‘The first forty days’ A mothers poem of healing after loss by Eleanor.

The first 40 days

The ‘first forty days’ have been unexpected, once again.

Now they are over

And I have started to bleed.

My stomach has slowly shrunk

Like a forgotten balloon from months ago

Crinkly and soft.

You are in my thoughts daily, nightly, 

In my feelings, my breath.

I have seen you in birds, hovering above us, or hopping towards us, tiny and curious, or still.

And I have seen you often in the sky;

When it’s orange and on fire, or full of pink and purple and golden rushes trickling through, 

Or when it’s stormy and grey, with sheets of silver reaching down to tickle the sea. 

And in rainbows, so many of them, telling me you’re here, with me always.

Only the physical has left, nothing else.

I’ve taken you for walks along our favourite beach. I’ve written your name in sand,

Shown you seagulls, shells, stones, the waves.

Imagined you and Oshi running in the light.

Collected smooth grey hearts and left them at your altar

With the crystals and frankincense that make the little corner in my room more holy. 

I’ve lit a candle for you every night

And watched the big sunny womb shape it makes on my ceiling, always the same,

Until I sleep. Sometimes after long sobs, and shakes and howls and gasps for breath I can’t find; and sometimes quickly.

I’ve hugged your big orange fox.

Just the right size for my arms when they ache,

Or for my chest, when it misses the weight of you on it, snuggling under my chin. 

Seeing myself through other people’s eyes makes me cry.

I’ve stretched and wept on the cherry red mat I knelt on when you arrived. It will always be sacred.   

I’ve written your name over and over.

I’ve loved every single card and emoji heart and message and gift, especially when they say your name.

Our neighbours said you brought magic to the lockdown. 

There are offerings for you all around,

A tiny golden bowl, eggshell-like and fragile and beautiful,

Flowers and their pressed petals, already faded but still so bright. Yellows, purples, oranges, pinks, all of the sunny colours, safe in Rumi’s Book of Love.

Your sparkling blue stones are in my ears. 

There are letters to you in my big brown book. Letters of love, of thanks, of sorrow.

Drawings, of this womb temple, once your home, lit up, golden and bright, honouring you.

And my portrait, as always, but now with a large pink tear on each cheek, and little sunshines gold around my neck.

There is blessed water for you in Grando’s yellow teacup.

There are buds and leaves I collected with you.  

Poetry.

Music; hanuman chants and the most beautiful notes, just like a songbird but sadder.

More will come, I know it. 

 I’ve spoken to you

 I’ve imagined our endless connection 

 Through our hearts and our spirits. 

I’ve wrapped us both in light and seen it sparkle, 

I’ve thanked my body for the miracle it held and nurtured. 

I’ve almost felt your kicks again, so clear are their memory. 

I’ve remembered your perfect rosebud lips, and your little hands so often, your fingers so fine and delicate, beautifully wrapped around the angel we left with you.

Your tiny hands will be with me forever.

I’ve spoken to both your great grandmothers, they’ve spoken to me too. 

You are so very loved. 

I’ve bathed in herbs, sat in steam, swallowed remedies, 

Taken every single suggestion.

All to heal what I can.

We closed my bones, in a ceremony; you were with us. 

I wore my pink robe with roses, meant for your birth. 

Daddy rubbed my feet and my womb so gently, 

He rocked my hips in a big square scarf

And we looked into each other’s eyes and cried at the pain and the beauty and the love.

We had a funeral on Christmas Eve, where they said it was time to say farewell,

They didn’t know you were outside in the valley all along! Giggling, in another vivid rainbow.

There was beautiful music and words; Silent Night will always be yours.

Candles were lit for you, that was our favourite part. 

In the ice and snow and in sun, and in our little village which would have been yours. 

In these first forty days

I’ve felt the crashing waves they talk about, and know I still will. 

I’ve felt the stillness and the busyness of before. 

I’ve existed in the beautiful, the precious, the sacred, and the horror.

I’ve thought about the future and imagined how it might be bearable.

I’ve thought about the past and wondered why more fear and pain had to come our way. 

I’ve asked if we will ever feel the lightness and excitement of five years ago.

And I’ve cried and laughed and sang and danced in my kitchen, Oshi on my hip and my sparkly slippers on, thanking God so hard for all that I have.

This poem is written by Eleanor who initially came to me to support her through her second pregnancy.

 At 20 weeks it was flagged that there may be complications in the pregnancy (nothing had been picked up before this) and after weeks of uncertainty, a diagnosis was reached, of a severe and advanced case of cytomegalovirus (CMV).

 

“After a great deal of soul searching, research, seeking of medical expertise, and surrender, we made the heartbreaking decision to end this very wanted pregnancy, to save our baby from suffering. This would ultimately end in me giving birth to my sleeping baby boy Sunny at 24 weeks, in an induced labour.  

 Nehanda supported me throughout to connect to my baby, myself, my body, my womb, throughout this process, and in preparation for the birth. And in the days, weeks and months that followed Sunny’s birth, we focused on my postpartum experience as a grieving mother, and on the physical, emotional, and spiritual, as I continued on my journey as Sunny’s mum, without my baby earthside.