Godmama Says…
a buncha stuff.


in order to fully experience the depths of hell  you have to first be lifted high up into heaven.  you need to get a good long taste of bliss,  get it deep enough in your system that it becomes part of you.  maybe it even comes to life inside you.  you need to get familiar with it… get used to it… learn to love it with all your heart and soul.

the trip to hell begins not with a fall but a gradual ascent.  like a comfortable plane ride.  first class seats, even.  you’ve earned the trip to wherever it is you think you’re going, but hell comes when the plane doesn’t make it.  you get your hopes way up, you make happy plans,  you believe strongly enough in something that you plant your soul in it… and then the crash happens.

hell is the crash itself, and the suffering you endure after the crash.  the crippling debilitating pain.  everybody tells you to move on,  and of course you want to move on,  but you can’t move at all.  your moving parts have been crushed.  you’re clearly being punished but you have no idea what you did wrong.

it was supposed to just be a quick trip to the doctor’s office. i had plans to go see a movie afterward with a new friend.  it’s been a while since i made a new friend, and i was looking very much forward to it.  but something had been bugging me and i needed to be told i was wrong.  so many things about pregnancy had spooked me into needless paranoia, and i needed to be told that this was another of those things.

he had been making himself known lately, thumping and dancing around in there as he grew. even adam was starting to feel him. we saw him wiggling and kicking around on an ultrasound screen.  we saw his face and fell in love.  “it’s a boy” we were told.  we had a son.  we talked about him, laughed about him. we beamed at each other with pride over him.  we made plans for him.  he was real, and we loved him.  after all the surgeries and doubt and trying and trying…  after all the doctors and treatments and waiting and waiting… after all the migraines and sickness and anxiety and discomfort,  after being told that pregnancy was something i would never be able to achieve at all… there was a new little person i had created dancing around in my womb.  an amazing, miraculous reward for all we had been through just to find this little creature.   and he really liked to dance.

so when he didn’t do it as much, i got worried.  i was told not to worry,  that i was at a stage where he had shifted position and i just couldn’t feel his little feet anymore.  i googled and read and asked around, and everybody- including my nurse- told me not to worry like they had so many times before.   “it’s normal” , “everything’s fine”, “stop worrying so much”… but that eerie lack of dancing was starting to make me cry myself to sleep at night.

still, it was supposed to just be a quick trip to the doctor’s office. they’d put the microphone thingy on my belly,  i’d hear the beautiful sound of my son’s heartbeat and be able to breathe a sigh of relief and go about my day… and my life.  the nurse would quietly judge me for wasting everybody’s time and i’d go see a movie and eat some nachos.

two nurses and a two doctors used three different machines to try to find that heartbeat.

*sigh*  “I’m so sorry, Maya….”

and with that the plane crashed… taking my heart and soul down with it.

everything that has followed has been torture.  i was immediately checked into a hospital and stuck full of tubes and needles, including one in my spine.  i had to “deliver”… so i was sent to the labor and delivery ward with everyone else, where i could hear through the walls the sounds of new lives beginning and proud papas being congratulated in the hallways.  i was paralyzed from the waist down. immobilized in my torture chamber listening to happy birthdays all around me while i writhed in discomfort and fear with a belly full of death.  Hell.

you know what was surprising? hell isn’t a dark place.  it’s very clean and brightly lit so you can see everything that’s happening to you.  a big flourescent spotlight made sure i didn’t miss the sight of my tiny dead son being moved away from my body.  i only caught a glimpse before the absolute horror of the sight blinded me with heartbreak and pain more intense than i ever thought was possible.  Hell.  doctor discovered what had happened:  the cord was around his neck several times.  strangled by his own life support system.  “just an accident,” she said. “a horrible, sad accident.”  he had danced around too much.   i screamed like i’ve never heard anyone scream.   i cried and convulsed and wailed , overcome with helpless hysteria.  i wanted out of there.  i wanted to kick the doctor away.  i wanted to run and run… but i was immobile.  my legs were too heavy to move due to the tube they had fed into my spine.  Hell.  deeper and deeper into Hell.

i’ve been home from the hospital for a few days now, and every cell in my body strives to remind me of What Is Missing.  painfully, physically, and with every fiber and cell of my being,  I Want My Baby.  the need breaks me down on a regular basis and i find myself involuntarily screaming those words while choking on sobs that i had no idea were coming.  exhaustion is the only thing that brings relief from the crying.  i weep inconsolably until i’m out of gas until the next storm comes…. Hell.

that is where i am.  people tell me how brave i am, but i don’t buy it.  i am pure chickenshit right now:  a blubbering trainwreck mess with no recollection of ever being strong or brave… or anywhere but Hell.

nowhere to go from here but up, right?

i keep hearing that “it’s going to be okay…” but what is “going to be” doesn’t feel like it matters much when your soul is on fire right now.


8 Responses to “hell”

  1. It is never time to ‘move on’ and even much too early to ‘get through’ — which is the real path. You are in mourning…the death of a beloved child. As a friend, all I can do is wish you strength in a difficult, horrible time.

    Those who feel love and joy most fiercely, also have a greater well of pain and anguish when it comes. Ride on through your storm Fierce Warrior Woman. Although the darkness is real and deep, so is your strength. I believe with all my heart you will find it. xoxoxo

  2. I’ve been thinking been thinking about  you a whole bunch, which is funny considering we’ve never actually met. But my heart feels heavy and broken for what you have had to experience and trying to imagine even a fraction of what you are going through has been impossible. But the way you have put your words together to communicate your experience is so powerful and effective. I feel like this is something that people really need to read. So often people who have never had that experience have no grasp of how traumatizing and awful it is for a woman and consequently give cheery advice like “chin up! It will be ok!” This is the type of story that needs to be shared.

  3. Crawl through each moment if you have to, one breath at a time. In the abyss of hell (fire) we have to learn to breathe again so that we may be molded into the next evolution of ourselves. You may not remember your own strength but your body, mind, and spirit do. Don’t be sorry for having to be in your chrysalis right now. Sending you all the strength and light.

  4. We don’t have much room in our culture for sadness and anger and pain. We have no patience for it, in ourselves or in others. We seem to not understand that someone can suffer so much and take a long time to recover and we want to hear, “I’m fine.”

    I find we want that for ourselves as well. That’s when exhaustion comes as a relief, we can do something besides be miserable, for a little while.
    I don’t know the depth of your pain or your trauma. I have loved and lost and I’m still angry.

    Rage on and love fiercely.

  5. I just can’t believe it. I’m saddend by what happened. M, I wish I could hug you in person. I know the pain must be indescribable. Yet, you had the courage to express some of what you’re feeling. Please, let the healing come to you natually. There’s will be no quick fix, so grieve as long as you have to and– I don’t know what else to say right now…

  6. Oh sweet Maya. Your words are my words. I went through the same thing @ 7 months pregnant. I feel your pain so thoroughly. I know nothing can console… nothing can help… nothing. It will get better but that seems impossible at a time like this. Our boys are still dancing… we’ll see them again one day. I love you so much. I wish there was more I could do or say. Jen

  7. I love you and ache for you. I am so sorry for the hell you are in and pray for you all the time.

    The following post – mostly the fable that inspired it rather than the post, per se – has seen me through some hard times. I don’t know if it can be helpful in times as dark as yours but I offer it.


  8. My deepest condolences Maya. ❤

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