The healers

A few days ago, I received an email advertisement from my prenatal massage therapist advertising massage services on Mother’s Day.

*sigh*

Some things make me livid, some things just make me so very sad, and some make me wrestle with philosophical questions. There are still others, like this one, that make me feel all three.

Throughout my pregnancy with Lucia, I attended prenatal yoga, and a few sessions of prenatal massage—all through the same studio. I sought healing energy and love from every corner of my world. I wore long flowing dresses and walked in the grass barefooted. I stopped drinking caffeine, ate a mostly vegetarian diet. I meditated, wrote poetry…I tried to connect with Lucy in so many ways, because all day I chased Beatrice. Some days, I would sort of forget I was pregnant. The massage and the yoga were these times of the week that were solely ours—Lucia and Mama. I felt very earthy and lovely. It is when I reveled in being Mother Earth Goddess, and rounded and beautiful. I was able to grow beautiful baby girls, and it made me feel like magic.

As I rode my bicycle to yoga or massage, I would think how incredibly happy I was, on a deep fundamental level. Every cell of my body was contented. I talked with the massage therapist as she worked about birthing naturally, about yoga moves to release stress, and what acupuncture could do for labor. It felt vital to Lucia’s health and well-being that I love my shape and my rounding belly. The massage therapist’s touch was part of that acceptance; much like the movement and meditation of yoga was a part too. These were the memories with Lucia that I drink in these days. I just want to tap into and absorb all that healing, lovely energy. I miss that feeling of my daughter. I miss the cellular happiness. I miss Lucy and I alone together drinking each other in. I miss imagining her with me on summer afternoons making sun tea, and laying in the grass. I would say to her, “When you were in Mami’s belly, we would ride our bicycle to yoga, and stretch like this.” And I would reach my hands over my head, “And you would always kick when I was in this position. That is your favorite pose, Lucy-girl.” And I would touch her button nose, or kiss the very bottoms of her feet, as she shrieked and giggled.

:::

After Lucy died, I sent an email out to everyone in all the realms of our life. We didn’t want to run into anyone anywhere who didn’t know. Funny, it was the worst thing I could imagine at the time, having to tell someone in the supermarket that my daughter died. Now, it just seems like an everyday occurrence, and I feel like an old hat at being able to articulate the words, “My daughter was stillborn.” We received many emails of condolences. As you know, the ones that were most surprising to me were the ones that weren’t there. In particular, I was surprised to not receive condolences from my prenatal yoga instructor and my prenatal massage therapist.

I considered both of those women part of my holistic maternity care team. In terms of my mental health, I saw them as vital as my midwife in many ways. I adored the care and attention they gave to me and Lucy. When she died, I thought they too would be sad. I actually imagined them to be first with a word of soothing and healing grace. Maybe I imagined them as the only ones able to manage this complicated terrain. Certainly, they dealt with death in their practices before, right? Or maybe not, and so I ask this question:

How do you soothe women and nurture new life if you cannot handle death?

I am not the first women in the world to have a stillbirth, or to lose a child. After many weeks, and my sending the yoga instructor two more emails about continuing practice, as well as contacting another instructor in the studio, I received an email from the yoga instructor with a long explanation and many excuses about why she didn’t say she was sorry earlier. That is always charming, no? “I wanted to give you space to grieve.” (Yeah, because emails with a simple “I’m sorry” are always so disruptive.) And she tried to give me ten free sessions to make up for being inconsiderate, I guess. About a week after she sent an email, I was still debating whether I would return to her studio. Something about her email made me uncomfortable. I needed a safe place, and I still wasn’t sure her studio could provide it. Then, I ran into her at Target. She was shaking when she saw me. She absolutely looked terrified, out of her element, unable to deal. She gave me a quick hug, and then, her son wandered a bit out of reach. She shrugged her shoulders, and chased her son off in another direction, as I stood there. There certainly could be a thousand reasons for what she was going through that day, but I don’t have time to imagine any of them. I haven’t returned to her studio. She is a good instructor, but as time creeps along, I have come to realize that I want my teachers to be compassionate and most importantly, I want them to be brave.

And then there is this email, entitled “Mother’s Day.” It is the first email I received from the massage therapist since Lucy died. An advertisement for Mother’s Day massages? Are you fucking kidding me? At least, if you are going to ignore the fact that my daughter died all together, take me off your fucking spam list for prenatal massages. Plan on me not coming back to your studio.

And so, I think it begs the question of how you deal with the beginning of life, if you cannot deal with the end of it. How do you soothe people when you ignore a huge part of this human experience—death, grief, mourning, and chaos? Can you be a healer, if you don’t know how to sincerely say “I’m so so sorry?