I saw my first husband John twice over the last month. The first time, I woke up in the middle of
the night to the smell of a campfire. I
turned to my left and and there lay John right beside me. I admit this stunned me at first, seeing my
late husband in bed beside myself and my husband Tristan. That's a lot of husband juggling. Yes you can laugh. He looked exactly as I remembered him. He even smelled the same, like sweat and
burning wood. I reached out and touched
him and he felt warm on my hands. I
pulled away at first, wondering if I was just so deep in a dream that I
couldn’t grasp what was real and what wasn’t.
I reached out again and he was still there, as solid as could be. John to my left and Tristan to my right. I left my hand on his chest this time, I
could feel his chest rising and falling, I could even feel his heart
beating. Upon realizing that he wasn’t
fading away just yet, I inched in closer and wrapped my arms around his
chest. John wrapped his arms tightly
around me, and we just laid there in silence, both of us rising and falling to
the deep breathes coming from his chest. All this occurring while snuggled tightly against Tristan. One may question if this was OK, a strange situation like this one, but I
felt content, snuggled between two men that I love. It didn’t feel wrong at the time, oddly, it
felt normal. I recognized this as
another rare and unique visit from him that would soon fade. One that I would look back on when I
needed to.
A few days later I woke up in the early hours of the morning
again to the smell of burning wood. I
looked to my right and there was John again, this time standing on our balcony
just outside of our bedroom. His hands
were in his pockets, and he was just staring at me. He had a look of concern, yet John was always
so stoic, even in the most care free moments, he could look serious. I rubbed my eyes and looked again, he was
still there, looking right at me. We’ve
had a few encounters like this over the years, I don’t know if it happens to be
two different dimensions somehow colliding, but I have been lucky enough to
find John in the wee hours of the morning in a stare down every now and then. I am always happy to stare back, wondering what it is he needs to say.
You know your husband is about as rock solid as they come when you inform him that the two of you possibly shared a bed and snuggle the other night with your previous husband and he doesn't even bat an eye. Tristan Borgeson is a solid human being.
A few days later, I witnessed a man approach his death right
after getting off the river. It was a
beautiful day on the Gauley that ended in a very steep and strenuous hike. This young man collapsed shortly after finishing this climb. When it became clear that he was not
going to make it, and that his heart was going to get the better of him, I
found myself calling out to John and asking him to come help this person. While they didn’t know each other, they both
had a deep love for the river we had just paddled. I don’t know what happens when we leave our
bodies, but I’d like to imagine that someone is there to guide you to the next
phase. I’m not sure if my John had that. A few days after John's death, he
appeared in my doorway in the middle of the night, still draped in his kayak
gear. He looked sad and confused. This broke my heart at the time, for whatever
he was going through, whatever transition was taking place, I could not help
him. I was frozen, separated from where he was, as if a see through wall was placed between us. I didn’t want that for this man, so
I asked John to come help him.
The next day I went kayaking with my husband Tristan and
some close friends. I could not get this
man out of my head and what he went through at the
end. I had heard many locals say what a
nice person he was and how loved he was by the river community. I was struggling with understanding why
things like this happen to young people like him, and once again revisiting why John lost his life at such a young age. About mid-way through this run, I came
through one of the harder rapids and just to the left on the river bank, two
blue herons stood side by side. As I
locked eyes with these beautiful birds, the two in unison took off and flew
down to the next rapid. Those two herons
stayed together and flew ahead of our group the rest of the way. As I'd approach each rapid, they'd watch, then fly ahead, waiting for us to arrive to the next rapid. As I made it to the take-out and slid my boat into the sand, I watched the two one last time fly off together until they disappeared around the bend.
A few weeks later, I found out I was pregnant for
the second time. We felt like this time
was going to be different. It was going much smoother, until it wasn’t anymore. I don’t think I allowed myself to attach to
this one the way I did the first time, but it still felt like my lungs were
being squeezed shut upon finding out we would lose this one too and there is
nothing we could do to reverse that. I
feel sad, ashamed, even somewhat embarrassed about the whole situation. I’ve reclused to my house in the woods for
the last few days, throwing myself into work and a serious heating pad while
the gauntlet throws down in my uterus.
I was even asked earlier this week if Tristan and I
have kids, and then given the full talk on how wonderful it is when I told them
we did not. I wondered how this person
would feel if I said, “You know, we have two.
One that about exploded in my Fallopian tube a few months ago and one
that is making it’s exit from my uterus as we speak. We could not be more proud.” Too far?
Through all of this, we had the mid-term
elections as well as everyone knows. My state voted yes for Amendment 1. When a pregnancy is ectopic, the pregnancy must be terminated, because the mother’s life is at stake and the baby cannot survive in the tube. I will be in and out of more ultra sounds and blood work every 48 hours for the next week, maybe longer, just to ensure that this one is not once again stuck in my tube which requires immediate surgery. Believe me, knowing that you have no choice
but to end your pregnancy because that pregnancy can kill you is punishing
enough. If there was anyway at all that
my kid could have survived, even if it meant something debilitating for me, I
would have done it without any thought. Having no option but to end that pregnancy months ago is something I have to live with for the rest of
my life. No woman can forget that. The possibility of my insurance
not covering it, or it even being in debate, I can’t wrap my brain around that. I hope no woman has to face that.
I’m writing about this not because I want your sympathy or
any kind of political debate. To each their own. Women
don’t talk about this enough and I need to talk about it. I think
many women feel scared and alone through their miscarriage and through the
termination of any pregnancy. Women go to work while this is happening, carry on conversations and forced smiles, take care of other children while they feel like their insides are in a boxing match and they can feel that soul leaving them. I'd love to see women feel completely empowered to share their stories so others can be more informed, so both sides can listen to each other. Even with
Tristan by my side through every step of the way, what seems to help the most
through these two losses, is hearing from other women that have gone through
this. I’ve heard stories that are so
much worse than mine. Women that have
lost 3, 4, 5 pregnancies; women that simply can’t have children; women that
have tried for years and years with no luck. One of my dear friends almost lost her life over an ectopic pregnancy. I know women that have had to deliver still born babies. That is not my story. I consider myself one of the luckier ones. I actually can get pregnant pretty easily, so far, I just can't seem to keep them. My heart hurts with these women, and I also admire them for sharing their stories with me.
My late husband John
seems to come see me when things are coming in my life, both good and bad.
I think he likes to remind me that he’s still here, just around the bend, and
all is well. Thank you John. Tristan and I will keep trying, because
that’s all we can do. That's all any couple can do that is struggling with this. As Dory says in Finding Nemo, "just keep swimming." We'll keep speaking to that and putting the intention out there to the universe.
When we become parents, and we will, I'll go back to those rare and unique visits from John and thank him. When he visits, I'll note it, staying present with whatever is coming our way. Maybe next time I’m on the river, I’ll look for three herons. I'd like to imagine that John was there for both of ours, moving on ahead of us, but really just around the bend. To all the women out there, I hope you just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming.
