My Miscarriage Story

photo by Bobby Gordon

photo by Bobby Gordon

Hello community,

I am choosing to share more details of my recent miscarriage in this blogpost, in the hopes that it may provide healing for me and anyone who has gone or might be going through something similar. 

I had a 10-week pregnancy and a 14-week miscarriage. 

The physical and psychological toll these events have taken on me has been tremendous. But I have been finding that there is much healing to be found in sharing grief with others.

Pregnancy loss continues to be a mysterious and taboo subject for many people. One of the hardest parts of my miscarriage has been how little information is out there to orient folks going through this experience. Not just the physical/medical aspect of it (though that part is extremely important), but the emotional, mental and spiritual dimensions as well. 

I am so grateful that I was pregnant.

That I was blessed with mothering the spirit I grew in my womb for the amount of time I had her.

That I was introduced to a new dimension of love, grief, and being that I did not know was possible, one that has made me feel so humbly and delicately human. 

I am still very much in my healing journey. Still testing the waters of how much I can and want to handle at the moment. But right now, sharing my story in this way, this amount, feels right.

If you feel called to read this, please do so with an open heart. And if you feel called to respond, please honor this loss and refrain from statements that begin with “at least” (at least you’re young and you can try again, at least you know you can get pregnant, etc). Feel free to share this with anyone who you think might find this helpful. 

My heart goes to anyone struggling through their own miscarriage story, whether you are in the midst of it now or it happened to you years ago. It is a sacred journey. It is your own. 

With breath & carinho, 

Marina


***

I found out I was pregnant on Mother’s Day, May 10, 2020. 

I was terrified, elated, and everything in between. My husband, Bobby, and I had been talking about building our family for a few years now, and I was finally feeling ready. Our baby would be due January 14, 2021, and already we were excitedly thinking of names, buying baby clothes and downloading pregnancy tracking apps. Getting to tell our friends and family this special news (coinciding with the week of my 32nd birthday) were some of the happiest moments I have experienced in my life. 

We went to our first doctor’s visit on the 10th week of my pregnancy. Bobby had brought his fancy camera, wanting to document this historic moment in our lives when we would get to hear our baby’s heartbeat for the very first time. When the doctor said she could not find the heartbeat, Bobby immediately stopped taking pictures. 

She said, “I’m afraid I don’t have good news...”

I felt Bobby reach for my hand, and the rest became a blur. 

I remember hearing the doctor say that this was normal. That 1 in 3 pregnancies result in miscarriages. That she had gone on to deliver healthy babies for countless women after their miscarriages. That I had several options on how to have my miscarriage, but yes it would be quite painful. That, even if it wasn’t hitting me now, I should expect to feel very sad in the coming days. She was extremely sweet and caring, and when she saw me starting to cry she had me take off my COVID mask so I could breathe better. She patted my knee and treated me like a human being, not just another patient diagnosis. When she left the room, Bobby and I crumbled. We held each other and cried in a way we had never done before. On our drive home, I called my family to let them know the appointment had not gone well. I could barely get the words out.

That was June 18.

I spent the next weeks in the deepest heartbreak I have ever experienced. My baby had died, but my body still thought I was pregnant. I was still fatigued and nauseous, waiting for my body to recognize the truth, to release my baby from me. I could have had a surgery, I could have induced it, but I chose to wait and follow my body’s natural rhythm. It took another 4 weeks for the bleeding to start. 

In that time, my body became a walking tomb. 

My womb housed life and then it housed death.

And I felt my spirit somewhere in between, in a deep dark space I didn’t even know existed. 

My contractions finally started July 13, slow and mild, but after 3 days of cramps and hardly any bleeding I decided to take medication to speed up the process. If I had known what that would have been like, perhaps I would have waited longer. Within an hour of taking the medication my mild cramps had escalated to full-blown contractions I was nowhere near prepared for, and for the next 7 hours I endured the worst pain I had ever felt. I bled and bled and bled. I watched my baby’s remains leave my body. I ached and vomited and cried and tried to catch my baby’s remains in a jar and sang for Iemanjá and Oxum over and over because that was the only thing that kept me sane. My midwife convinced me (after much patient pleading) to get in the bathtub and run warm water on my lower back, which I did for hours. My husband had me on a steady and meticulously calculated schedule of half a dozen pain meds the entire night. I stopped counting the number of times we almost got in the car to go to the hospital, the pain bordering on unmanageable for what felt like an interminable amount of time.

By early morning, my contractions had eased.

But still I bled. 

I went on to bleed for 10 more weeks. 


***

What I had is medically called a “missed miscarriage”, when the body takes a long time (up to months in some cases) to start bleeding, i.e. miscarrying, once the baby dies in the womb. They are fairly common as far as miscarriages go, though rarely talked about or depicted in media, making it an even lesser known experience in the already extremely taboo conversation of pregnancy loss. 

The limited amount of information around pregnancy loss has been one of the most daunting parts of my miscarriage experience. 

I was told by medical professionals to expect so many different things that never panned out. That I could start miscarrying within a few hours or days (I didn’t, it took 5 weeks). That the pain of the miscarriage would feel like severe period cramps (it didn’t, it felt like full-blown labor). That the bleeding after the miscarriage would most likely last 2-3 weeks (it didn’t, it lasted 10 weeks). That I should expect to feel sad for a while (I didn’t just feel sad, I struggled with postpartum depression and anxiety for months). 

This is not to say that such scenarios don’t happen for other people—in the many blog posts and chat forums I scoured, many described experiencing some version of these things—but being outside of what’s considered “normal” by the medical establishment, at virtually all stages of my miscarriage, became a constant source of anxiety and worry for me. As warm and considerate as my OBGYN was, the most useful information I received came from my incredible team of local holistic healers and other women & people who bravely shared their own miscarriage stories. 

These stories spanned a universe of different experiences…

Folks whose miscarriages lasted a few hours and went right back to work the next day; who opted for surgeries that didn’t go well and had to come back for 2nd and 3rd procedures over the span of many months; who experienced suicidal ideation as a result of their miscarriage; who were relieved and even happy when they miscarried; who miscarried up to 7 times before carrying their babies to term; and who never again tried having children because the fear of miscarriage was too great. 

I have learned to make space for all these experiences— to affirm all of them as true and valid— and know, deep down, that mine is as well.   


***

I found out I was pregnant on Mother’s Day. 

The serendipity of it felt like magic. Cosmic affirmation. Divine alignment.  

When I found out I was miscarrying, I felt angry for a long time. Like I had been cheated into thinking this was meant to be, only to have it ripped away from me. 

I was mad at my altar. Mad at my ancestors and orixás and prayers. At my candles and crystals and sage. Everything and anything that made me think this was a blessing.   

It was not. 

It was pain like I had never felt before. And all I could do was rage.

I remember one day my midwife telling me, with such care and tenderness, 

“This too is in divine alignment. Someday you’ll see that.” 

I remember not believing her. 

But she was right. 

Learning to see that is the bravest thing I have ever done. 


***

Three months later, I am still harvesting so many gifts and lessons from my miscarriage.

Learning to see myself as a mother, even though I have no baby to show for it.

Learning to be grateful for my postpartum body, softer and heavier than I have ever known it to be. Feeling it slow me down enough so I could tend to my healing. 

Learning that it is possible to spend months feeling like your body has betrayed you, convinced you won’t ever be able to trust it again, and still come back. Finding joy and movement and rhythm, ever so slowly, ever so tenderly.

There is also something about learning from darkness that I am still striving to find words for… 

The darkness of giving birth to death.

Of straddling earth and spirit world for months on end.

Of severing from your body, only to be closer to your baby. Or maybe God.

It is devastatingly sacred… “a darkness as much of the womb as of the grave.”*

I am learning that this darkness makes (re)birth possible.  


***

I want to end this blogpost by sharing the information of the many pregnancy loss-related articles, platforms, communities, and health workers who I had the good fortune of coming across. These resources provided me with vital information, care, and community during some of my most vulnerable moments.

I hope they do the same for you in your time of need. 


ARTICLES

PLATFORMS & COMMUNITIES

HEALTH WORKERS & HEALERS

(note— most are Los Angeles-based, all are open to virtual consultations)

  • Raquel Lemus— Licensed Full Spectrum Midwife & Community Partera, Peristeam Hydrotherapist, Placenta Specialist, and Pre/Postpartum Yoga Instructor

  • Zhaleh Boyd— Intuitive Healer & Herbalist, Organ Readings and Pelvic Steam Consultations

  • Dr. Elena Esparza— Chiropractic, Nutrition, Herbal & Energetic Medicine

  • Marisa Reyes— Mayan Womb Massage & Vaginal Steaming

  • Andrea Penagos— Licensed Acupuncturist, Herbalist & Reiki Healer

  • Andrea Valencia— Licensed Acupuncturist, Herbalist & Yoga Instructor

  • Ana Paula Duarte— Licensed Acupuncturist & Herbalist

  • Erica Rey— Ayurvedic Practitioner, Herbalist & Healing Justice Consultant

  • Parijat Deshpande— High Risk Pregnancy Specialist & Somatic Trauma Professional

  • Ana María Delgado— Trauma-Informed Yoga Instructor

  • Aline França— Postpartum Doula & Maternal Health Consultant (based in Brasília, Brazil— all services available in Portuguese) 

  • Jo Iraheta— Co-Founder of SOMOS: Plants, Ideas & Café, Hair Nourishment & Plant Medicine

On this final note, I want to take a moment and say a special heartfelt thank you to my midwife and querida amiga, Raquel Lemus. Raquel was the only person—outside of my immediate family—that I spoke to for the majority of my miscarriage, which spanned almost 4 months. She paid me home visits, generously set me up with my own vaginal steaming chair, taught my husband how to make my herbal teas, led me through yoga, breathing, and meditation, and coached me through, not only the physical dimension of my miscarriage, but the heart-break and heart-mend as well. She lovingly asked me, “how is your heart?” in all of our conversations, and honored my grief as sacred and important. She wisely told me that miscarrying was the same as going into labor, that I would enter the same spiritual and energetic channel as any other mother giving birth. And I needed to prepare for that in a very real way.  I don’t think I’ll ever find the appropriate words to thank her for the guidance and support she provided us with... for now, this will have to do. 

Deepest gratitude, mi querida Raquel.

*quote from Rebecca Solnit’s Hope in the Dark: Untold Histories, Wild Possibilities

How Am I Entangled In the Wake?

ocean banner.jpg

a ritual-improvisational score in response to Christina Sharpe’s “In The Wake: On Blackness and Being”

 

 (begin by greeting water. take time. sing canto para Iemanjá…)

awa aabo a yô

iemonja awa aabo a yô aia

aragbo ayô

iemonja aragbo ayô aia

iyaagba odê ire sê

a ki é iemonja

a koko pe ilé gbe a ô

odofi a sa we re ô

a sa we lé

a sa we lé odo fi a asa weleô

a sa we lé

a sa we lé odo fi a asa weleô

 

(continue greeting and noticing water, as I improvise some version of the below text…)

 
WHO IS IEMANJÁ

Iemanjá is the deity of the ocean in Yoruba West African-based religions. You find her in Nigeria, Cuba, Haiti, Brazil... she is the protector and mother of the seas. In countries surrounded by water she is everywhere. Iemanjá is the mother of all living things. She is unconditional love, the kind that goes as deep and vast as the ocean. She brings us consciousness, as the bearer of all life. Serene when she wants to be, deadly when she needs to be, she is the fierce protector. Her breasts are large and abundant, representing her ability to feed and nurture all her children...

(sing canto)


MY RELATIONSHIP TO IEMANJÁ

I’ve been making offerings to Iemanjá since I was little. On most New Year’s, going to the beach in Rio de Janeiro, wearing white and throwing palmas into the ocean. Not sure who, maybe my mother or Tia Zeneidinha, taught me to throw them. Throw some as gratitude, to thank Iemanjá for all her blessings the past year, and throw some as wishes, for what I’d like her to bring me the next year. Years upon years of thank you’s, wishes, offerings, palmas, e mais palmas...

I knew Iemanjá before I knew of orixá. Before I knew Iemanjá was an orixá, and that orixá (or orisha) is the name given to deities of Yoruba West African-based religions, like Candomblé in Brazil. African ancestry is everywhere in Brazil, sometimes so deeply encoded in daily life that people don’t realize what they’re looking at, who it comes from…

Brazil is the blackest country in the world outside of the African continent. It is the country with the largest population of black and African descendant people outside of the African continent. It is impossible to claim any kind of Brazilian identity without claiming some piece of blackness. There is no Brazil outside of blackness.

“All thought is black thought.”

(sing canto)


HISTORY OF SLAVERY IN BRAZIL

Brazil was the last country in the world to abolish transatlantic slavery in 1888. Instead of paying reparations to its black population, a way to lift people out of illiteracy and poverty, the government, composed of an entirely white Brazilian elite, thought it was best to encourage European and Japanese migrants to supplement the newly disappeared work force. Migrants from Portugal, Germany, Holland, Italy, and Japan came by the thousands during the 1900’s. Leaving black Brazilians to struggle in favelas (slums) and forgotten rural areas (o interior) across the country.

My family is a direct result of these racist laws.

On my mom’s side, ancestors immigrated from Germany and Portugal with this wave. On my dad’s side, Arab, African and indigenous ancestors mixed with lighter skinned one to fulfill on the promise of embranquecimento... embranquecer a raça (to whiten the race), melhorar a raça (to better the race).

In my family today we find traces of that history, in skin tones and hair textures, the way we call my hair “good hair” and my cousin’s curls “bad hair”, the way women in my family desperately dye their hair blonde, go on diets to make their butts smaller, how we dote on blonde blue eyed grandchildren because they are so beautiful...

(sing canto)

MARIELLE FRANCO

On March 14, 2018 City Councilwoman Marielle Franco was highjacked in her car and murdered in the middle of the street on her way home from a community organizing meeting. Marielle was from the Maré favela, the largest slum in the city of Rio. She was a black queer woman, the first in her family to get a college degree and the most voted for city council person in all of Rio’s history.

Marielle was a dear friend and close partner of Center for Theater of the Oppressed, who I’ve been working with for 7 years. I heard her speak on panels, captivate entire rooms of people. I saw her at events, meetings, hallways…

In 2016, President Dilma, the first woman president in Brazil, was illegally impeached and accused of false crimes without proof of evidence. And people would say to me “were lost, we’re doomed”. I would say, “no, we’re not. Look at Marielle”.

Last year Brazil elected Jair Bolsonaro as president, a fascist right-wing sexist racist homophob, who has publicly said, and I quote:

“the problem with the military dictatorship in Brazil is that they tortured people instead of killing them.”

“I’d rather have a dead son than a gay son.”

“You (talking to a fellow woman senator on the senator floor) don’t even deserve to be raped.”

Jean Wyllys, the second-ever openly gay politician in Brazilian history, had his life threatened so many times since Bolsonaro took office that he left his seat in Congress and fled the country. Marcia Tiburi, noted feminist scholar and writer, did the same. Both white Brazilians, fleeing for fear that what happened to Marielle would happen to them.

(sing canto)

 

WHITE-PASSING

To be a white-passing person of color in the United States is a weird thing.

Mostly people see you as whatever makes them feel more comfortable. One of my best friends, a Chicana from the Bay Area, once told me that just by looking at me, she’d never think I was white. To her, I was visibly Latina. A few months ago, my white Jewish mother-in-law told me she didn’t see me as a woman of color—because I am, in her words, “no different from her”. As a 14 yr old Brazilian girl whose family had just moved to the US via the white suburbs of Chicago, I had to learn quickly to make white people feel comfortable. It doesn’t surprise me my mother-in-law feels comfortable telling me this.

 

(sing canto)

I AM

I will not be white washed.

I am not white.

I am branca.

I am white passing.

I am mestiça.

I am Latinx.

I am entangled in the wake.

A Working Artist Statement

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I am an immigrant living in the third space between cultures. A practitioner of ancestral and post-modern dances. A movement healer and a movement organizer. A border-crosser and bridge-builder. A dance-and-change-maker.  

I follow in the footsteps of other artivistas who came before me, Latin American artist-activists who could not afford to ignore or separate themselves from their countries’ dire political conditions. Dona Ivone Lara, Eduardo Galeano, Augusto Boal, Gilberto Gil, Gloria Anzaldúa, Martha Gonzalez. Like them, my art is my activism; my activism is my art.

As a Latina immigrant based in the United States, I find myself at an intersection of social struggles—including racism, sexism, and xenophobia. My collaborators, students, mentors, and co-organizers are movement-builders responding to these realities, fighting for racial justice, intersectional feminism, LGBTQ rights, and rights for immigrants and undocumented people. My contribution to these social movements is a movement practice for liberation.

My commitment is to build a movement through movement.

A movement that honors the Afro-Ameríndio (African and indigenous) ancestry of Latin America—through streets dances (like Samba de Roda, Casino Rueda Salsa, Cumbia and Reggeaton) and the spiritual dances of the orishás (Yoruba-derived deities present in Afro-Latin religious practices throughout the diaspora).

A movement of diasporic play. At once fluid and grounded. Rhythmic and spacious. Subtle and expansive. Rigorous and free. Impossible to master and full of possibility.

A movement that embodies the de-colonial and radically inclusive vision that guides social justice movements. That generates valuable knowledge about how to be in the world. That has a creative and symbiotic relationship with its politics— allowing the politics to ground the craft and the craft to further the politics. 

Through performances, classes, and on-going organization alongside communities, I am dedicated to instigating, supporting, and sustaining this vision.

Marina Magalhães, Dance-maker, Santa Cruz, CA, 95064, United States
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