The Closing of the Bones Part 2

Ok, so. I’m a little better rested and a little better equipped. I’m going to try to tell this shit.

Samantha invited me to her beautiful little garden cottage in the woods, where she and her mentor Bernadett had prepared the space for the ceremony. I was fawning over the five 8 week old kittens when a tiny woman with long gray hair stepped barefoot through the grass to greet me. Bernadett didn’t seem to mind that I was too wrapped up with the kittens to make a proper introduction.

I am a product of my field and there were several things about this that were unfamiliar to me. First, I would never in a million years invite a client into my home. That’s just not what we do. And while I knew that this wasn’t the same thing as what I do for people I wasn’t sure exactly what it was going to be. So I didn’t know what the boundaries were and in mental health boundaries are the difference between service and abuse. And second, it is just spectacularly difficult for me to dismantle my Helping Professional Skeleton and allow myself to fold into someone else’s hands. I became a therapist because of a childhood of fear and helplessness where the only thing about me that seemed valuable was my ability to emotionally support the adults around me, and I have made a career out of Keeping It Together so that I could go to work and do what I do. Letting other people take care of me feels really deeply fucking weird.

Samantha has a Womb Room. No fucking lie. She painted it a deep bloody raspberry color and put a futon mattress on the floor, and that’s where she does her work. I sat down in the Womb Room with Bernadett and told her that I felt weird, that being the Helped instead of the Helper is an itchy kind of stretch for me, and that I didn’t really know what the fuck I was doing there. She just smiled.

She started with a massage. It was an easy thing for me to wrap my head around – you lie down, someone works on your muscles, you relax. I’m totally familiar with that protocol. It was a mind-blowingly fucking awesome massage like nothing I’ve ever gotten on a spa table, and because I was on a futon mattress on the floor I could hear and feel her moving around my body – crouching, lifting, using her small body to move mine in this really visceral way. I had to struggle with an insane reflex to worry that she might put her back out. What? Yes. That was in my head. I am kind of bad at this.

One of the lasts things she did were my feet. There is a crescent-moon sliver of my instep that is always fairly painful when someone rubs it, but it was off-the-hizzy painful this time. As she was finishing up I asked her if she knew why this might be.

She hadn’t spoken much up till that point. At my words she knelt by my head and said, “I don’t really know your story, but I think that whatever you’ve been through must have been really, really intense. Every single one of your muscles is holding pain in a tonic state, and I don’t think you even know that it’s happening. You’ve had to hold it together.”

So I told her the story. About this being number 5, about being stuck in a foreign country where they wouldn’t take the baby out of me but wouldn’t let me take it home, about going anyway and getting off the plane and going to the hospital and waking up the next day stripped and hollowed and confounded with no aftercare to speak of. About stepping immediately back into life with a 3 year old foster child and a husband who just wanted the whole thing to be over and done with while my body screamed, while my breasts ached and my ligaments stiffened and my uterus shrank and my hormones fermented in disarray and chaos. My eyes were closed as I spoke and my tears flowed down the sides of my face, and I felt her reach out and wipe them with such gentleness that it startled me. I opened my eyes and saw that she was crying too.

“No humane culture would do this to their women”, she said, her eyes streaming. “No humane people would leave their women alone to deal with this.”

I lost track for a bit after that. Her kindness, the truth of her words, the reckoning of it was too much to take in for a while.

After some time, Samantha came back in and announced that all five of the kittens had congregated outside under the windowsill just inches from our feet. She and Bernadett chatted and prepared, spreading black and purple shawls beneath my hips and shoulders. When they were ready Bernadett held my hand. I don’t remember the exact words but she asked me if I was ready to give thanks and let go, to close the open place that had been made in my body and let myself be knit back together.

And all of a sudden I panicked. For the first time I realized that I wasn’t ready. You think you’re ready, because you think of it in terms of wanting to feel better. But it seemed like she was asking if I was ready to let go of my baby, and all of a sudden my whole being rebelled.

We lose them. They fall from our bodies or are scraped out from our insides, and we lose them. We are asked to move on.  At 9, 10, 11 weeks we are told that these creatures are not alive enough to take seriously and we are expected to keep walking, to tend to the bleeding and the cramping and the aching as though they are the symptoms of a virus that has now been flushed out. Our bodies know different.

My face crumpled and I shook with sobs that threatened to split me apart. In an instant Bernadett was lifting up my torso, folding me over my thighs and holding my body as it quaked and shattered. I remember her saying something like, “Let it go, let it be strong, let it be tall and loud and strong.” Samantha was at my other side, bracing my body for the impact of grief, one arm across my chest and the other at the back of my neck the way you hold someone who is vomiting, or choking, or giving birth. Bernadett threaded one arm under my knees and cradled me like a baby, and I could hear her sobbing too, saying again “No sane people would leave their women this way.” And my heart and my chest and my belly all thundered with rage and loss and a wordless, helpless grief.

And then there were words, two words, although they barely choked past all the thunder. I didn’t think anyone would hear them and frankly I didn’t even think I had the right to say them, but out they came.

“My baby.” 

In all this time, in all these deaths, I had never mourned my baby.

It was hardly intelligible, but Bernadett heard me. Her surprisingly strong arms lifted me and she said, “Were you home when your baby came out of you? Did they show it to you? Did you get to see it?” I spluttered that I was under when it happened but they’d told me in Ireland that it was 9 weeks when it died. She spread out my palm and in the slick wash of tears and snot that coated it, with the soft pad of her finger she traced the size and shape of my baby in my hand. “This is how big. This was a tiny person. This was your baby.”

She put my baby into my hands. No one in all the world and in all this time had ever let me have my baby in my hands.

I am weeping freely as I write this. I don’t think I will ever find the end of my gratitude for that small act.

At some point my sobbing slowed, my breath regulated, my body went limp. I was ready.

The Closing of the Bones is wordless. It’s like a muscular combination of a Thunder Shirt and being born. The practitioners wrap each of 7 areas of the body with a long rectangular shawl, a rebosa, and pass the ends to each other to form a knot that they tighten and secure with the ends under their knees. It starts with your head and eyes, then your shoulders and arms, then your upper belly from your armpits to your navel, then your pelvis from your navel to your thighs, then your knees and lower legs, then your feet. Each space is held for an undetermined amount of time – at some point drifting in and out of the now I began to wonder what the signal was, how they knew to release me and move on. When they get to your feet they start back up again, ending with your head and eyes. They spend a LOT of time on your pelvis.

With each passage I could hear the two women breathing, could feel a hand pressed to my heart or the space above my pubic bone, and I gave my body permission to let go of all the walls, all the fake alrightness, the places in my hip joints where my babies have been hiding and grieving in silence. I realized that I had held on to them because I believed no one understood at a cellular level that they existed, that they mattered. These two women believed that my babies mattered, so it was finally safe for me to let them seep out of my bones and into hands that loved them.

When it was over, after I’d held their hands and wept wordlessly, my tears filling my ears and all my language washed away, I sat up and asked for a kitten.

It seemed like the right thing. “You should have them on hand, like after-dinner mints,” I said through my snot.

Sam didn’t question it and went looking. She came back with the mommy kitty instead. “All the babies were gone from under the window, but the mommy was just waiting for me.”

Mommy’s name is Juniper. She is slight and slim with splashes of pure black in artistic patterns across her pure white fur. She is barely a year old – a teen mommy. Samantha told us that Juniper held her hand with both paws while she gave birth to five kittens. Sam put her down on the mattress purring, and she made her way to the rebosa covering my feet and curled up. She fixed me with green eyes and vibrated my feet till the bones shook, never looking away. As my senses adjusted and the world returned to me she relaxed, spread herself across my ankles and just luxuriated in the absorbent way that cats have, like “Go ahead, let the poison go. I’ve got ultrasonic amplifiers in here, I can break that shit up like a kidney stone.”

So that’s what happened. I’m still working on what it means, if not for me then for all the women I know who have been denied this and didn’t even know it was an option. Didn’t even know they had a right to it. I’m sure I’ll be writing a lot more about that in days to come, and I am honored and excited to say that I’ll be working on some collaboration and networking with Samantha and Bernadett to lift the signal. Some shit needs to change here.

Goodnight and love.





18 thoughts on “The Closing of the Bones Part 2

  1. Wow. What an experience. Thanks for sharing. I’m so glad that you found someone who could create the space you need for healing.

  2. I will echo: wow. So beautiful, so painful. I’m so glad you found this. I so glad you shared this. So much love and gratitude to you.

  3. angelisar says:

    Wow. What an important and profound experience. I am so glad that you were held in this space by these women. Her words rang so true ““No humane culture would do this to their women”, “No humane people would leave their women alone to deal with this.” Your baby, yes. Oh, Gillian, it’s quite extraordinary that you can share this with such honesty and grace. Love to you, my friend.

  4. katherinea12 says:

    I’m sorry for the loss of your baby.

    Thank you for sharing this incredible experience, because I never knew something like this was even available to those of us who have miscarried. Thank you, because when you talked about what Bernadett said, that no humane culture would do this to their women, well, it’s a really healing thing to hear. And think about. Because it’s true.

  5. hollye7916 says:

    Thank you so much for sharing that intense experience with us. I’m bawling here for you and not necessarily out of sadness but a strange feeling of mixed grief and hope?

    It sounds like it was immensely helpful for you. I’m glad you found them!

  6. My goodness this made me cry. Glad you have someone to help you heal x

  7. Missing Noah says:

    I sobbed reading this. It is beautiful and heartbreaking. I wish there had been something like this for me with our losses. So many hugs to you. I’m glad you found acknowledgement and release.

  8. Caro says:

    So glad you found this and it helped you. I was sobbing as I read it. More than 4 years since my last miscarriage and 8 years since my first I can still remember the tears pouring down my cheeks as they put me under in the hospital. If only something like this was available for us all.

  9. JustHeather says:

    I am so sorry for the loss of your babies.
    Thank you for sharing this powerful experience with us. I cried right through reading it. I hope you, Samantha and Bernadett make some changes that you want and can!

  10. Mali says:

    That was wonderful – the ceremony and the women and your telling of it too. I wept, I will admit, and it has been years since I have wept over my losses. I was lucky to find that acknowledgement and support and ability to grieve on-line, but I never got it in real life, and that might have been helpful too. Being heard is so important. And you were heard (and are being heard now). I hope that, whilst it won’t take away the pain completely, it helps.

  11. Riley says:

    I also sobbed, particularly at the part where you got to hold your baby in your hands. I never realized how much I wanted that too. I FEEL your pain in the way you write so beautifully. Something that helped me (that was totally counterintuitive to me) when I had my first loss at 12.5 weeks was naming the baby. I had been trying so hard to push it all away, but was still crying everyday four months later. So I did it…it felt right to honor her and stop pretending she never existed.
    I hope you find healing of this immense sea of pain. Your story from abroad has haunted me since you posted it.

    I’ll just briefly add that I am a psychologist, and never once was it ever mentioned in any class, supervision, internship, postdoc…nowhere how to help women through infertility, miscarriage, stillbirth etc. We need training in order to offer help. These women could do a lot of good for a lot of people.

  12. valeryvalentina says:

    here from the Roundup.
    our therapist at least knew we needed a ritual. We had to invent one ourselves. As much as I dreaded it, I’m glad we did it.
    It helped so much to have a (nick)name, and to promise each other we wouldn’t forget.
    If you want to read my post about it, I’ll look it up for you.

  13. Polly says:

    Lost your site for awhile but found a link back to it and just caught up on your last several posts. Wow. Too emotional about it all to say much other than you have a true gift with writing and your experiences are helping others. If you ever feel up to it, write a book – it’ll sell, for sure.

  14. Reblogged this on My Life As A Case Study and commented:
    I don’t know where you’ve gone, Schrodinger, but I still think about this post. To my ladies who have suffered losses and repeat losses, what do you think about this ceremony “The closing of the bones” as a ritual post-loss? I think it’s painfully beautiful. XOXO

  15. […] CLOSING OF THE BONES, PART 2  […]

  16. I appreciate this – and you – so much. Thank you for your honesty, candor, and bravery to post this publicly. You’ve helped me find answers I didn’t know I was looking for, tonight.

    Love and gratitude. Xx

  17. […] purposes. Here is the first part, which kind of explains where I was at, and here is the second part, which talks about the healing. I was also honored to record a podcast about the experience with […]

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