Newly Submitted Story

The cold dawn that Christmas Eve was crisp and sparkled with excitement and possibility. The bluebird sat in the holly tree and watched Greg pull out of the driveway. He was on a mission to find a pregnancy test. She flew to the window and saw me curl up by the fire as the sky started to lighten. The bluebird saw me drift off into a cozy doze. From her perch the bluebird saw Greg wake me and show me the positive pregnancy test. She saw us hug and cuddle up by the fire and the light of the Christmas tree and dream about our new future. The bluebird saw the snowy, cold, dream-filled days that we spent with Elliot, full of emotions. She saw us take long walks through the snowy evenings and talk about the future the three of us had. She saw me cry thinking about what a wonderful father Greg would be. I saw him with Elliot running around him so clearly in my mind’s eye. She saw me paint leaves, flowers, and berries on curling red stems in the alcove of the upstairs hall, envisioning cozy spaces in our home to share with our new baby. The bluebird watched the weeks go by and saw the first signs of spring. The first camellia bloomed. The bluebird saw when the pains started. She saw the worry and unease on my face. She heard the reassurances of my doctor. Pain and spotting was normal. She saw me curl up on the sofa in the front room, fear settling in my body, a sense that something was not right. The bluebird saw me come to Greg and show him the blood. She heard the urgent tone in the midwife-on-call’s voice: “go to the maternity unit as quickly as you can.” From her perch on the porch window the bluebird saw it all. She saw the hastily left world that we walked away from, not knowing we would never return to it. The cookie ingredients that Greg had just assembled sat abandoned on the kitchen island. The bluebird flew through the pouring evening rain. She lit on the window of the waiting room. She saw Greg walk in supporting me with his arm. She heard the gentle, knowing questions of the receptionist who had seen it a heartbreaking number of times before, even if she didn’t yet name what it was. The bluebird didn’t like the waiting room. There was nothing comforting here. She saw it crowded with other pregnant women and their families. Fluorescent lights. Blaring TVs. Dirty, worn furniture arranged in a circle. Not enough seats. Buzzing conversations. Tired nurses coming and going, calling names. Discolored tile floors. The bluebird watched the double doors with us. Each time they opened, someone new was called. Trying not to panic. Trying to hold onto hope. Maybe it’s nothing. She saw that Greg and I were unable to make eye contact. Minutes stretched into an hour. The bluebird saw them take me into a room, ask many questions, then send me back out again. She felt time ticking. When they came for me the bluebird felt for Greg, having to wait in fear and panic. Wondering what was happening to me and where I was. Wishing he wasn’t barred from joining me and our baby. The bluebird hopped along the windows until she found my room. She didn’t like the poking and prodding I was undergoing. Her heart hurt hearing my pleas for Greg being dismissed. She was stung by the brusque, uncaring way the doctor spoke to me. “Am I having a miscarriage?” she heard me ask timidly. “I don’t know!” the doctor snapped. The bluebird wished she could sit on my shoulder and nuzzle me with her feathers. Everything was suddenly so scary. This story was full of magic and gentleness and had become harsh and unfamiliar. The bluebird saw my private sobs when I was finally alone for a moment in the bathroom to obtain a swab. She saw me put on my armor again and step back out to face more. She saw my panic when a series of halls faced me, along with the realization that in my distress I had forgotten which room I was supposed to be in next. The bluebird felt relief when a kind nurse passed by and was able to guide me to my next stop. The bluebird and the kind nurse watched with pity as the nurses moved in on me with more needles and instruments. Then she heard the kind nurse ask, “is someone here with you? Is there someone in the waiting room I can get for you?” The bluebird was glad that I would have both her and Greg with me now. The bluebird hopped along with us down the hallway to the ultrasound lab. She landed on the curtain track and heard the friendly ultrasound tech make hopeful conversation with us and explain the rules. Greg was not to attempt to look at the screen. He was to stay seated. She set me up on the bed. When the bluebird heard the tech say “we won’t need any more images than these,” she saw me turn my head and let out a sob into Greg’s arm. What did that mean? She hopped along the curtain. We might not be able to look but she could. Looking at the screen she saw lots of words and letters. A tiny fetus was curled up in a ball. She knew what that image had looked like just a few weeks before. That baby had been sprawled out, all heart. And that heart had been beating confidently. She felt for the ultrasound tech who had to make conversation with us all the way back to the waiting room knowing more than we did. Told we would have to wait a few hours, the bluebird was glad when we bought a snack; she enjoyed the crumbs. She saw us trying not to think too much. She was pained by my attempt to hold onto hope when I noticed my bleeding had slowed. Maybe all was well. The bluebird watched all of the couples come in in labor. They were escorted through the double doors and would soon meet their babies. At last, she heard the doctor call my name. She saw them take us into a room and sit us down in front of a box of tissues. The bluebird took her place on the side of my chair and waited. It came suddenly and tonelessly. “Unfortunately you did have a miscarriage.” The bluebird heard everything shatter. Instructions followed, mechanical, rushed, lost beneath the sound of breaking. Do you want a prescription to deal with the pain? You might experience heavy bleeding and vomitting… The doctor got up and left. Halfway out the door she paused and looked back, remembering. “Did you want the ultrasound pictures?” “Yes.” The bluebird heard me say it automatically in a distant hazy way. I wanted the pictures of my baby. The bluebird sat with us in the silence and saw us staring blankly at the wall, not touching. Each lost in a separate world of shock. Later I would remember that we were in that moment together and that we both experienced it. The door opened and a nurse shuffled timidly in. The bluebird thought it was like when she approached a bigger bird on the feeder, unsure. The nurse brought discharge papers (“failed pregnancy”), an envelope with Elliot’s pictures, and a small heart stitched out of a baby blanket. “Sometimes the smallest things take up the biggest places in our hearts.” it read. The bluebird felt a tear run down her tiny beak. How did it end in this way? This was all wrong. The nurse’s “get home safe” rang in all of our ears as we stepped back out into the cold pouring rain. The wind was chilly. With each step the bluebird could hear my brain ring with the realization that it was over, Elliot was dead inside of me and somehow they would have to come out now. Death inside of me. The bluebird was taken back to an old but ever-present pain. An egg that never hatched. Once in the car the bluebird saw me pull Elliot’s pictures out of the envelope. She heard Greg’s shocked wail at the sight of them. Then the horrible silence that followed as we drove the few blocks along Elm Street to our driveway. We returned to the home that we would now never share with Elliot. And a life that was completely altered. Greg and I curled up in our bed and tried to bat away the sights and recollections of the past few hours to find some kind of rest. The bluebird nestled into a sheltered branch outside our bedroom window and tucked her head under her wing. The rain slowed and things settled and went quiet, if not peaceful. In the stillness of 2 AM the bluebird heard me stir awake in pain. She saw me realize that I had to mentally prepare myself to release Elliot, even though every fiber of my being wanted to hold onto them. At least in that moment they were peacefully curled inside of me. The bluebird sat with me for that hour feeling the pain build. We tried to let Greg sleep as long as we could, hoping he was enjoying a state away from our reality. When it became too painful and scary to manage, the bluebird saw me wake Greg. Suddenly the waves of pain and blood hit. She saw me go back and forth to the bathroom. She saw Greg frantically searching for resources or information online. The bluebird was with me through those hours of terrifying agony and the physical release of my pregnancy. She saw how I somehow knew what to do, how to breathe through the waves. The bluebird was there when I rested in the minutes between the waves. She felt relief when a rest turned into sleep. A wave finally receded and a new one didn’t roll in. The bluebird saw me drift off, not realizing it was over. She looked out across the wintery world and saw that the first signs of dawn were visible. Sleep well, she thought. The bluebird knew how hard the moment of waking would be. Lying in shock in bed, Francis between us. Though the bluebird disliked cats as a rule, she saw how Francis comforted us in the realization of what had happened the night before. The first day of a new reality. Our baby was dead. And their body was gone. I had failed my baby and their remains. At least that’s how I saw it. But the bluebird didn’t see it that way. She saw me just trying to survive. The bluebird knew that Elliot was at peace. We arranged Elliot’s last images, cards, and flowers on the kitchen island in a sort of shrine. The bluebird saw Greg work long days in the garden trimming the trees and hauling the branches off, needing something to focus his energy into. She saw me spend hours staring off into the distance. The pain and the blood was hard to deal with and I struggled to get used to it, knowing it would be a few weeks. I became obsessed with cleaning anything that touched me while I lost my pregnancy. Pjs, sheets, towels, blankets, rooms. I was constantly trying to scrub away what had happened and what was happening. Every time I thought the bleeding had stopped I cleaned every inch of the bedroom and bathroom. Then it started again. The bluebird witnessed it. The bluebird saw me sob alone in the parking lot for a long time after my first OB-GYN appointment, the beginning of the blood draws that would ensure my body would lose the pregnancy on its own. They had asked me, “Has anything changed since your last appointment?” They meant my address and phone number. Everything had changed. The bluebird saw us bury my placenta under the holly bush. She still visits the place sometimes. The bluebird witnessed me writing a letter to Elliot. Greg too. I told Elliot that they had taught me my own strength. I told them about my longing for them. I wish I could have held you in my arms, but I will in other ways until I die. Love, Your Mother The bluebird was there the whole time. She made sure I was never alone. I was always witnessed with compassion and care. The bluebird sees that I am loved. The bluebird sees how cherished and mourned Elliot is. She sees Greg and I cry for them. And she sees that others do too. There’s a hole where Elliot should be, and the bluebird feels it. Those hours and days were horrible. There are things I can never express about the pain of my experience. Some pain can never be spoken. But the bluebird saw.