Origami Again

This piece discusses miscarriage honestly and graphically and may be uncomfortable for some readers.

My first pregnancy, in the spring of 2011, ended in miscarriage at 10 weeks. The baby had stopped growing at 8 weeks but we did not know anything was wrong until I started spotting around 9weeks. We had just told our family and friends a few days before, thinking we were so close to the “safe zone” that it would not be a risk to tell. Between trips to the midwives for blood tests and trips to West Health Radiology for ultrasounds, I sat on the couch with the TV on and I cried. I cried out of anger, out of sadness, out of disappointment, and out of guilt. I cried out of fear, as I waited for my body to expel the pregnancy in what I knew would be a painful, heartbreaking, and messy experience.

When it finally happened, it was all of those things. I realized a few minutes later that I had not looked at the material, I simply flushed it away. This thought haunted me for months, and it is still the first thing I think about when miscarriage is mentioned. I wish I had looked, had at least acknowledged it. Unfortunately I got a second chance at this experience yesterday. I miscarried again, this time in a scarier fashion as I bled too much and had to go to the hospital. I was sent home after four hours with medication to induce contractions that would expel the material from my body. The second dose I took this morning worked, barely. This time it was not physically painful, though just as messy and heartbreaking. This time I paid attention. This time I held the beginnings of my child in my hand and acknowledged its existence. I’m glad I did, though I wish I had not been given this second chance.

So now I sit and fold Sonobe origami again. After the first miscarriage, I needed to do something with my hands that required little brain power. Origami is important to me from my childhood Japanese immersion program, so it seemed like a good choice. My origami box was also on the shelf above the couch, so I did not need to move far to get it. Modular origami like Sonobe is wonderful because it usually requires nothing but paper and it can be used to create very beautiful and impressive items. As I folded the paper, I found comfort in the effort to make each crease as crisp as possible, each fold precise, and each unit identical to the others. Coordinating colors and making different sizes of Sonobe gave me something specific to work on, and it was easy to put it down and come back a few hours or days later. The best part for me is that the products of that work now serve as a sort of memorial to the lost child. Those models will be displayed prominently in our home for the foreseeable future.

I will soon have another model or two to add to the shelf, these for a child lost even earlier, after only seven weeks. I am sad to be here, and unable to move on yet. I am stuck feeling the need for something, anything to take my mind off of things. When I am distracted, however, I just feel guilty. I’m sure this discontentment will leave me eventually, but for now I will just sit and wait. I will snuggle with my son and remind myself how truly spectacular the rewards can be that come from persevering through reproductive troubles. I will fold, crease, and assemble Sonobe. I will sleep and read and receive well-wishes from friends and family. I will rest and eat and let my body and soul heal. I will try to smile and think of the future. I will be fine, and I will be a new mother again someday, just not as soon as I would have liked.