There have been times I have wished
I could scrape the loss of you
out of the marrow of my bones.
But to do so would leave me with
osteoporosis of the soul.
And so you remain,
the sacred imprint of your name
etched on the matrices of my motherhood.


9 thoughts on “Animaeporosis

    • It ebbs and flows, doesn’t it Michelle? I wish there were some easier way through the dark pall adoption casts on a natural mother’s life, but there is no other way but to acknowledge and befriend these difficult truths. It is only then that we can find a way to embrace the gift such suffering bestows on a woman.

  1. Sad day today. Last night I promised my mother I would never contact her again. I’ve already made the same promise to my father and his family. It hurts so bad today, but I’ll get over it. My parents don’t care if they ever see me or my 4 children again.

    • Marylee –

      This makes me gasp out loud and tears come to my eyes – how can anyone be so broken as to not want to know their child or grandchildren? I don’t get it.

      I am so sorry for your double-loss and for your children’s loss, too. What a great tragedy for everyone involved. I am so very sorry you were not received with the warmth and love you deserved and desired. If I were with you right now, I would wrap my arms around you and let you cry for as long as you need. Then I would get up and make your family some bread and fold your laundry before I went home (that’s the Mormon in me coming out – we can’t do any kind of helping without food and cleaning being involved).

      Sending love and healing your way –


    • Everyone –

      I remember those days, the days of wishing and hoping for numbness and forgetting, of looking for something, someone, ANYTHING to help anesthetize me from the searing pain. You are still less than a year out from entering the path of the natural mother – be gentle with yourself. And when you can’t be gentle with yourself, send me an email and I will do what I can to help you find your way back to compassion.

      Twenty years in, I think I have finally entered that space where I can say I am grateful that I cannot forget my daughter, I am grateful for the lessons this suffering has taught me. To say this does not mean I am “OK” with the loss of my daughter, but that I can see how the attendant grief and despair has helped me become a better me. (Still, I would trade this version of me to have my daughter back in my life again, but there are things I cannot control and that is one of them).

      I read your blog but I have not commented on it because of the pain in my hands and my silly-putty brain (from the pain meds I am on to help control the neuralgia and exposed mesh in my lady parts). My heart aches for you. Whereas my grief has become familiar and almost predictable to me, you are still trying to navigate all of those first-year anniversaries. What can I do to support you through this process from where I am?


  2. Pingback: And Yet, I am Still Told to “Get Over” Her | Letters to Ms. Feverfew

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