A Blossom on the Trail

“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”

~Anais Nin

When I was 40 years old, I had a near-death experience.

I remember standing in the shower when I lost the baby. Number 3. Well, actually, number 4; the first pregnancy had been twins.

My breath caught in my throat. I tried and I tried, but I couldn’t let it out. I thought I would suffocate and pass out, but finally…..finally…..I exhaled. I breathed out a long wail of sorrow. I didn’t recognize it as my own voice. Once the echo of that mourning keen faded, silent tears mixed with water from the shower. My head bowed under the hot water and my mind went blank. I was shattered.

I took a deep breath and pushed my anguish away, knowing what I had to do….dreading what I had to do. I exited the shower, and wrapped myself tightly in a towel with shaking hands. I called my husband, John Martin (he goes by his first and middle names, it’s a semi-long story. Everyone always thought that Martin was his surname, but it’s not). He was upset for me, and disappointed for us. He inquired whether I was ok. I answered in the negative, and asked would he come home. He replied he couldn’t leave work. Which was bullshit. He could have. His sister and brother-in-law owned the company which employed him. But he wasn’t good with emotions since his mother’s passing when he was a child. He kept things bottled up. He hadn’t come home for the first two miscarriages either; why should this time be any different? Come to think of it, I had gone to the initial doctor’s appointments by myself after the other ones. Still, I was pissed. But that was ok; I needed the anger to help get me through those first few hours.

I scheduled the D&C. “Dilatation and curettage” is the official term. It is also referred to as a “medical abortion.” A procedure to complete the removal of a pregnancy, rather than letting the body take its time to clear it. I am a big believer in natural healing, but in this case, I needed the event over. Emotionally, I couldn’t handle waiting for my body to fully expel everything. To complete the death of my pregnancy.

The day of the D&C was a grey, damp, dreary morning in April. April 7, 2011. I’ll never forget the date. The weather perfectly suited my demeanor.
I didn’t want the sun.
I didn’t want warmth.
I didn’t want anything that was nurturing or joyful.
I was numb. I felt dead. I wanted the day over.

We entered the doctors office and, unfortunately, I knew the routine. I filled out and signed the paperwork. We waited briefly then were escorted into one of the procedure rooms. The room was cold. I mean absolutely frigid. I almost did care then because I am not a fan of cold temperatures. My February birthday gift to myself had usually been a trip to more tropical climes. Anyway, I made a comment about it to Johnny but then the nurse entered and he was ushered out. I was administered the sedation that was required for the D&C to take place and I let myself go to la-la land.

I had no idea how much time had passed when I felt wisps of unconsciousness slip away. A distant cacophony of voices drowned out the quiet conversation I had been engaged in, with (later I would recognize as) Spirit. Indistinguishable sounds at first; intonations really. But I could tell by the harmonizations that they were human voices, and they were slowly bringing me to awareness.

Where was I? I was freezing. I tried to move my head, then my hands. My legs. I couldn’t move anything. My lips were immobile. My mouth was so dry it felt like someone had shoved a wad of rolled cotton down my throat. I couldn’t speak. Trying not to panic, I concentrated on the voices in an effort to gauge what was happening. Gradually, I deciphered words: Cyanotic. Intubation. Respiratory arrest. As I listened, I realized that these people were discussing ME. What? What happened? My medical training kicked in and I started ticking off differentials: Had I suffered a stroke? Cardiac arrest? A PE (pulmonary embolism)? Anesthetic accident? My brain was functioning better than my limbs and it worked through the list of possible scenarios which had led me to this point.

A voice shushed everyone; they had detected movement – an eyelid flicker. A female voice asked me to move a finger. I couldn’t at first. Then, I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I considered returning to sleep and to the dream/discussion I had been having; it had been a serious conversation, but I felt strong, centered and serene. I sensed that if I shifted to consciousness, I would not feel as calm and cradled. Something bad had happened. However, it didn’t matter because when I reached back to the ethers, my companion was gone. I mentally reached for him but I no longer felt his presence (and yes, it was a male energy with whom I had been speaking) so I was left with a decision: stay in this limbo or grab the line I was being offered, back to the surface. I decided to grab the line.

I concentrated on moving my finger. Wasn’t happening. The voices commenced speaking again. I gave it one more go, and with focused concentration, I managed it: I felt my fingertip flex ever so slightly. Someone remarkably noticed the tiny movement and a barrage of questions ensued: Could I move my toes? Turn my head? What was my name? What was the date? When was my birthday? Where did I live? I couldn’t speak at first, due to that roll of cotton still choking me (really it was severe xerostomia, or “dry mouth”, probably from the anesthetic) but willing my lips to move, I managed to form words. As I slowly whispered the answers, it dawned on me that they were assessing my mental status, trying to distinguish whether I had any brain damage. Later, when I read the doctors’ reports regarding the incident, I confirmed that I had suffered respiratory arrest and that my oxygenation had dropped to 85%. My lips had turned blue (that really shook me). The medical staff had fumbled with an Ambu bag (which was not immediately ready for use) as a nurse ran across the hall for an internist to help. The internist then monitored me while another ob-gyn administered CPR until the paramedics arrived. They were on the verge of intubating me when the astute observer saw my eyelid twitch.

It boggles my mind thinking about it. I was only 40 years old. I was a runner. I had run a half-marathon for gosh sake. Yet I had stopped breathing for 25 minutes. After cardio-pulmonary assessments and diagnostics, it was later determined that my arrest was due to the frigid room temperature and a laryngospasm – my larynx locked up – as an adverse reaction to the anesthesia. No air could enter my lungs. That’s how Joan Rivers died…although we were anesthetized for vastly different procedures. But I had no need for reports and diagnostics. I knew the real reason why I stopped breathing. The reason was grief. I knew that in Chinese medicine, the lungs rule grief.

Anyway, as they questioned me, my own question was fighting its way to the surface….”Where was my husband?” I was having difficulty forming the words. I tried and tried, but it would not come. I tilted my head away from the racket of voices and felt tears leak down my cheeks. I was unable to lift my hand to wipe them. Finally, one of the voices instructed, ”Look who’s here to see you.” I turned my head and, for the first time since coming back, I opened my eyes. There he was. John Martin. He was crying. I had only seen him cry once before, when speaking of his deceased mother. Yet here he was, tears almost blinding him, because he had finally been informed of what had transpired. He had been sitting in the waiting room as the nurse ran out and returned with the internist, and as the EMT’s rushed through later. He had had no idea it was me that they had been called to. To save my life. Because I had almost died. Almost. Instead, I had chosen Life.

For a long time, I was sorry I had chosen Life. I remembered snippets of my conversation with Spirit. I was given a choice to stay with Spirit or to return to the physical realm. I was informed that if I went back, it would not be an easy road. I understood (or so I thought) and replied strongly that I would return because there were things I had left to do. Things that I WANTED to do. I felt the seriousness of my plans, but was confident that I could fulfill these tasks (whatever they were, I don’t remember now). My companion was supportive and loving. He told me to remember that I would not be alone…however, for a long time after returning, I felt very much alone.

A brush with death, a “near-death experience” (NDE), changes you. There are few people in my world who have had them. Last year, I actually met a man who had had one. I hadn’t been in the room a few minutes, when he looked at me knowingly and asked when my NDE had happened. By then, I wasn’t surprised by this question, seemingly out of the blue; it was a natural part of the magic of Life. I was actually elated to find someone who had shared the experience and understood how much it changes you.

I don’t know how to explain it. Everyone’s experience is different, yet similar. In my case, I spoke with Spirit, about my journey so far, about what else I had planned to do. And, as I previously mentioned, I was given a choice to remain wrapped in Serene Light, or to return and complete my journey. Then, during my recovery period, the biggest safety nets which I thought were in place around me disintegrated. Marriage, family, my place in the world. Yet it wasn’t that these things dissolved; it’s that I came to understand that they hadn’t actually been real. And when I realized they were non-existent, it led to a huge crisis of identity and personal value. I emotionally collapsed under the shear weight of these revelations. Luckily, I had a strong Soul; a Soul on a mission. My Soul held me together and talked me through it. I held on and I listened to what she said.

Maggie was the one who kept me from drowning in those turbulent emotional waters. She was a German Short-Haired Pointer who had come home with me from Ireland. Mags was my constant companion: rarely leaving my side except at work, when she hung out with her beloved cats while I saw appointments. JM had tired of me crying and being depressed. He was an extrovert and a social butterfly; he loved going out and having the “craic” (Irish term for “fun”). It was also how he chose to deal with the situation. Go out, have fun, move on, forget. I, on the other hand, was paralyzed in my sorrow and didn’t feel up to socializing or going to the bars anymore. I couldn’t forget. I was in mourning for a long time, grieving not only the miscarriages but the reality of where and how I fit in this new-to-me world. He was unable to understand this. So he would stay out drinking for hours and hours. He’d call on his way home from work, “I’m going to the pub, be home in an hour.” Except “an hour” was actually anywhere from 4-12 hours, depending on the day of the week. He hated that I didn’t want to go out anymore, he couldn’t stand it. We argued. He was not a nice drunk during this time. He knew exactly how to push my buttons, how to hurt me, how to redirect the conversation from his drinking, from him driving home completely intoxicated. He used things I trusted him with in confidence to hurt me. I stopped trusting him. During a couple of these arguments, I hid in a closet. One of those times, I called my parents, because his temper had frightened me. My father offered to fly out, but I declined; just knowing that there was a lifeline, at least somewhere, helped. Later, when I was stronger, I’d leave the house with Mags, either before he arrived home or as he was walking in the door. We’d just drive; it didn’t matter where, as long as I was away from him.

I started hiking with Maggie. I found the green, earth energy of the woods and the quiet solitude healing. Walking the trails, I stopped thinking. I stopped feeling. I stopped hurting. I only thought of the trail and where to place my feet. One foot in front of the other. That was how I survived…by placing one foot in front of the other.

That was the first step in my healing journey….hiking. Walking the trail. Reconnecting with Nature.

One day at work, a co-worker spoke about her Reiki training. I asked her for more details. She explained what it was about: channeling universal energy to heal ourselves and others. The voice inside my heart said, “That’s what we need.” My co-worker shared her Reiki Master, Kat’s, contact information with me. I emailed Kat and was gratified to learn she had a class starting in the next couple of weeks. I immediately signed up. No matter that I knew no one and it was something beyond my experience. In the past, I would have shied away from this type of thing because I’m actually quite shy and introverted. But I knew that I needed this, unquestionably. Desperately.

At that first class, Kat explained Reiki and how we channel it, then she set us to work, starting to access and transmit the energy. She told us she would be calling us aside to treat each one of us individually. I couldn’t wait. When I cried at home, the tears welled up from the deepest chasms of my being; the pain and the grief seeming to erupt from an abyss of such magnitude, that I could never hope to drain it in my lifetime. I had never truly understood heartbreak, but I did then, and I do now. My heart hurt so badly, ached so deeply, sometimes I thought I would have a heart attack and just die. Sometimes I wished I would. I thought the pain would never fade. It was unrelenting.

When it was my turn, I lay down on the table. Immediately, tears formed and leaked from the corners of my closed eyes as the thought repeated like a terrible mantra in my head, “My heart hurts so bad…my heart hurts so bad…my heart hurts so bad.” The pain returned, heavy like a boulder sitting on my chest. I couldn’t breathe with the weight of it. Kat leaned over me then and spoke low and gently in my ear…”Honey, why does your heart hurt so bad?” I couldn’t believe she heard me, but I had been told she had psychic abilities. I sobbed quietly, telling her of my losses, that the most recent had been a daughter and that I was in despair (yes, that last pregnancy had been a girl. I had already sensed it during the pregnancy and when I communicated with her internally, I had called her Grace, after my great-grandmother). Kat instructed me to call her during the week to schedule an initial Reiki session with her. I did and I received Reiki healing from her for almost 2 years.

That was the second step of my healing…Reiki.

Therapy was my third step. Wise Joe. Kat set me up with him. I used to hate crying in front of people. I did not like exposing my vulnerability. But as I spoke to Joe about why I was there, the tears flowed and I told my story between sobs. I just let it all go. Joe listened with the most compassionate eyes; I could tell he felt my pain. I knew he understood. And so began my Jungian journey into healing. Dream interpretation, synchronicity, archetypes, anima/animus, inner child work…all of it was so in tune with my soul. That’s what Jung was really about…healing the psyche by healing the soul. And that’s what this journey for me was about…reconnecting with and healing my Soul.

The fourth step of my healing was moving to the sea. I found a job in coastal NC and moved there after one visit, for my interview. I drove around the area after meeting with the hospital staff. I knew that this was the place; it felt like home. This was where I needed to be. I searched Craig’s List and found a house, renting my little green cottage sight unseen. I loved it from the moment I arrived. I could see the Intracoastal from my back deck and would sit outside drinking coffee in the mornings with Duke (Maggie had left me for her next journey, but my story with Mags is for another time).

And here I am now: at the coast. Still healing. Still learning. Still growing.

JM and I separated 2 years after the miscarriage, then divorced. A tragedy like this either bonds a couple, or breaks them. We broke. We grew apart. Or really, I grew; he stayed where he was. He refused to go to therapy with me. He said he didn’t like talking to people. He really meant he didn’t like talking about his emotions. I think now that the death of his mother had so profoundly impacted him, he was afraid to really open his heart. And so he made a choice. He put his needs before mine and those of our marriage. And that’s ok. But then I had a choice to make: either stay, accept his decision, bury everything, go back to the way things were and live a false life; or leave, expand and begin the authentic life I wanted.

I left.

It’s funny. I met him when I was 18 years old, on my first trip to Ireland. I fell in love with him…or really, the aspects of him which I had buried within myself, within my Shadow. His independence. His capable manner. His control over his own life. But he did make me laugh and we had some good times. We were great in the shallows, not in the depths.

We divorced after 6 years of marriage, and 25 years after we first met. We filed the paper work together, then walked across the street to share a drink. I remember tearing up and saying, “I always thought I would marry you.” Hugging me, he replied “You did.” He helped me finish the last vestiges of packing, the night before I left. After I moved south, we spoke on the phone every few weeks. However, the conversations gradually faded; then we had a falling out. There’s no need to discuss it. But it feels so strange that we no longer communicate. At all. We shared experiences which neither of us will ever share with anyone else, and we don’t talk anymore. It’s so sad, and it feels surreal…yet natural. Because that chapter is closed. I learned what I needed to learn.

I used to have a lot of anger towards him. I felt he abandoned me when I needed him most. I thought he had been selfish. Now, I can look back at that time with compassion for both of us, for what we were each feeling. How we each responded. A few months ago, I felt at peace with everything. I mean really at peace. I could look back at that time with nostalgia, and not anger or sorrow or hurt. I was ready to finally, truly, close the chapter. I sent him a text telling him I was sorry for the pain he himself felt at that time, and for my part in it. I wished him well, wished him happiness. Told him I would ALWAYS wish him happiness. He texted a reply, then called later that day. I did not return his call or reply to his text. I had said what needed to be said. I closed the book that was Us and put it away on the shelf.

I would never wish the pain that I endured on anyone. But I will also never wish that it didn’t happen. I’m not glad it happened, but I am grateful for what grew from it. I am at peace with and accepting of it. Without John Martin, without the miscarriages, without the “anesthetic accident”, I would never have come to reconnect with who I truly am at my core. I would never have grown as much as I have. And all those things that I loved in JM, that I projected onto him? Well, I was always quite independent and in control in my own right, but only to the extent that my family, and society, allowed. That was too tight a bud for me to remain within. I needed escape, and so I entered a dark night of the soul, which led me to change direction, and I bloomed. It was not an easy path, but it was the right one for me. Now, I truly am an independent, exceedingly capable female in control of her own life, her own journey. My soul and my world have blossomed…and I have only got started with my garden.