Unspoken

Dear Friend,

I’m sorry I couldn’t go to your wedding and that my explanation was vague and seemed rude. My doctor wouldn’t let me fly. I couldn’t find the words. I worried that mentioning pregnancy loss would cloud the conversation of your celebration.

 Dear Phlebotomist,

I think they called you from upstairs to let you know I was on my way down, after learning the news. Thank you for taking care of me. “Keep your chin up,” you said in a soft soprano-pitched voice as the vials filled up with my blood. What does that expression even mean? But for some reason it felt like the right thing at the right time for me to hear.

Dear Doctor,

When you said, “I’m sorry,” And I replied, “that’s okay.” Thank you for correcting.

 Dear Mama,

This one is hard. It’s not even in the right language. Your first reaction was to say in Spanish, “You were never pregnant.” Denial was always your coping skill, but never mine (at least not on purpose). You found other ways to support me, flowers on a random day of the week, gently letting me know a relative was pregnant, challenging people when they asked when you might become a grandmother.

 Dear First Friend I told (just before we attended a baby shower),

Trusting you was a very good choice. The space between us on my couch when I told you felt sacred.

 Dear Intern,

I almost told you on our drive to the event. It was just days after the procedure. It was on the tip of my tongue so many times. I was stuck somewhere between the old school and the new school of saying the words, “I had a miscarriage.” Sometimes I get angry at myself for leaving things unspoken.

Dear Popy,

You apologized to me a day after unintentionally saying something insensitive, a silly remark about me wearing black and mourning. I know it wasn’t easy to address it, tears in your eyes, knot in your stomach, but it meant a lot that you did.

Dear Husband’s Friend,

I’m sorry we couldn’t go to your wedding and that his explanation was vague. My doctor wouldn’t let me fly, again. He couldn’t find the words because it hurt too much, and he worried that mentioning pregnancy loss would cloud the conversation of your celebration.

 Dear Me,

I am sorry I worried more about protecting the feelings of others. I claimed it wasn’t a matter of shame, that the words were just too painful. I don’t know what’s true; I did the best that I could at the time. I didn’t want pity or a big commotion, is that shame? I don’t know what it means that most people still don’t know that I had a miscarriage; I had a second miscarriage, and I had a third miscarriage. It is easier for me to say it now than before, but I hardly ever do.

 Dear Pregnant Friend,

I am sorry I missed your baby shower. I know I attended others around that time, but I just couldn’t attend yours. I probably don’t need to apologize because you were one of the people who understood me the most.

 Dear husband,

I wonder if we should talk about it more, even after all these years. I am sorry I forget that it happened to you too.

 Dear son,

I don’t remember the circumstances around telling you, but my pregnancy with you and your birth are so intricately tied to my miscarriages that they are part of your story too. I am sorry I spent the entire first trimester paralyzed by fear and dread instead of hope and joy. The beginning of my pregnancy with you looked so much like the others that I was certain the outcome would be the same. When the risk lifted in the second trimester I was left with a surprising sense of sadness; the doctor said, ‘survivor’s guilt.’ I think it may have also been unattended grief. I had never heard the term rainbow baby until years after you were born, when speaking up became more common. I have so much gratitude; you were very much like a rainbow, magical and healing. Yet that grief was intertwined with your birth, and I carried it around, a ball of anxiety that dissipated a bit when my fifth and final pregnancy with your sister was smooth. I am sorry I wasn’t as present as I could have been during my pregnancy with you and sometimes even after.

 Dear daughter,

After one of your family life education lessons at school, you said there was a question that was not answered by the scripts the teachers must use, “What is a miscarriage?” I explained and then told you I’d experienced it myself. I am proud of answering you plainly and honestly, it’s not taboo unless we make it.

 Dear Zephyrs,

Our time together was brief, but lingers, and there is love. I am sorry the memories of that time are blurry. I am sorry I didn’t share you with many people in my life. I’m sorry when I confuse your timelines, your due dates, how many weeks you were with me. I’m sorry I didn’t name you; I never learned your sex, that probably shouldn’t have mattered.     

-Carisa Coburn      

Carisa Coburn Pineda is from Costa Rica and the United States. She studied at Occidental College in Los Angeles, California and received degrees in Spanish Literature and English and Comparative Literary Studies. She received her Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing in Fiction from the University of Maryland, College Park. She lives in Burke, VA with her family and enjoys participating in her kids’ extra-curricular activities, taking walks with her dog Swiffer, and practicing the violin. She writes about language, culture, and loss. Carisa has work featured the Citron Review, Azahares Literary Magazine, Waterproof, a collection by O, Miami, The Write Launch, On the Run and forthcoming in an anthology.