text: Author note, Trigger warning, explores emotions following a miscarriage. They say third time lucky, but as the survivor of three miscarriages I could definitely bust that particular saying. Is survivor too dramatic a word? No, I don’t feel it is. I mean, no my life hadn’t been at stake, or had it? Maybe not in a physical way, but emotionally it definitely was, as each loss had taken me closer to the brink, I often worried that each loss was erasing a little piece of me, and what would finally be left? And what of the future life that I had lost, all those experiences of raising a child, that now I would never know. I felt traumatized , so yeah I damn well classed myself as a survivor, although at that moment in time, I wasn’t entirely certain that I would make it through to the other side. But there was a glimmer of hope, as after days of sitting in my dressing gown, staring blankly at the wall opposite, I had managed to rouse myself and muster the energy to get dressed, which was a shock to my system. The next part is still a mystery, but somehow on autopilot I managed to drag my sorry carcass out of my street door and along the road, towards my chosen destination. As I walked along, crisscrossing pavements periodically to avoid coming into contact with women passing by pushing prams, my mind pondered upon the word miscarriage. Such a benign word for such a soul destroying event. Before going through it, I had only ever briefly wondered about it. But now it seemed I was unable to think of anything else. Almost three years of my life sped by with me living in a perpetual cycle of hope, anxiety, fear and guilt. Three years of fending off the commiserations of the World and his Mrs. Everyone seemed to have an opinion, I’d heard it all, from “You're better off with a dog, kids just disappoint you?” to “May you’ve had a lucky escape, might have grown up to be a mass murderer.” Neither of which gave me any comfort. But then neither did the more sensitive comments, because let’s face it, when it comes to miscarriage the sorrow is personal. My faith had got me through it, up until that point. Whether it was praying to conceive or praying for my child to survive, I had done it. I think my kind of miscarriage didn’t help matters, as they were silent and void of fanfare. There was no drama, no mad anguished dashes to A&E in the middle of the night. No mine were just a possession of tiny beating hearts that forgot to beat. A little trio of tiny beings with ten fingers and toes, that were lulled to sleep within my lousy treacherous womb. Self loathing seemed to be the norm, that and in that moment a desire to do something right for my never to be born child. This last miscarriage had been different to the others, he’d survived longer and I had seen him alive on a screen, and that’s how I know he’d had ten fingers and toes, to wriggle in rytthm with his beating heart. A black and white, grainy image with the power to rob me of my breath, as tears cascaded joyfully down my cheeks. Only a few short weeks later, those tears flowed again, but this time in sorrow. “You are lucky,” they told me, (what a crass choice of words) I had thought, “a week later and you would have had to give birth.” they’d explained with a level of professional calmness that was borderline cold. I had still been thinking about their choice of words, as they had wheeled me into the theatre. In some crazy ill thought out decision, I even tried to resist the anesthetic, I wasn’t ready to relinquish my child, not ready to wake to the emptiness. I counted beyond the twenty, before pitching into a darkness, that even now weeks later I was trying to submerge from. At last I had reached my destination, my local church, my safe haven. Upon entering I glanced up at the statue of the Virgin Mary, proudly holding her child in her arms, “is the fruit of thy womb”, I whispered, and felt the sting of tears. Looking down the aisle I spotted the priest, he was new, and I didn’t do well with change, but still he was God’s servant, and in that I had to trust. I gulped back my tears and told my sorry tale. He looked slightly bored, I told myself this was in my imagination as I had grown way too sensitive, my hormones seemed to be riding an everlasting rollercoaster, of ups and downs. Was it any wonder I was an emotional wreck. Then once I had reached the end, he nodded and said he was sorry. “The thing is” I stuttered, “I really would like for you to say a mass or something for his soul” As I spoke, I thought my request was reasonable, I mean he’d had ten tiny fingers and toes, so it stood to reason that just like any other human being he had a right to celebrated. “I am sorry I can’t do that.” The priest replied, bringing me up short. “Why?, I mean I am willing to pay” I explained, delving into my handbag and praying I had remembered my purse. “It's not a question of payment, your child did not breathe and therefore had no soul. Come sit with me, and we will pray for your speedy recovery.” I stepped back, shaking myself from head to toe, as if trying to dislodge something nasty that had settled on my skin. “I don’t want you to pray for me.” I shouted, wondering if he would be able to see the guilt that oozed from every pore. “I am sorry.” he said again, in a tone that told me his decision was final. “Three times I have endured this pain.” I continued as if he had not spoken. “I don’t think I could go through that again.” I paused to make sure I had his attention before allowing my axe to descend, “If I were to fall again, I think I would need to consider an abortion.” Even saying the words left a bitter taste in my mouth. I had lied of course, as I knew that I wanted a child, so bad that I would keep trying no matter what the cost. My lie was necessary as I wanted this man, this supposed servant of God to feel the extent of my pain. “I can not condone that.” he replied simply, “You would be acting against the will of God.” “Why?” I asked, defiantly jutting my chin forward. “Where is the sin, if like you say the child has no soul?” A silence lapsed between us, I could see a rage building in his eyes. And almost smiled for having outfoxed him, but then I remembered I no longer knew how to smile. “That’s different. “ he said at last, in a tone that told me this explanation should be enough. It reminded me of the Holy Sisters in convent school telling me it was not my place to question. But I was a bereaved mother, and at that moment it was not only my place to question, but my duty to do so. Too long have women been told what to do, by a church that calls itself the Mother Church, that adores a Virgin Mother, yet does little to ease the daily suffering of women. When I thought about it, why was Eve blamed more than Adam? She hardly held a gun to his head. Why was original sin credited to women, when we all know it takes two to tango, even in the garden of Eden! “So you’re saying that my child who I saw alive and moving, be it on a screen, had no soul and is not recognized. Yet, another who might not even reach that stage, who might even resemble a raspberry would be awarded more rights and make me a murderer, if I chose to put my sanity first?” I wasn’t sure if he was acting in accordance with church policy but, at that moment I didn’t care. I just wanted out of there. After twenty five years of loyalty, the blinkers were off. Having said my piece, I turned and walked straight out of the church, not even stopping to anoint myself with Holy water, swearing never to return. However, as you most likely know my darling, I didn’t turn my back on God. No, the way I saw it, every organisation has its share of bad managers, and quite often the man upstairs has no idea of what is going on at the grass roots, why should God be any different? But I couldn’t be a part of something, so held back by dogmas that it couldn’t see beyond them. I had stood before him a broken woman, a mother with no child to hold, who was lost in grief. He’d fallen back on his own misguided beliefs and hadn’t allowed himself to see that he was my last hope. The only way I could possibly give my child something, to demonstrate my love. Unknowingly he gave me anger, and anger fueled me forward, so I suppose he did something in the end. And that my sweet girl is why you and your sister have not been baptized, I am sure if we search hard enough we will find the perfect venue for your wedding, that accepts you simply as you are. You are my miracles, born out of my belief that I would one day hold you. To me you existed from the very first moment that I knew you resided within me. You had ten fingers and toes, a beating heart, and a soul that would be your moral compass. As a mother I have given you love, and freedom not to be tied to any outdated institution. You are a woman now and you are free to choose your own path.