Midnight Musings by Kali Lindner

February 8th
This last little while has been a strange mix of fear and hope. Bright red warned me at every moment that something was wrong; a few strong kicks let my mind wander to paint colors and lullabies. I tried to keep my body very, very still, so as to not rupture all of my dreams. When the membranes of the sac ultimately did rupture, my castle in the sky began to crumble. I scrambled to rebuild it, stone by stone, to fill the sac back up by rehydrating with gallon after gallon of water. Ironically, it took 4 people and 6 attempts at finding a vein for an IV. There was no blood, water, life left in me. Mine had left my body before his did. When I gave birth/death to my son, the fear released from my body, as well. I no longer lay here, still as can be, wondering if my body is giving him what he needs or taking it away. The hope does remain. Hope to one day hold my baby whose body doesn’t grow cold in my arms. To one day fill my home with the love I was only able to fill my heart with. Everything in life has become intensified now. The mystery, the beauty, the pain, the love. I’ve never felt more or less alive than I do in this moment.

February 12th
They say that when a woman becomes a mom, her heart forever walks outside of her body. Today I can’t seem to find either of them. My heart or my child. I’ve tried to replace blood with wine, but the glass and the hole in my chest keep coming up empty. My skin remains pale, pale as the color of his ashes, whose daddy kept in the breast pocket of his shirt all day yesterday. That must be where I’ll find them both. My heart and my child. Next to the powerful, protective shelter of my husband’s beating heart.

February 13th
The feeling of skin swelling over pant waists or folding over itself under bras has always felt somewhat uncomfortable to me. Lately I’ve developed a sweet spot for these soft spots on my body. These places of extra skin, flesh and fat, a physical representation of generosity and love. These most tender places of my body hold my war wounds and my love letters now. I don’t feel like I did before him, and I’m not ready to look like I did before him either. For this softness is all I have left physically to remind myself he was more than just a dream.

February 14th
Two sentences are all that matter from that day. One a death sentence and one a life sentence.
“There is no heartbeat” from my doctor’s lips.
“I’m so glad I didn’t lose you” from my husband’s.

February 17th
Before, we would say “goodnight” and I would roll away, seeking the solitude of cold sheets.
After they placed him in my arms, I felt the warmth slowly leave his body. The last kiss to his forehead was cold against my lips. Bone-chillingly cold.
Now I find myself with limbs entangled, uncomfortably hot and unable to sleep. I don’t want solitude and I don’t want cold. I need to feel the warmth of “alive.”

Bio: Kali lives in Missoula, MT with her husband and pets.  She recently lost her son at 22 weeks pregnant due to placental abruption.  He blew open her heart and soul in ways she never knew possible.  She is the creator of OULA Fitness, a dance fitness company whose slogan is “it’s not how you look, it’s how you feel.”  Dancing and writing has helped her to heal and to feel a sense of peace while going through her life’s greatest loss.

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Comments

  1. this is breathtaking. so many times on this site the words seem to be from my own head. I lost my trio at 22 weeks. I know cold kisses and still days in bed. hugs to you.

  2. Your word choice is incredible. Thank you for this, it spoke to me deeply. I’m so sorry for your loss.

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