th, 2009
Thinking of you, K, and sending love.
October 13th, 2009
Jeez, K. I’m so sorry.
This was an amazing piece; heartfelt, gut-wrenching, but amazing.
October 13th, 2009
Tears from Heaven by Eric Clapton does it to me every single time. I have to stop the car… leave the room… run outside. And cry.
October 14th, 2009
i wonder what it is with health professionals. when i miscarried (years ago), mine ran a bunch of statistics at me (how common it is to miscarry blah d blah). don’t care, i’m sad,i’m crying, don’t want to hear how common it is. it is never common for the individual miscarrying.
October 14th, 2009
I thought they were supposed to have bedside manner training in med school these days. I guess that doctor was hungover that day and missed it.
Thanks for sharing this.
October 14th, 2009
I wish medical professionals could be more compassionate. I am sorry you had to go through this and more sorry about how they behaved but I am so glad you had Dave and your mom.
October 15th, 2009
oh, lady. This is just so beautiful.
And I, too, associate songs with major emotional moments in my life….which, you know, gets embarrassing when the song comes on that makes me cry like a baby…when I am in the grocery store.
October 15th, 2009
I cannot even imagine a loss like that. But it makes my heart heavy thinking about it.
October 15th, 2009
I can feel your broken heart through your words. Beautiful and sad words.
October 16th, 2009
I read this a few days ago, but couldn’t comment at first. Still don’t really have the words, except that I know those feelings. I’m sorry I do. I sorry you do.
October 16th, 2009
Oh my. That was so beautifully written. I cannot even imagine the pain of that loss. My heart is full for you. I am so very sorry for all of those losses.
October 16th, 2009
I wish I could say we didn’t both have this in common. I know that feeling as if the world is circling around you like vultures, birds of prey feeding on your anguish.
For me it’s the song “It Can’t Rain All The Time” by Jane Siberry. It tears my heart out. I can’t hear anymore with my deafness, but just remembering those lyrics is a subtle ache.
Wounded, anguished writing, yet beautifully in the honesty of the spirit of the woman who wrote this. ((Hugs)) You’re in my thoughts dear friend. Stay safe and loved! Indigo
October 16th, 2009
Hug x
October 17th, 2009
Just catching up. Feeling too deep for tears, after reading this. You paint pictures with your words.
October 19th, 2009
Finally catching up on your blog. I’m so sorry, sweetie. You are an amazing writer. You have me in tears. Again. Love, hugs and many prayers for you…and your guardian angels.
October 21st, 2009
Reply to “Blackbird”