I Had a Miscarriage Jessica Zucker (top 100 books to read txt) 📖

about the unique ways Japanese culture acknowledges pregnancy loss and was eager to see for myself, in real time, on the ground, what it looked like. Zojoji Temple, located next to the Unborn Children Garden, is the resting place of six shoguns from the centuries-long rule of the Tokugawa shogunate. It is known for being one of the largest and most important Buddhist temples in Japan. Originally founded in 1393, the temple relocated to its current site in the 1590s. Surrounded by Tokyo’s Shiba Park, the temple grounds are said to be airy and spacious. This garden is specifically dedicated to those lost to miscarriage, stillbirth, and infants who didn’t survive. People decorate statues in bright colors. It is a place people can visit even en route to work, as it’s smack-dab in the middle of the city—integrating death into everyday life. I was yearning to experience a culture that had a healing ritual for this kind of grief, and this seemed like as good a time as any to go. So in the spring of 2017, I enlisted my dear Aliza, a friend I’ve known since my days in Boston—the same friend who recommended my therapist, Valerie—to travel with me to experience it firsthand. The week before departing Los Angeles for Tokyo, while sitting with patient after patient, it dawned on me that even though our culture doesn’t have standardized ways of memorializing loss, my office (and countless offices around the world) has become a sanctuary of sorts. The amount of love expressed within those four walls could deem the space holy, almost. Although we exchange words during therapy sessions, there is an abounding sense of grounding meditation. Ritual in the making. Simultaneous to words, gentle breath. Lost babies spoken about and felt deep within our bones. This realization was a potent way to begin my trip.

Adventurous to the core, I long for cultural immersion, the tastes and smells of elsewhere, stories written on unfamiliar faces. But I hadn’t boarded such a long flight since I was blissfully (and naively) pregnant with my son. Jason and I ventured to Australia and New Zealand with Liev in utero. How was it possible so much time had elapsed? And how had I stayed put for so long? Motherhood, miscarriage, grief, anxiety, pregnancy after loss—all of this grounded me. And by “grounded,” I mean cemented me locally and filled me with dread when I dared to even contemplate leaving my babies. My wanderlust was negated by my need to stay close to them.

Sitting alongside Aliza, I felt a shift. I was ready to be doing this again, often. Aliza too. She is all too familiar with pregnancy loss herself. After four miscarriages, she brimmed with joy as she FaceTimed her son, adopted at birth over seven years ago. We are both loss moms. We are both working mothers. We were both in need of this break more than words can explain. It says a lot that we both blurted out in the airport lounge that this act—sitting uninterrupted for more than a few minutes—felt like a needed treat, a vacation in itself. This woman is a light, a revolutionary, a warrior. I couldn’t have chosen a better companion to dive into what was sure to be a pool of complex and conflicting emotions as we set out to explore the Jizo-filled garden in Tokyo and the countless bunches of statues strewn throughout Kyoto. We are familiar with the loss of pregnancies—the extinguishing of dreams. We also have in common fierce hope and an intention to transform culture (even if only a little bit), born out of personal experience.

The morning after we arrived, my mind was abuzz, eager to head straight to the Zojoji Temple just below the Tokyo Tower, adorned with Jizo statues. Said to represent both human and deity, child and monk, with eyes closed, hands clasped in prayer, and serene facial expressions, these statues adorned in red crocheted caps stand in memorial of miscarriage, stillbirth, and infants lost. A public place—a place where people gather to honor and connect with what they’ve lost. I’d seen pictures of this garden online—the Sentai Kosodate Jizo, translated as the Unborn Children Garden—but now I would have the chance to actually visit and drink in its profundity.

After enjoying a traditional Japanese breakfast, complete with miso, grilled fish, rice, and pickled vegetables, we were on our way. It was categorically awe-inspiring. I couldn’t believe I was actually there, a witness to the rows and rows of decorated statues representing the souls of unborn babies, those who died too soon as well as those yet to be born. For late morning on a weekday, it seemed to me there were quite a lot of people—women and men alike—paying their respects. Several generations ambling through this meaningful space. Just because. Because they could. Because this space exists precisely for this very reason. To visit with those who are no longer.

The pinwheels stuck among them spun, the birds chirped, and the calming smell of incense floated through the air. I choked up with emotion as I stood amid this powerful scene. Japan has a culture known for its humility; here, they grieve through action—grieve out loud, in the open—rather than hiding it, the way our culture is prone to do. The statues reveal ritual, protection, love, remembrance, beckoning pilgrimage. In our culture, research has found that a majority of women ask, “Why me?” My hunch is that in Japan, they don’t. When loss is normalized and ritualized in tender ways, we are less apt to blame ourselves or wonder, “Why me?” There is an art to grieving there. It is honored.

I thirst for this at home. Women I spoke with in the garden said they visit often, some monthly. One elderly woman shared that she comes to pay homage to her sister that could have been—her mother’s stillborn baby. She laid flowers and quietly prayed, gently touching the statue’s face.

That night, as we lay around in our hotel