Tag Archives: stillbirth

Lifedeath

You know how aum — that most fundamental and potent seed (or bija) mantra — is made up of three sounds? As I understand it, the “Aaaaaaa…” is the sound of creation; “Uuuuuuu” represents the sustenance of that creation; and “Mmmmmm” the sound of destruction or the ending of creation. In other words, it’s the sound of death. I’ve noticed that often when I chant this mantra in groups, people seem to put a lot of emphasis on the first two sounds. Often the “mmmm” is truncated and, frankly, kinda weak sauce. For me, this is a perfect allegory for how many of us steeped in the deathphobia of Western modernity treat our own mortality, and endings in general. For this reason, I always make sure I leave plenty of breath in my lungs to close out my aum’s with a clear and humble: “Mmmmmmmmmm.”

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MEN-O-PAUSE

Today is officially Aerin’s MENOPAUSE DAY — at least according to western science or whatever. My last period ended one year ago yesterday, May 31st 2024. I only really know that because I happened to take a photo on June 2nd of the last menstrual blood I bled and will likely ever bleed.

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Ain’t No Normal

“Ain’t No Normal” was written for an online event/exploration in January, 2023 called What are We? as part of the Brave New Works festival. A group of friends came together to explore how disability and impairment are entangled with the construction of the ideal ‘human’. Learn more about the ongoing explorations and inquiries in the crip-queer landscape here. What follows is an edited version of the original piece.

My dear friends, I hate to break it to y’all but there ain’t no such thing as “normal.” If I turn the kaleidoscope of perception and begin relating with myself, other people and the other-than-human through this belief-lens, I destabilize one of the basic fundaments of ableism. I undermine its very logic: that there is some ideal human form that we should all be trying to squeeze ourselves into; that I have to smooth out and cover up my strange, rough edges or discombobulated mind. This also reminds me that there ain’t no “normal” way that I gotta talk about ableism or disability.

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Baby Hate and Other Non-Pretty Thoughts

I like to count things. Over the past four years and a half years I’ve become quite skilled at counting babies. I count months: “Oh, someone else had a living baby! During which month would he have been conceived?” I count weeks: “How many weeks would it have been since our last baby was born (if she had lived)?” I count days: “When I took that pregnancy test, how many days had passed since my period?” There’s something about counting that soothes my anxious mind; a mundane distraction from our troubled world. 

Now, let me count the number of times I’ve attempted to start writing this post: 5. The number of pages I’ve written below (without really saying anything at all): 3. The number of times I’ve had challenging thoughts about pregnant women, babies or mothers in general: innumerable. 

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Don’t Make Waves: Disappointment and Discomfort

I probably haven’t told you that I’m taking clown classes. Well, they’re not really classes, it’s more like a practice space where we get to know our inner clowns better. All of us have clowns within and I’ve seen how mine has so much to teach me! In one of our sessions we played with natural objects like dried flowers, bark and plants. We worked in pairs: one person pretended to be the object and as their clown partner interacted (sometimes in rude and curious ways) with the leaves or flowers, we imagined that our bodies were being manipulated in the same way. My natural object was a little succulent in an oversized coffee cup. It’s a fragile little guy and as I moved and touched it, many of its little leaf-nubs fell to the floor. Even wearing the hat and red nose of my curmudgeon clown, I soon found it impossible to be present in the exercise; I was obsessed with picking up the fallen pieces of the plant. It was unimaginable for me to leave that mess on the floor; even though, obviously, I could have cleaned it up later.

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The Tupperware® Tub

Bathtubs are a rarity in Oaxaca. I can count on one hand the number of tubs I’ve seen here in the past decade. Yet some years ago I decided I wanted to be able to immerse myself in water (at least partially) and partake in this healing and relaxing ritual from time to time. I went to the fancy, evil grocery store and bought one of those large, opaque Tupperware tubs. I remember pulling it into the aisle and sitting down inside of it to make sure that I would fit.

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A Birth, Still

Deep breath. It would seem that I have survived this unscheduled month of “vacation.” I did not, in fact, fall into a deep, dark hole in the absence of all my self-important busyness. I am well. I think some new possibilities have opened in the spaces within; I’m more able to notice and accept some aspects of myself and some things in this (rather fucked-up) world. There’s more space around everything somehow.

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Endless Comparisons: Life on a Measuring Stick

Well, life is still just a fucking roller coaster, ain’t it? In any given moment I might be feeling prfound gratitude for the innumerable gifts that Rafa gave us all with his fleeting existence, and the next I’m crying in an airport, surrounded by toddlers. One afternoon I may be indignant and angry about all I’ve ‘been through’ this past year and the next I find myself in a lethargic, depressive state, asking: why I am still here? Through it all, one constant that I keep discovering is the tendency to compare and measure. I’m quite curious about the persistent and perseverant nature of comparisons: why do they appear as part of my daily thinking?

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The Surprising and Unpredictable Path of Grief that Never Ends

Leer este post en español.

It’s pretty constant now. The remembering. My thinking: “At this time last year, I was… we were…” Last day of work. Belly photos. Nursery painting. Baby shower. Doula arrives. Midwives’ appointment at the house. Last breastfeeding class. In-laws come for a visit. The pull of memories, regrets and nostalgia make it  challenging for me to stay present in 2019. I’ve always been like this about the details of what happened on a certain day, in a certain year… even at a particular hour. It feels like a blessing and a curse – this year more than ever.

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