Mayim Rabim

I had a miscarriage Rosh Chodesh Adar. Ironic, isn't it? The Jewish month of joy, the new moon, Ash Wednesday, Chinese New Year...any way you slice it, it was a big day.

I was at the end of my first trimester. The time when finally parents-to-be cautiously breathe a sigh of relief that the most fragile third of the pregnancy has been successfully navigated. The time when family & friends may be privileged to hear the good news of an immanent new baby Jew.

Instead of sharing this news with the excitement and awe that we had been looking forward to on that day, we buried our fetus, along with its placenta, under a sapling. The hopes for our first child crushed. We really wanted this baby. No ritual or name for this little one, yet its early departure left me with the status of a yoledet - a woman who has recently given birth - according to Jewish Law. Which means that if we ever manage to conceive another child & it is a boy, that my husband, who is of the Israelite class, will not be allowed to perform pidyon haben. This makes sense to me, as the "first born" is the one who opens the womb initially. And this child did just that. A blindingly painful 5 hours of contractions, nausea & chaos. But not really. I delivered the entire contents of my womb on my own, thank G-d, and the only medical advice I received was, "Don't stick anything inside you for two weeks".

Well, being an Orthodox couple, we knew that a yoledet bears a longer period of nidah from her husband than a woman who has only experienced her menses. There was no way we could be intimate again for at least the next two weeks anyway, on religious grounds. And to be honest, I was feeling very protective of myself "down there", so was in no hurry.

I needed time to grieve our loss, as did my husband. And to deal with this flow of blood that signals death. One of the reasons given for a woman to go to mikvah before she unites with her husband is that she is brought so close to death by her cycle. Whether it is the loss of an ovum or a stillbirth child, G-d forbid, she must ready herself for intimacy by counting a minimum amount of time after her blood & then returning to another womb of sorts.

The mikvah is like going home. Like both your Father and your Mother enveloping you - but not your Earthly parents, The Supernal Aba & Ema. G-d.

The blood never seemed to stop. I felt like I was dying, but I knew it was just my fears there there might be something wrong with me. I confided in my friend Ariellah, who said, "How do you know that this wasn't just a very high soul who visited you temporarily because it needed to do a last little bit of teshuvah? How do you know that this Being did not find joy in you while you held it within you?" I wept.

As my breasts & belly shrank, I brought confusion and anger into my davenen. I had said a special prayer, traditional to Medieval Italian Jewish women, to protect myself & my pregnancy from any disaster. It hadn't worked. There were no answers. I didn't know what to do with my agony or questions, so I gave them all to G-d.

I tried so hard to focus on the things I had to be thankful for each time I threw myself on the bed & cried. I was so disappointed. But my womb did its job, B"H, and I did not hemorrage, B"H, and I did not require a D&C, B"H, and I was never in any physical danger, B"H, and my doctor is not concerned about my body. She is only very sorry for me.

During the "white" days I dreaded the bedikat. I didn't want to see any blood because I wanted to feel like I was healing and yet seeing the wrong color would assure me that I could postpone intimacy, that I could remain cloistered in my private grief. I hated all the counting & all the rules, which I had never hated before, because I just wanted to be free and on my own and not have any externally applied boundaries to my process of letting go and coming around.

Mikvah night came, "finally". I was full of mixed feelings during my preparation, partly because I wasn't sure if I felt emotionally ready to share a bed with my husband quite yet, as wonderful and supportive as he had been during this difficult time. My body seemed ready, though, showing me that I was already ovulating again. Eager to risk another miscarriage, or possibly a living child.

I was extra scrupulous in the tub, as it would be Shabbos when I immersed. I had never done tevilah on Shabbos, so I checked with the mikvah lady ahead of time about what extra or different or special things I would need to do or be aware of during my prep & while in the water. She reminded me to floss before candle lighting and to be more careful about my hands and feet. She also asked me to tie my hair back with an elastic after I had combed everything out, as knots in hair could not be unsnarled after Shabbos and those disqualify the tevilah. She was very nice about it.

I arrived at the mikvah and she let me in happily. She was 8 months pregnant. I tried not to feel jealous. I don't want to put the ayin hara on her or her baby. We wished each other a Shabbat Shalom and she showed me into one of the changing rooms so I could undress. "Don't worry," she said with a smile, "it's really fast on Friday night, because there's nothing for you to do."

I came out into the light in my towel for her to check me over. She said I looked pretty, which was very sweet of her. Then we went into the mikvah room and I stood in front of the steps. Such a beautiful, sacred place where all my fears, my shortcomings, my veneers of Self, of Ego which cover my neshamah get washed away each cycle. A place I used to be so eager to visit and now, not so much. As she closed the door behind her I suddenly broke down in sobs.

"Aw, are you okay?" she asked as she came over with a sympathetic look on her face.
"No," I answered through my tears, "I'm here because I had a miscarriage, so I was just hoping that I would not have had to come back to the mikvah this early. I'm sorry - I didn't think I would do this."
She gave me a great big hug, her with her great big belly & me in my white cotton towel. She looked me in the eye reassuringly & told me that this was a new beginning. She was right. I thanked her for reminding me.

I gave her my towel and descended into the warm, healing waters. The soft swirling whisper they made as they surrounded me was comforting. Because it was Shabbos, I dunked one time "for my shower" that normally I would take when I arrived at the mikvah on a chol day. Then a second time as usual. she pronounced it kosher. So I reached for the cloth to put on my head, crossed my arms in front of me and said the berachah with very narrow focus. After her "ameyn", I went under three more times.

Once with the hope that G-d would heal my body and soul so that I would be ready and able to birth a living, surviving child one day, drowning my tears and washing them away.

"Kosher."

Once with the request that G-d would help my husband and me through our sadness and strengthen our marriage from this crisis.

"Kosher."

Then one final time that I be enabled to make myself and my work and the way I am in the world all one, doing G-d's will.

"Kosher."

May this be the will of the Holy one, HaKadosh baruch Hu.
A new beginning.
Yeysh mey-ayin.