Tiny blue flowers.

Today I feel very cold.

I can’t seem to get warm no matter what I do and I think it’s coming from within.  Two weeks ago I was snuggling Finn and I told him about how I had lost three babies before him.  I told him that he was special and we named him Finn Theodore because Theodore means God’s gift.  He asked me what happened to the babies.  I told him that one of them was buried in the garden and blue flowers had grown where I put it.  He was amazed and tearful and confused.  He thought the baby had turned into blue flowers.  So for the next few days he kept bringing me flowers and asking me if they were the flowers that his baby sister or brother had once been.  No Finn.  No.  They already bloomed early in the summer and have gone to seed.  Then yesterday, after a bouquet of sweet petals and all different colors had been brought in, I found one tiny sprig of forget me nots on the table.

He’d found them.

But I didn’t tell him they were the ones.  It hurt too much.  And I was afraid of how he would react.

I had written a short monologue just after I had told him of the moment I discovered the baby in my palm.  I wasn’t going to write it here.  In the same way I wasn’t going to tell Finn that he’d found the blue flowers.  But today I am cold.  And I know why.  There is a warmth that comes when we speak the truth, no matter what tears may come and how difficult it is to be honest.  There is a spark that flames when we expose it out of the dark. I remember when it happened I wrote it out and was about to publish it on my blog.  But Beau said it was too personal.  But now the gulf of sorrow that has been plugged up by indifference needs to rush forward and deluge my spirit.  And when the spark that remains is flamed I know I will feel warm.

(How’s that for mixing my metaphors?)

This is the first draft.  I wrote it very quickly and tearfully.  It was therapeutic and even more so, I think, to publish it here.  (Especially after all the “I’m fine”s, and, “it wasn’t that far along”s  that happened at the time).

Still Heart

12 weeks this time. The last two were around eight weeks but I didn’t see them.  The ultrasound tech didn’t even give me photos.  As if I wasn’t allowed to think it was real.  Wasn’t allowed to grieve.

My cousin called me the other day to say I am a good mom.  But I don’t feel like a mother.  I feel like a tomb.  I feel like a grave.  I feel embarrassment as I tell each person who asks how the pregnancy is going that we were wrong. I feel my face flush and my stomach turn.  I feel ashamed of premature excitement.  I feel like I don’t feel anything.  Numb.   The pain has been so precise that I can’t focus on anything else.  But there is nothing to focus on.  Nothing.  Loss.

But here it is in the palm of my hand.  It. I can barely bring myself to say it because then it will be real. He? She?


Is beautiful.  She looks like a fish.  Or a polywog.  Transparent. With black eyes, webbed fingers, and a red heart. A still heart. But I feel like mine is beating for the very first time.

p.s. And in keeping with the spirit of synchronicity, there is one blue flower on my floral rug in the back room.  I’ve always liked the German Romanicism metaphor of the blue flower.  The unattainable.  The search.  The hope.

4 thoughts on “Tiny blue flowers.

  1. thank you for sharing that. i love you so very much. you are a good mother. and a good friend.

  2. your sharing here is like sharing for a whole host of women who have experienced the same shock of meeting their tadpole baby unexpectedly. I often push aside the babe that met me that same way at 12 weeks, but she is welling up in my heart because of your words here. Thank you for reminding me to be as honest about those memories as I am with my other 4 kiddos. xoxo

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