Gratefully Thriving

Healing from Pregnancy Loss

I cannot say I am completely healed from my miscarriages. But I don’t think anyone who’s ever knowingly experienced a miscarriage can. Just like any trauma, a miscarriage can never disappear. Not that I’m comparing traumas mind you.

I can say however that I am sane, that I can enjoy other aspects of my life, that I can continue to grow and contribute to my most beloved occupations – wife and mother, and maybe one day also to society at large through my writing, or whatever other venue G-d has planned.

Though I’d originally intended to make a top five list of suggestions, truthfully, I hate when laymen give blanket advice on personal topics. How many times I’ve led myself astray by forgetting that every single person is different, and one woman’s plan for success does not necessarily equal a plan for my success. So I will instead share the things G-d put in my path to heal me from my miscarriages. This is the wisdom I’ve gleaned through reading, listening, praying, and most importantly, experiencing.

I allowed myself to feel. About two years ago, I found myself facing Jessica, the psychologist who was supposed to help me overcome my emetophobia. Though we started off very CBT, Jessica quickly decided that this was more than vomit fear. This was plain fear. Plain anxiety. If anxiety can be so described. Jessica taught me that by holding everything in, refusing to acknowledge my difficulties and apprehension to sundry life events, I was setting myself up for anxiety; the cure lay in consciousness of my emotions. To feel without fear of my feelings. So I learned to feel. I learned to feel sad, I learned to feel desperate, I learned to feel uncomfortable, I learned to feel angry.

After my miscarriages, there were lots of feelings. There still are. And I allowed myself to feel them. Every day, I parked the kids in front of Little Bear for a half hour, locked myself in my room with me and G-d. And then I cried, spoke harshly, complained, accused, pleaded. But mostly cried. Sometimes I still have a half hour of crying.

Whenever I missed my sacred 30 minute stretch of emotion, the next day I felt my anxiety creep over me. And I knew how essential this is to my recovery.

2. I marshaled in the right people. I told almost all of my friends about my losses. Most supported me lovingly and lifted me up when I felt so lost. And while some of them didn’t know what to say, and even spurted out some of the classic no-nos I was glad to have lessened the taboo of miscarriage. I didn’t need to feel bad for making them uncomfortable.

3. I released (and continue to release) guilt.

Feeling responsible for my miscarriages amplified the pain immensely. Not only had my sweet souls died, but I, their mother, whose role should be nurturing and protecting, had instead, killed them. That’s how I felt. Maybe it was the raw honey I’d accidentally eaten? Maybe it was the sight of the jumping spider in our bathroom (yes, I have two phobias) and subsequent baby jolting flight-or-fight response?

Truthfully, this kind of guilt was easier to quell; statistically, it’s highly unlikely that, save for drugs, a woman can do anything that will cause herself to miscarry.

More problematic is religious guilt. The thing is, I’m religious. Deeply religious. I believe that G-d is in control of every event of my life. And I believe that my actions affect how G-d runs my life. So that should clearly indicate that my miscarriages are my fault. I made mistakes, and G-d punished me.

It’s taken some more strength, searching and humility to reassess that.

Why do bad things happen to good people is a classic. And of course it’s discussed in Judaism as well. “Hafoch ba v’hafoch ba – d’kulah bah.” An aramaic phrase translating literally as “Turn the pages, turn the pages, it’s all in there.” Meaning, whatever problem under the sun you encounter, it’s already been discussed in Torah, you just have to know how to find it, which most people don’t.

But there isn’t one blanket answer. An unpleasant circumstance could happen as a punishment. But it could also happen as a nisayon, a test of the person’s character and faith. Or it could be a result of a gilgul hakodem, a previous incarnation.

It must be noted that punishment has a negative connotation. I remember as a young child, my mother would say ” I don’t like the word punishment. It’s a consequence.” Having only heard the word consequence in the context of losing dessert or screen time, I didn’t understand what she was fussing about. As an adult I know that my actions have built- in consequences, for good or bad. When I suffer the consequences of an action, G-d isn’t vengefully enjoying my sadness. He’s crying with me. But He is punishing me because it’s for my ultimate benefit. How? I have no idea.

4. I cultivate emuna.

Emuna means faith. I think that at the end of the day, it’s impossible to accept many of life’s circumstances without faith. Having emuna means believing that my life circumstances are from G-d, they are good, and they can be handled with my G-d given strength and abilities.

Without emuna, my losses might be crushingly unbearable. My prayers and pregnancies for naught. But I know that in the creation of a child, there are three partners- mother, father, and G-d. G-d chose to partner with us eight times. Three of those times resulted in a live birth. Though five of those times resulted in teary loss, I am humbled that G-d chose to be a partner with me each time anew. I know too that in heaven, I am considered the mother of our six (one pregnancy loss was of twins) souls. Here, no one knows about my six souls. But in shamayim, heaven, they do. And I know that they are pure, completely righteous with having tasted sin, and will return to our family in techiyat hametim, the Resurrection of the dead. I miss them, and long for them, but I know there was meaning in having carried them.

The Fourth Miscarriage

I hoped I would never need such a title. Truthfully, I had imagined sharing my story of salvation. The story of my rainbow baby. Maybe one day I will. But for now I share my story of today.

My husband and I sang this morning, thanking G-d for the blood. Our children joined in, though they knew not the prompt of our singing. We thanked Him, for He knows best, He knows what is good for us. And even though it’s painful, it’s good, so we said thank you. I don’t think I could have done this last time. Not at 13 weeks. But at 5, this time, I could. For just a moment, I could accept that G-d’s understanding is so vast, that even this, even a miscarriage, can be good. But those moments are fleeting.

Last night I saw some pink. I hoped that it was just the result of a friable cervix. But this morning, it was plain blood, and I knew it was over. I’d had a feeling that this would end in a chemical pregnancy, whatever that means. A feeling of not feeling pregnant. Though physically I did. Zucchini had that weird after taste, I craved animal protein, my nose was stuffed. At least it was only at five weeks. At least no fetus had been formed, no heartbeat had been established. And my physical recovery, similar to a period. No D and C. No prolonged hospital stay. No anesthesia. It’s strange, the difference 3 weeks can make. There have definitely been less tears shed today than on the day, four months ago, when I lost my precious ubar. I’ve read that the degree of grief a mother feels after a pregnancy loss is not necessarily dependent on the gestational age. In my personal experience, that’s not true. This time, I only had a week to become attached. And truthfully, I didn’t let myself. It felt strange to talk to my little bean. Just today, I told him, if he’s still here, that I’m grateful that I had the opportunity to hold him, carry him in my body, for just a few weeks, to enable him to finish his tikkun, to partner with G-d in bringing this soul into this world, if only in the most quiet of ways. And also in hastening the coming of moshiach. For it is written that he can only come, he can only usher in the final redemption, once all of the souls have descended, including the most precious, holiest of souls, which require just a momentary sojourn in their mothers’ wombs.
I feel disappointment amongst other myriad,currently unidentifiable negative emotions . But I also feel a relief. I feel a relief of the guilt that has been weighing upon me since May. Since the day I found out our twins had died at 8 and 9 weeks, respectively. I was supposed to be 14 weeks a long. The guilt is enormous. But this time, I did all that I could do. Prenatal vitamins and supplements, proper diet, beetroot and pomegranate juice, exercise, Pregnyl intramuscular injections, giving tzedakah, forwarding our names for brachot, my special pre Asher yatzar reading, my kamea, my silver magnet necklace, treating my children with patience, resolutions to perform mizvot more carefully. None of them saved my baby. None of them gave me the baby I long for. Failure provided realization that no matter what I do, I am not in charge. G-d decided: six sweet souls destined not to reside in our home, but in the heavens, with Him. I am tired of segulot. I am tired of hishtadluyot. And maybe that’s exactly what He wants. For me to know, and internalize that there is none besides Him. I cannot give me a baby. The doctors cannot give me a baby. The tzaddikim cannot give me a baby. Only the Master of the World can. And that is a world of weight melted from upon my shoulders. To know that I didn’t disappoint my sweet souls. They lived the time that needed to live, and no more.

Why is There No Mourning for Miscarriage in Judaism?

Why is there no mourning for a baby lost to miscarriage, stillbirth or neonatal death before 30 days?

I would like b’ezrat Hashem to present an understanding, a limited understanding, my understanding.

A soul of such a sweet child is certainly no less important than any other soul brought to this world. The mourning rituals of kadish, aveilut, yizkor, unveiling of a gravestone do not apply to such children. For grieving parents, this can seem strange, if not cruel. No formal way to say goodbye. No closure. I think we need to consider that the typical mourning rituals are actually not an expression of the soul’s importance, but of a person’s social and public existence. These kinds of souls do not have the same kind of public social effect as others. Their loss is usually quite private. In the case of a miscarriage, sometimes the parents suffer silently. I would like to suggest, that as usual, the Torah seeks when possible, to protect one’s privacy. If there were public mourning rituals for miscarried children, the miscarriage would not be private. And while I believe miscarriage desperately needs to be brought into the light, and that couples must be encouraged to share their loss with those they care to share it with, a public declaration is not appropriate. Not because miscarriage is something to be ashamed of. But miscarriage is something that most people don’t understand.

The Torah is sensitive. Hashem is supremely sensitive to our needs. I think the lack of public mourning represents G-d’s understanding that the loss of a miscarriage is a kind of loss that only the parents can understand. Under usual circumstances, when someone dies, there is a funeral. Everyone understands that inside of the casket, is the body of a person who once lives. And that person is no longer here. That person is gone forever. They can see and understand what has been lost. But when a fetus is miscarried, there is no person to see, there is no way for others to understand the loss that was incurred. Unless they themselves are mothers that miscarried. But even then, they can only remember and relate through their own loss. They are not missing that particular soul, because they did not know that particular soul. Even fathers, who also lost that miscarried child, typically recover much more quickly, not only because they are physically unaffected by the miscarriage, not only becasue they are generally less emotional, but also because they did not physically experience that fetus’s existence in this world. So when the parents mourn, their intimate mourning is private, only they can understand. To ask the public to mourn with them would be to ask the public to do something they are not capable of doing. In a way, a public mourning would be false.

Still then, I must ask myself, why does the Torah not prescribe a specific manner of private mourning for the bereaved parents? I almost feel neglected. I know miscarriage is hushed up by people but by You too G-d? You, who decides which souls will be born in live bodies and which will be miscarried? Hashem has left me no instructions of how to navigate my mourning. Hashem guides us in every life cycle event. But here, where I am, after my miscarriage, there’s nothing. Nothing I have to do. Or can’t do, except hold my husband’s hand, which is a subject for another day. Did You forget about me Hashem? About us? All the women who have suffered the tragedy of pregnancy loss?

I guess in a way, it’s a funny question. People often ask why does G-d involve Himself in the minutia of our personal lives. Can’t He just let us do what we feel is right? But I understand that G-d is perfect, and G-d guides me perfectly throughout the difficulties, celebrations, and everyday occurrences of my life. So where is He here?

I can’t perform the usual rituals associated with death. I can’t light a candle, or have a funeral, or say kaddish. I thought that my sweet souls deserved the same kind of treatment as all other souls who’ve returned to shamayim. My sweet souls are no less important than any other kind. But, the fact remains, that they are different. They were supremely holy souls that finished their tikkun without needing to be born, without needing to step into this world, to engage with it in any form. Subsequently, they require a different type of remembrance. A more personal remembrance. Of my choosing.
I can add a tevila for each soul lost. I can buy a special piece of jewelry with the birthstones of my sweet souls. I can donate tzdaka in their honor. Perhaps G-d’s will for each of us to choose how to mourn reflects the extremely personal, individual nature of miscarriage.

I draw a parallel also to the experience of the mother who’s experienced pregnancy loss to that of an onen. From the time of hearing of the loved one’s death, all immediate family members are exempt from time bound mitzvot until the burial of the body. During this time the all consuming grief renders family members emotionally unable to perform mitzvot. Burial is seen as a kind of closure,the point in time where the person is gone in body as well as in spirit, where life, though subdued, may resume again. While a woman’s lost pregnancy is buried when possible, I think her emotional state resembles that of an onen. She never had a true opportunity to depart because she never had an opportunity to meet her baby. You can’t say goodbye to someone you’ve never met before. Even in regard to a neonatal loss, lo aleinu, one could argue because the child was here for such a short period, there wasn’t the chance for hello and goodbye. And because this woman cannot say goodbye, she is consumed by her grief; it would not be possible to obligate her in mitzvot surrounding her loss.

Our Weapon is Modesty

I don’t feel completely comfortable writing this. And yet, I am writing this, because I believe in my message. I believe it could change the world.

I’m a very sensitive person. This sensitivity can produce exceptional joy or exceptional pain. The pain comes to expression in hearing about tragedies. Other people can hear of tragedies, feel sad, and move on with the rest of their day. Maybe they will recall the tragedy momentarily or maybe not. Sometimes, I can do this. But if the tragedy was of the most heinous variety – a sexual offense-I don’t have this luxury. Once I’ve heard of the tragedy, no matter how remote, I’m not forgetting it. I dream of it. I imagine it, I am tormented by it.

Sometimes this is frustrating. Unpleasant. Upsetting.

At other times, I realize I am extremely fortunate that I am sensitive to the horrid crime of sexual abuse. All people should be sensitive, all people should be aghast when they hear of a sexual offense. I think maybe a long time ago, before molestation was commonplace, people were horrified. I remember as a child, I sat with my parents watching the news. A rape of a twelve year old girl had been reported, and she was quoted saying, “My private part touched his private part.” My parents shuddered, shaking their heads in disbelief. I did not understand what rape was, but from my parents reactions, I discerned it to be something awful.

Today 1 in 6 American women has been the victim of an attempted or completed rape. This means that basically, we all know someone who has been the victim of sexual abuse. If that friend has confided in you, then you know to some degree the hell your friend has been through, and the hell, that no matter how much healing or therapy your friend dives into, will never truly leave her. It’s time to take a stand. It’s time for this to end. Enough lives have been broken.

I’m not an expert; from what I’ve read there are many ways to affect change politically. And I’m certainly in support of that. But it’s not what I’m here to talk to you about.

I’m here to talk to you about something, that you and I, as women, can do, everyday, almost effortlessly, that will impact your lives, and the lives of other women. I’m talking about your clothes. How you dress affects men. But you already knew that, didn’t you? If you don’t let me tell you. If you wear a miniskirt, a low cut blouse, or even something skin tight, you can expect comments, or staring. If you haven’t noticed, it’s because you’re not looking. The comments could be abusive, or they could be charming. They could be desired or not. But what if you dress modestly? In a way that honors your body instead of revealing it? The likelihood of body focused comments nearly dissolves.

You may be less privy to the secret that your dress doesn’t prompt just speech, it prompts thought. If you dress flirtatiously, men will think certain thoughts about you. Not just the ones you have a crush on. The wrinkled ones with the combovers, the greasy ones, the nerdy ones, just about every heterosexual man who sees you. And I’ll give you a hint. They won’t be thinking, “Wow she knows how to match her dress to her shoes!” They won’t be thinking “I’d like to enjoy a date with her, getting to know who she is and bonding with her soul!” They’ll be thinking the kinds of thoughts that you don’t want them thinking about you. In the cleanest-yet-still-well-understood terms -they’ll be thinking about using your body to satisfy their desires. And it’s not because they’re gross or malicious or selfish (though maybe they are). It’s because they’re men. And that’s how their brains work.

Now before anyone starts to point a rape culture finger at me, I’ll tell you that rapists are responsible for their crimes. They are evil and they are scum, and I am all in favor of returning rape to its former category as a capital crime in the United States. A victim should never be made to think that she is in some way responsible.

Dress’s influence on men is much more complex. One scantily clad woman is not going to drive mankind into an animalistic attack on womankind. But what about billions of scantily clad women? What if every man who walks out the door finds himself bombarded by multitudes of gorgeous, half- naked women? What if he doesn’t even need to walk out the door? He could just turn on his phone, and all the women in the world are staring him in the face? With their facebook seaside family portraits, in bikinis, with their instagram workout regime photos.

Well, then those men would constantly be thinking sexual thoughts. What will become of the steady supply of sexual thoughts? No the answer isn’t that now he’ll have to find a victim. I’m sure both of us can think of many virtually harmless solutions that are not fit for print.

The answer is that now, in his mind, females are things. Sexual things.

Let’s examine the other half of the equation. Lots of women will honestly tell you that they dress as they do, not for men, but for themselves. It’s not just the men affected by our way of dress. Your dress affects you, as a woman. It affects us, as women. It tells us who we are, what we want, what we are willing to compromise on and where we are unyielding. A long time ago, a sexual relationship was something special and existed only in the sacred context of marriage. Women knew that their bodies were capable of something awesome – bonding physically, emotionally and spiritually with their chosen partner. And that this was not only sanctioned, but encouraged and commanded by G-d. You’ve caught me, not all women knew this. But Jewish women of old knew this. Because it’s taught in Torah, the guidebook given to the Jewish people thousands of years ago. And that is why they were modest. They knew that their bodies were precious, and that at the right time, with the right person, their body could be used in a holy way. When something is precious, a Torah scroll, each of its hundreds of thousands of letters written with quill and ink, or a diamond cut precisely, it is revealed intermittently. To serve its purpose. And then it is hidden, perhaps in a velvet box, perhaps under lock and key. Modesty does not mean a perpetual cloaking. Modesty means dressing appropriately for every given situation.

When you dress with dignity, you remind yourself that you deserve to be treated with dignity. That you’re not willing to take part in a one night stand, because that’s beneath you. You’re not willing to let someone you barely know gain pleasure from touching your sacred body, even if it’s just your hand. And men will notice. Men react accordingly. No longer harassed with female sexuality in every corner, men have the capacity to respect women. To see women as people, children of G-d, not disposable objects.

When women will dress as queens, as princesses, and reserve their touch for their kings and princes, we will have entered an era where men respect women. Today, women demand respect from men, demand equal rights. Yet our demands go unheeded. Women continue to suffer in myriad avenues, the most tragic being sexual abuse. We must understand that the key to respect remains our hands. While we may demand respect all we want, it will only emerge, if it is cultivated.

Torah and Miscarriage

Nothing can lessen the pain incurred from miscarriage. But learning what the Torah, G-d’s guidebook to life, says about miscarriage, can help us begin to heal. I think this information is valuable, not just for Jews, but for all of womankind. There are several views to be considered, but this resonates with me.

In the heavens, there is a special place, called heichal haneshamot. Housed here are the holiest of souls, the souls which cannot bear to be tainted by entering our physical world.

And yet, we are taught, that Moshiach, the messiah, cannot arrive and usher in the final geula, or Redemption, until all of the souls have come down from heaven. What then to do with all of these souls?

Here, fellow Mothers-of-Souls do we come in! These souls do descend and enter into the conceived bodies created through husband and wife. But the souls never leave their mothers’ wombs, they return to their Maker after just a short sojourn in our world. As these souls are supremely holy, they can only be carried by choice precious holy women. That’s right! You didn’t miscarry because you’re evil, you miscarried because you were handpicked by G-d. He chose you to partner with Him. I know it certainly isn’t a gift any of us would choose. But for whatever reason, G-d saw us fitting for this shelichut, this mission.

In carrying this soul, or in many of our cases, souls, we have partnered with G-d, we have loyally served Him, and we have selflessly contributed to the geula.

Judaism teaches also, that at the time of the Redemption, there will be tchiyat hametim, a Ressurection of the Dead. This is in fact one of the 13 fundamental principles of Judiasm. All conceived souls, including all biochemical pregnancies, will be ressurected, and will reunite with their families. Your unborn child will know that you are his mother. Her mother.

What Not to Say

If you know someone who has gone, or is going through, a miscarriage, then you have an opportunity to perform an awesome act of kindness. A woman who miscarries suffers a tragic, poorly understood loss. She needs support, from those she chooses to reveal her loss to. Problematically, people seldom know what to say or what to do. I believe this is due to two main reasons:

Lack of knowledge and understanding about the emotional impact of miscarriage
A fundamental discomfort in empathizing

Problem one can be rectified to some degree through research, scientific and anecdotal. The most important thing to know, is that the pain of miscarriage is intense and real. One who has not first handedly experienced pregnancy loss probably can’t understand how much miscarriage hurts. It doesn’t sound that bad. How much can you connect with a little blob you’ve never actually met anyway? The answer is: a lot. Losing that sweet little blob, is losing a soul, losing your child, losing all dreams and hopes you had for that child and your life together.

Problem two may take longer to address. In general, when a friend shares a problem with us, we want their pain to disappear. We don’t want to make room for it, to let it be, because it’s quite uncomfortable to feel pain. But feeling another’s pain, letting another express their pain, without trying to put it out, is a precious gift.

Here is my Top 5 list of things not to say when someone tells you they’ve experienced miscarriage.

Everything happens for a reason.

As a G-d fearing individual, I believe this is true. But, this is the wrong thing to say to a grieving person. When you say this, you are are telling the woman you have no conception of what she’s going through, because if you did, you wouldn’t dare say something so insensitive.

2. You’ll have more kids!

This is the wrong thing to say for two reasons. Firstly, you are not a prophet, and you have no idea if your friend will have more children. Trying to be encouraging is not appropriate at this time.

The next thing to understand here is that more kids is not a replacement for her loss, just as any children she already has are not a replacement for her loss. It’s true that her live children or future children will be a source of joy, a part of life that is beautiful and spectacular. But those children cannot replace the child she lost. They cannot make her forget the child that will never be.

3. You’ll get over it.

Oh my is this the wrong thing to say! It’s true that with time, hopefully her pain will diminish. But it will never go away. And she will never “get over it.” This statement demonstrates a lack of willingness to empathize, a desire for the woman to cease hurting, which unfortunately is not realistic.

4. Maybe it’s because…

I was offered the explanation that I lifted something heavy. I in fact had been meticulously careful in avoiding carrying heavy things. A woman who suffered a miscarriage does not need any fingers pointed, does not need any more reasons to blame herself. Her baby is gone, and unless you are a specialist in miscarriages, trying to figure out why, will not help.

5. Why don’t you just adopt?

Adoption is such a beautiful thing. And I truly believe an adopted child is just as much your child as a biological child. But it’s not a replacement for having your own biological children. Additionally, adoption is hard, emotionally and logistically. Again, this statement shows a desire to fix your friend’s pain. Which isn’t your job. No one is calling upon you to do it, which is good, because you can’t.

Saying Goodbye Before Saying Hello

I’d finally agreed to an ultrasound. Corona fever was dying down, I could let myself out of the house. And I was excited to see our baby. When I walked into the doctor’s office, I’d almost forgotten about the frightening orange stain I’d noticed earlier that day. I’d almost forgotten to pray that our baby was okay while waiting. I prayed that I would easily find my husband after the appointment was over. I’d lost my phone a few weeks previously and suspected our arranged plan of “I’ll meet you downstairs” might not pan out. I imagined proudly holding the ultrasound picture to my husband, both of us in awe, that through us G-d had created new life. In the end, neither of us even glanced at the picture.

The doctor looked nice, sounded nice, asked me questions that the secretary usually goes over. When she pressed the ultrasound piece against my abdomen, I worried something was amiss. Instead of staring me plainly in the face, the fetus was hard to find. She told me that the fetus was too small for 14 weeks. This she could deduce before even measuring. I took a deep breath, I thought I knew what this meant: genetic abnormality, genetic testing. But I could handle that. I mean, I’d been through that before, when they said Elisheva was too small. It didn’t mean there had to be an abnormality. Then she said, there’s no heartbeat. I didn’t know what to think. “There’s two,” she said. I knew it. I’d told my husband weeks before, I think there’s twins. When I’d prayed, I said, G-d let our child, or our children be healthy. She confirmed that neither of them had a heartbeat. Apparently with this type of twin, when one dies, usually the other one dies too. My husband walked in just as as the ultrasound ended. On our way back home, we followed a truck, which said America, in Hebrew letters. In Hebrew, America can mean the United States, or “empty mother.”

I thought her terribly apathetic. Sure, she said “I’m very sorry.” But she didn’t cry. Her voice didn’t break. I couldn’t imagine her returning home, sighing to her significant other that her last patient had been a twin miscarriage. I guess, just like everyone else, when you see something too often, it doesn’t phase you.

In hindsight, I appreciate her attempt to break the news gently. Though she conceivably immediately identified dead twins, she divulged the information bit by bit, lessening the shock.

I’d arranged to have a D&C with Dr. Carmel, the doctor who had delivered my two VBAC babies. She’s intimidating. But good. In skill and in heart and in faith. In maayanie hayeshua, the hospital of the ultra orthodox, there are, thank G-d, many pregnant women. But, it can be hard to see all those women, carrying life, when you are carrying death. I tried not to look at them. Not for my sake. But theirs. In Judaism, there is a concept of ayin hara, an evil eye. When you see something that you want, but isn’t yours, when you are jealous, you are sending that person’s file before the heavenly tribune. And that person is checked, to see if they deserve whatever it is they have that is being coveted by another. If they are found lacking in good deeds, or guilty of misdeeds, they may be judged immediately, and lose something precious.
I did not want to be responsible for making any of these holy mothers lose anything precious.
Dr. Carmel confirmed the miscarriage and told me I could have the D&C whenever I would like. The sooner the better, I thought. The sooner to move on. The sooner to begin grieving, to healing. The dialation is begun by placing small sticks made of seaweed into the cervix. No really. It isn’t painful, but certainly uncomfortable. Next, cytotec is given, two tablets dissolved under the tongue. Contractions begin, and waiting commences, until the operating room is available. All of this discomfort, to do something I didn’t want to do. I felt annoyed. What did I do wrong? I’d just wanted a baby. A larger family. Another person to love, to take care of. Another embodiment of love between my husband and I. Another person to raise in the path of Torah.

Instead, I had a womb full of lifeless material. And a medical obligation to surgically remove the lifeless matter. Go to the hospital, induce contractions, the kind you’re supposed to have before you’re greeted by a baby, not to mention hungry and dressed in a most precarious of ways (would it be so dangerous to have gowns that at least velcro down the back?), resume normal life all while desiring to lie in bed and mourn my loss.

I sat curled in a warm hospital blanket, waiting to be wheeled into the OR, waiting for the solace from these damned contractions, repeatedly confirming my name, identification number and allergies. In a day of uncertainty, a day of grieving, a day of suffering, Dr. Carmel looked at me and asked, “Did your children inherit your beautiful blue eyes?” My eyes are blue, but not the bright blue that grabs your attention as you glance at someone. They’re a kind of blue that you wouldn’t call blue unless you were really looking. She didn’t just ask, she waited to hear the answer. I think it is always refreshing to have one’s humanity recognized in a medical setting.

I knew it was a childish thought, but I thought it nonetheless. Why me? What about all the chiloni women? Or the women professing their faith in a false god, committing idolatry? What about the patient who’d walked out with her husband. With a belly, and chipper. With a short skirt and no hair covering in sight? Why did she get to have a healthy baby and not me? Where’s my compensation for my full hair covering, my loose fitting modestly colored clothes? I can’t answer these questions, and I think it’s wrong of me to ask. There’s so much information missing. I know nothing about her, her life, her experiences, her struggles. Who am I to judge her?

Am I more merciful than G-d? It just felt so hard to trust Him. How could He? How would I ever trust Him again? After He let me become pregnant with twins! Twin boys! And then take them away? So secretively! I wouldn’t have even known anything was wrong.

I’ve Got You, Binge Eater

Hello teenage girl who binge eats!

Ehrm. Okay. You don’t have to be a teenager to read or identify with this.

Or a girl for that matter.

It’s just- when I needed this message, I was as a teenage girl. I would have given my mahogany semi-hollow bodied guitar, meant to charm my guitar obsessed crush, to hear this message.

So whatever gender you are, whatever age group your in, if you binge eat:
I know. I know. I know.

When I was in high school, I began binge eating. At the time, I’d never heard of binge eating. I didn’t know I was “binge eating”. I knew only that on a daily basis I was eating vast quantities of junk food, quantities that made me sick, quantities that other people didn’t consume in a week. And I had no idea why. I knew I didn’t want to eat like that. But it seemed that I had no control over how much I ate. Every morning , I would try to compensate for last night’s binge, by starving myself until lunch, eating a salad, and breaking when I got home. Each afternoon my newfound motivation to avoid food, suddenly disappeared. Slice after slice of toast was buttered. Craisins, peanuts and chocolate chips mixed together into a trail mix. And within a half hour I was sprawled on my bed, uncomfortable, dismayed, and alone.

Whatever I did, wherever I went, I was never really there. I was always thinking of my body, how fat I was, how fat I looked, how much I ate, how much I would eat, how I could avoid eating, how I could hide eating, how I could hide my body. I wonder how much of my life was lost due to disordered eating. All the times my mom invested her time and savings so we could do something special together, like go hiking in the Appalacian mountains. I couldn’t enjoy the experience. While I hiking, I thought only of burning calories, transforming my body into the one I longed for. Returning to the hotel, my thoughts turned immediately to binge-food acquisition. Go to the pool? But then I’d have to deal with my body. That shameful fat covered receptacle I had to carry around with me.

She wanted to bond over reading one of my favorite books: To Kill a Mockingbird. I also wanted to, but every time we sat down together, my mind wandered from our living room, full of potential for savored mother-daughter time, into our freezer. Ice cream. Just a few more minutes and then I can have the ice cream. Who cares what Atticus was trying to impart to Scout? Chips. Ice cream. Sandwiches. I couldn’t participate in improving our relationship. I was consumed with food thoughts. Would today be a day to indulge all of my food desires? Or a day to practice monk-like asceticism?

Parties were nightmarish. Starve, stare longlingly at others’ plates, return home and binge. Or begin eating and not stop until I left the door.

I couldn’t progress in any of my hobbies, in any of my dreams, because food was always beckoning me.

When I discovered Overeatings Anonymous, I thought I’d found the answer. Here were others, who had once been fat and obsessed with food, and were now, miraculously thin, happy, productive individuals. OA required me to avoid all of my “triggers” i.e. delicious foods. I was left with vegetables, dairy, eggs, and tuna (essentially the same diet which originally propelled me into binge eating). I couldn’t do it. I put my all into following their instructions, going to their meetings, doing “step work”-self reflection aimed at enabling emotional well being, meeting my aversion to phone calls by calling other OAers. But I was hopelessly always off the abstinence wagon. I felt a failure. OA did not seem to help me. And yet, I had no other option. I decided the answer must lay in OA, and that I was the problem, I must be doing something wrong.

I continued my diet and binge cycle until I was 21 when I was pregnant with our older daughter, and I stopped dieting. I thought that if pregnant ladies are allowed to gain weight, then why be on a diet? I started to allow myself food, I started to feed my mistreated, loyal body. And subsequently I stopped bingeing. I had never before connected bingeing with dieting. I thought diets were about will power. I didn’t know that the long term success rate of diets is less than 1 percent. I didn’t know that when you go on a diet, your body increases your hunger and food thoughts, slows your metabolism and does its very best to get you to eat. I didn’t know that most people who go on diets gain all the weight back, and end up with a higher body fat percentage than before they began their diet. I didn’t know that if left to its own devices, a healthy body will maintain its set point weight, and that a diet interferes with this mechanism.

I also didn’t know that I didn’t need a diet. I didn’t know that my body (and my mind and spirit) deserved love and acceptance at whatever BMI it was.

I believe my highest weight was 165 pounds. Before dieting I was 128 pounds. Now that I’ve recovered from disordered eating, I maintain a healthy weight. There have been some ups and downs with pregnancies, with being unwell and without appetite, but this is the weight range my healthy body returns to when well fed.

As fulfilling as a healthy weight, is a healthy mind. My life is no longer wasted with food and body thoughts. I enjoy being a wife, mother, student, teacher, friend, sister, and daughter. I can devote myself to my roles, I can grow, because, as they say in OA, I’m not in the food.

Ode to Writing

Hopper said, “If I could say it in words there would be no reason to paint.” This used to be my favorite quotation of my facebook, back when I had a facebook. At the time I was doing lots of art. And I was quiet and unsure of myself when speaking, just like I am today. This quote expressed me, I felt, that just because I don’t have words for it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there, doesn’t mean it doesn’t have existence. It’s been difficult for me to connect to painting for a long time. It just takes so much time. Time that I don’t have. It’s a shame I didn’t paint more at the beginning of our marriage. I do like painting. It’s relaxing for me. But it’s time consuming. There’s too much to do before I’m able to express myself. I spent an hour maybe, an hour that I don’t usually have, painting, and I did one small section of a larger idea. Writing has become my go to. So my take on Hopper’s quote is ” If I could say it in words, there’d be no reason to write.” Sorry Hopper. He’s been dead a while so I don’t think he’ll have any qualms on my copywrite infringement. When I write, it’s like taking off my mask during a chamsin, like coming up for air after holding your breath at the bottom of the pool, moving into triangle pose after one of Sarah Beth’s two minute warrior 2 segments, like walking into JFK for one of my biennial visits to the Old Country, nearly unaffected by the surly short-tempered security guards, because I can finally speak English without worry I’ll be taken for a naive, ungrateful tourist. But enough with comparisons. You get it. It’s a blessed relief to write. I can finally be. I can finally be me. I can finally express myself. It’s my opportunity to interact with the world. In person, I often go unnoticed. I once stood in a bakery waiting to pay for my loaves of bread, and the cashier literally did not notice my presence. When I am noticed, it’s often unpleasant. Usually an old woman bent on insulting me and my parenting skills. I’m a non-confrontational kind of person. I’m a people pleaser. So unless you’re a family member or a good friend, you probably will never hear what I’m really thinking. But you can read it.