Leave Tired, Love Tribe

The worst pain I ever had, happened when I miscarried.

Nurses ordinarily ask you for a number on a pain scale, with ten being the worst pain ever. No one asked me a thing as I clutched the bedsheets, moaned, and whimpered like a near-dead pitiful dog. I hate pills. But the minutes dragged on with a no-win scenario that didn’t seem to have any intention of ending soon.

Damn, Arianna.

What did women since time immemorial ever do to deserve this?

The pain to end all pain scales came in two parts.

Part I: The way someone or something was carving up my insides repeatedly with a chainsaw. Unending waves of cramping and blood that breaks my spirit, compelling me to beg for drugs.

The nurses returned with suppositories.

My look is a framework of confusion, fire, and contempt.

“Until we can be sure you won’t require surgery.”

Pain is an effective tool for compliance. It’s why torture is so productive.

Disgusting medication.

And it didn’t do a solitary thing anyhow.

Part II: The ultrasound technician moving the probe around again and again for an eternity then finally saying,

“I’m sorry, Miss Grant. But there’s no fetus visible in the gestation sac.”

My face didn’t register comprehension.

“You can always try again.”

I’m 22 years young.

Drake Miller, an asshole at the best of times, follows me through Tallahassee Memorial Emergency Department doors in silence. I convulse into an unstoppable tsunami of tears before I reach the car park.

Drake borrowed a conscience and heart that day, holding me as I heaved, gasping for breath.

Later, back at home, I called on every power that was, is, and will be and drew a circle. Spoke the words aloud to seal the spell.

“My body will NEVER do that again.”

********

Drake became so sweet for a while; I forgot his heart and conscience were only rentals. During the six months that he made visible positive changes, it happened again. Still unplanned.

“I’m taking counseling down at the community center, Ari. Really making major changes this time bae.”

I could tell losing the baby last year struck a nerve. He was the old Drake I first met way back freshman year when at Florida State U.

Then starting my second trimester, with a sheepish grin, he said,

“Found a store selling eco-friendly diapers, so we can be all earth-conscious and shi—I mean—stuff.”

“They have any organic baby food or food grinders?” I asked, giving him props for trying.

All my life, my heart beat outside my chest, desperate for anything with a pulse to show me minuscule love. Growing up in underfunded social services does that.

Tiniest snippets of memories surface. Somewhere between 5 or 6 years of life. A lady telling my Mama that I couldn’t stay with Ma Nisi…her heart too weak…surgery. A huge blank black space followed by a foster family and crippling fear. Unending. Gruesome. Life-altering fear.

Terms like mental and emotional abuse meant nothing. Drake didn’t hit me, plus I didn’t know the differences anyway.

By the last trimester, all kindness evaporated. A foul-tempered skunk set up shop complaining about everything from the apartment complex manager to unreliable wi-fi. The utility bills and my unpredictable sleep patterns.

My patience was empty, and my bladder always full.

During a disagreement, he thought to put hands on me one afternoon. I whacked a hot curling iron across his face, then waddled out the front door fuming and walking as fast as my legs would go. Even across the street, I could hear his distinctive acid-laden curses. I kept right on walking.

Selfish deranged bastard.

Got an attitude because I could smell him smoking in the house.

I’ve always HATED cigarette smoke.

The fortieth week and passing odors still made me wanna hurl.

I did not realize how tired I was.

Patience doesn’t exist for soon-to-be Mamas.

We ain’t got the effing time.

We ain’t got the extra breath.

My lungs felt like they’d been shoved up my windpipe.

I took a right on Supreme Place then snuck through the Randolph’s backyard, managing to crouch underneath shirts on the clothesline. Branching right, I step across to the unpaved path between fence boundaries before their chihuahua Trixie let off a few yelps. She was no threat to anyone. I couldn’t understand pet dogs not doubling as protection or loud sentries in return for food and care. Maybe because that was a given with every dog-owning home in East Brooklyn. And I lived in lots of homes.

The last thing I needed was Drake tracking me down.

My blood, still boiling.

Probably why I didn’t notice storming out the house wearing a kaftan with slippers and my hair half done. Not so much a dime, water bottle, or next step clue to my name. And pretty soon, I’d need to pee.

All the crazy scary women in Brownsville, yelling and screaming after imaginary children when a child myself, came flooding back. Haunting me. I turned in the direction of the lake, hoping to heaven there’d be no snakes or gators. I’d be able to calm down—or so I hoped—and figure out a plan that didn’t involve jerkmeister.

Reaching water level with a monumentally huge belly could make a hilarious YouTube watch, but I managed to splash some water on my face and neck then find a log to sit on after checking it five times for snakes.

It was serene here.

Comforting.

A place Mikisúkî Seminoles probably frequented eons before a monstrous city construction decimated sacred lands the tribes honored. Leon County only taking a few token names by way of condescending acknowledgment. Miccosukee Greenways Trail. Miccosukee Hills Apartments. Miccosukee Co-Op.

Why did you get knocked up not once but twice by a PTSD-crazed mess, Ari?

With his and my trauma-laden lives combined, I could hypothetically psychoanalyze us ‘til judgment day with unaddressed material left over.

Sharp pinching made me grimace as tiny hands or feet poke my already tender insides.

Sheesh, little one! A 24/7 somersault performer.

Standing to stretch is no small feat, but position change could only help. As my hands reach for my lower back, there’s distinctive low clattering, and my heart plunges. From the corner of my eye, there’s a mound of brownish roped coils, and “Oh Gaaawd!” escapes my lips.

The sun sinks lower in the distance, as losing track of time, I remain standing motionless while intermittent breezes sway the pampas grass and zebra longwing butterflies flutter over the lake toward the wildflowers. Teardrops squeeze from eye corners.

I don’t want death by snake.

Du-uhh, like who does Arianna?

The pinching pains are becoming unbearable. With tortoise slowness, I sidestep-slide my right foot and listen. No intensity change in the rattling. I keep this pace and continue slide-stepping.

When around 30 ft away, my leaden legs have me flying through pain, thorn-armored bushes, itchy shrubs, and God knows what else. I come to a country road, heart thundering, a mind exhaustion-soaked, and just keep walking. Crying a relief flood that there are no snakes in sight.

Other sensations permeate as frogs, crickets, and cicadas, a traditional Florida musical backwoods evening chorus, began to rise.

I did not realize how tired I was.

Memory. A night-time walk along a backcountry road holding a gentle hand emanating more joy than I can contain. Unafraid in the darkness. A low hum. Then chanting in another tongue that I tried to repeat. Encouragement, warmth, and smiles that I could feel with my whole body, small as it was.

Steps go from slow to dragging. I glance in the distance across canefields, hearing infrequent cow sounds. The roof of a farmhouse. The summer evening air thick and heavy with humidity and the hint of Southern Magnolia. A greenish-gray old run-down barn off the road through the crops I turn to face. Throat dry. Head from slow to steady spinning and a trailing thought…

Where can I get some water? So sorry little one…

Groggy.

********

Waking and stinking of sweat with hay sticking everywhere, but I can’t care. My baby isn’t moving, so my breath is useless. I'm sure my baby is dead. A cold weight on my forehead. I feel wetness between my legs. A short brown blur is fanning me, and I can tell it’s smiling. When my eyes aren’t rolling back in my head, I can see a young girl who can’t be more than 6 years old. Angelic face repeatedly tells me that “Wace coming.”

The barn ceiling is storybook high with guttural whimpers and moans drifting, echoing in and out.

Seriously?

I hear groaning but not the terrifying kind. The strangely familiar kind.

“O-ki?” Angel girl says every time I feel a water bowl at my lips.

Sips are all I can manage. My belly is on fire.

There are two older women; one in traditional Seminole dress remembered from museum pictures, the other wears a long sweeping skirt and tee shirt. Perspiration dripping strands of hair clinging to face as she gently directs the young, purple-faced woman on the angled propped hay bed drenched in sweat to “Deep breath. Push hard.”

Newborn cries are unmistakable in my stupor.

Three more women labor in the distance.

Where did all these women come from?

The barn is musty and has cobwebs high up on the rafters where the beams of ancient wood have been rotting as pigeons flutter back and forth, jostling for position. There are buckets of water from a water source unknown, near what may have once been horse stalls. The state of disrepair is evidence of abandonment long ago. Yet, I feel safer here than I’ve ever felt in a hospital.

Tired. But comfortable. Not aware of my eyelids closing.

Strange smelling liquid rouses me, offered from a hand attached to life-affirming Seminole clothing. The creases in her face frame the kindest gentlest eyes I have ever seen.

“My baby,” I say, words catching in my throat, fighting tears.

“Che-huntamo.”

She touches my cheek.

“Fine. Baby fine. Drink? Med-icine.”

I oblige, swallowing a bitter, salty mud-like gloop as Angel girl places another cool cloth on my forehead. Then a bizarre thing happens. This wizened old woman lifts my kaftan and pours oil on my baby bump and feet. Then she massages my belly as Angel girl rubs my feet with ear-to-ear smiles. This Wace she spoke of hums low, stirring something buried at the back of my brain. She begins a rhythmic chant massaging in light then deeper circles.

Singing.

Singing…

Focused but relaxed. The chorus of groans in the barn falls silent. She chants and strokes, and I find myself mouthing words I don’t but do know.

Such care. Immense love.

In the distance, another newborn cries, entering life.

I’m breathing deeper now as the chant encircles me like a blanket. My little one moves! Stretches as if yawning, and my whole body is smiling and chanting and drifting into restful bliss.

I feel so at peace.

Opening my eyes, I find myself looking across the lake, the gibbous moon rising in the night sky. I strain to remember the face that once told me that Seminole tribes ventured deep inland after the war where the waters turned salty-sweet, and no man could track them.

I cling to words. To memory. And rise to my feet confident in earth.

What did or didn’t happen I cannot say.

I possess a calm power. A chant by familiar rhythm in my body, and I want it all back. The dilapidated smelly ol’ barn and childbearing women.

I sight the path through the trees that leads back to a civilization I know was never my birthright. I still have a baby to deliver. A non-boyfriend to file charges against and kick out the house.

But there is a tribe I need to find, so my baby and I will forever know this song.

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